MARCUS REYES~
The rain over the Redid River did little to wash away the stench of silt and rotting marsh.
I pulled my collar up against the drizzle. My boots sank two inches into the mud. Yellow tape snapped against the pines like it was trying to leave.
"Two of them," the forensic tech said, pointing down the embankment. Two shapes under black plastic, bloated enough that the river had already started claiming the faces. "Recovered three miles downriver near the timber docks. Male, late thirties. Wallets were still on them. IDs say—Ben Edward and Sandre Smith."
I crouched and pulled the tarp back with a gloved hand. Water ran out of one of their mouths like the river wasn't done with him. Ligature marks sat on both throats, sharp and even. No panic scratches. No broken nails worth a fight.
And they looked terribly familiar.
"No bullets," I said, standing. Rain slid off my forehead. "Were they reported missing?"
"No."
"Hmmm."
