Hotshot P.i.. B.J. Daniels

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       Prologue

      Clancy didn’t know what had awakened her. She blinked, confused by the moonlight streaming across the third-story balcony, even more confused to find herself standing at the narrow log railing, staring down at Flathead Lake.

      Waves lapped at the dock in the small bay below the island lodge. Clancy’s heart rate accelerated along with her growing apprehension as she realized what was so terribly wrong.

      The view. She shouldn’t have been able to see the bay from this angle on her bedroom balcony. Behind her, the door to her family’s lake lodge stood open. Past it, furniture huddled under sheets like ghosts. A corner of one sheet flapped softly in the night breeze. Clancy stared at the room, frantically trying to orient herself in a place haunted with childhood memories. The garret on the third floor—a room that hadn’t been used in years for anything more than storage.

      The early June breeze stirred the sheets and ran like a chill across her skin. She looked down, surprised to find she wore nothing but her nightgown. Her feet were bare—except for the sand. It was happening all over again! Fear raced ahead of her thoughts. Where had she been? What had she done this time? With growing panic, Clancy became aware of something heavy clutched in the fingers of her left hand.

      A bronze sculpture of a cowboy, one of the first she’d ever made. It had been on the mantel downstairs. She shuddered as she realized how she and it must have gotten up here.

      She hadn’t sleepwalked in years. But the terror of waking up not knowing where she was or where she’d been wasn’t something she’d forgotten from her childhood. She remembered with horror the last time she’d walked in her sleep. The night of the fire.

      Clancy turned, wanting only to get back to her bedroom on the other side of the lodge, and realized she wasn’t alone. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She fought back a scream as the moonlight spilled across the garret. Someone was on the couch. Sprawled, legs out at an odd angle. She stepped into the room, flipping the light switch. And stopped.

      The bronze slipped from her fingers, hitting the hardwood floor with a thud, as she recognized the boots. Bright red cowboy boots. With wet sand on them. Just like her feet. Her heart thumped like a drum, filling the silence of the room.

      Dex Westfall lay on the couch. His dark hair, normally coiffed to perfection, was now matted to the side of his head. Blood, once the color of his boots, stained the sheet covering the couch. His eyes stared, vacant, empty.

      Clancy stumbled back, suddenly aware of the stickiness on her fingers. She stared at her left hand, her terror accelerating. How had she gotten blood on her? Her gaze leaped to the cowboy sculpture lying on the floor. Her heart rate rocketed, her pulse now a deafening roar in her ears. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that the dark stain on the bronze was Dex’s blood or that her former boyfriend was dead.

      It was happening again. Only this time, her worst nightmare had come true. She’d killed someone in her sleep.