Detective Luke Barritt has a grin for every occasion—and a knack for driving his new partner, Dakota Littlebear, nuts. She’s a five-foot-two force of nature with no patience for nonsense, especially not from a cocky six-foot-two smart-mouth who treats danger like it’s part of his skincare routine.

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The case? Three young women, all executed with cold, professional precision. It’s grim, it’s urgent, and it gets downright explosive—literally—nearly killing a witness, and taking Luke with him. Now Dakota’s stuck babysitting.

But with bodies dropping, attempted murder, and professional boundaries disintegrating, this mismatched duo must rely on each other more than ever. The danger’s real, the stakes are rising—and the wisecracks just keep coming. Because in Shallows Creek, nothing's predictable ... except mayhem.

 

Chapter One (part one)

Monday, April 5, 6:20 a.m.

Mana Paya Park

Shallows Creek, Central Oregon

 

Shallows Creek slid a lazy meander east toward the Deschutes River, its surface rippling with spring runoff, the occasional pine needle swirling in circles like tiny dancers at a watery ball. Patches of morning mist hovered over the water, silver wisps dissolving in the soft light. Birdsong filtered through the trees—cheerful and at odds with the tension in the air.

 

On the bank, a gray-haired Search and Rescue volunteer hadn’t time to appreciate the environment. She stood in mud-streaked boots, windburned cheeks taut, and a no-nonsense stance that said she’d seen worse mornings—but not by much. Her red vest, faded at the shoulders, flapped slightly in the breeze as she pressed a calloused finger to the mic clipped to her collar.

 

“Is the child en route to the hospital?” she asked, her voice clipped, professional.

 

“Child is en route. Pack it up.”

 

“Copy.”

 

She lowered the radio, and for a moment her stern features softened, the tension in her jaw easing as she stared out over the water. Relief was a rare luxury out here—and fleeting.

 

Something bobbed in the current, caught in a slow eddy. She squinted. A log?

 

No.

 

Not a log.

 

An arm.

 

Then a hand.

 

It rose and dipped with the current—pale, limp, unmistakably human.

 

Her stomach flipped. She took a shaky step back, boots crunching on gravel and reeds.

 

She pressed the push-to-talk button on her walkie. “Team.” Her voice wavered but didn’t crack. “Call in suspected DB one quarter mile from your current position, north.”

 

Luke Barritt

Monday, April 6, 6:45 a.m.

 

The body had turned up at 6:20 a.m., as I’d drained the last of my espresso before thumbing off my phone and pounded on Dakota Littlebear’s front door like it owed me money.

 

A crisp wind slipped down from the hills, threading through the trees and carrying the tang of wet cedar, riverbank, and sweet Oregon crabapple. The sky hadn’t fully made up its mind—gray clouds loitered with intent.

 

Crime Scene was already swarming the riverbank, waiting on the M.E. to arrive and eyeball the floater. No rush on my part. I’d never met a corpse that could outrun me, save in the back of the morgue’s meat wagon. I had time to swing by The Human Bean for a quick takeout. Priorities matter.

 

Five minutes later, I reached a two-story but unassuming log cabin, tucked under towering pines and half-swallowed by shadows. I slammed my fist on her front door a third time.

 

“Shallows Creek Police Department. Open up. Now.”

 

Inside, something thudded—a solid, lazy sort of thunk. Floorboards creaked. Then a groan, long and aggrieved. Slow, shuffling footsteps followed like something dead coming to answer the door.

 

The deadbolt snicked back, and the door cracked open an inch.

 

“Oh, look. It’s the devil. Now what do you want?” she asked, her voice dripping with notes of fatigue.

 

She was half-dressed in what I assumed were pajamas—a thin—strapped tank top and PJ shorts. The kind of outfit that screamed, “I wasn’t expecting company,” and I had no business making eye contact with it this early.

 

“Well, Miss Littlebear—”

 

A yawn escaped her lips and her hand only reached halfway to her mouth. “It’s Sunday. I’m in a coma. Nothing I say can be used against me in a court of law.”

 

“It’s Monday. And we’ve got a possible homicide.”

 

Detective Dakota Littlebear’s dark eyes snapped wide open. “Wait. What? You lead with that, Barritt. You say ‘we-have-a-homicide’ first.”

 

She double-palm smacked me in the chest—nearly knocked me off my feet—then spun and dashed down the hall. Her robe flared behind her like a superhero’s cape, offering one last glimpse of her dark skin and well-defined legs before she vanished into her room.

 

I rubbed a slow circle over the new sore spots she’d just gifted me.

 

She rocked cargo pants, a shirt, and black boots every day, but when and if we’d spar, I’d appreciate her legs if neither connected with any part of my body. “If” we planned to spar I might come down with Bubonic Plague.

 

I didn’t appreciate the wonder of the contours of her legs or her mini-muscles until now, putting it all together with the trainer’s statement. Words involving savage sparring sessions. I couldn’t get those images out of my mind, and they were inappropriate at best.

 

“Thanks a lot. I haven’t time to shower. Why didn’t you call an hour ago?”

 

Her cabin was small—maybe 1,200 square feet—but full of character. Native American décor, mismatched brick fireplace, while dust motes speared the morning light. A painting of a warrior on horseback charged over the mantel. Cozy … but with definite “I will murder you with your own gun” energy.

 

“I did call.”

 

A growl came from her room. “Next time, crawl through the window and wake me up.”

 

Oh, please, like I would willingly sacrifice myself to waken the hibernating beast. That sounded like a grand idea. No thanks. I’d like to keep my internal organs.

 

Five minutes later, she reappeared in full leathers, zipping her jacket with military precision. I handed her a Human Bean espresso I’d held behind my back. She grabbed the cup, and a mumbled, ‘thank you,’ may have hidden within.

 

“If you gulp your espresso all at once you won’t be able to speak.”

 

“You wish.”

 

“Someone has to save you from Dantes’ Inferno.”

 

“You can read? Thought you stuck to crayons and picture books.”

 

I dismissed her accusations of my reading skills. “I’m already reading level two of Dick and Jane, and I can scribble with the best of them. By the way the medical examiner and his tech are already there.” 

 

She pulled the door behind her and locked it. “Body?”

 

“Floater.”

 

She nodded.

 

By this time, I reached my cruiser. She’d finished her latte and lobbed it into the trash inside the garage door. She slipped on her shades, then pulled a helmet over her head and powered up her motorcycle.

 

A thumbs up later, she gave me a rare megawatt smile and zoomed off on her bike, leaving me in a dusty whirlwind behind her.

 

That smirk? Bet she was already picturing herself at the PD, dissing me for being late.

 

I waved and smiled like Forrest Gump. Little did she know, I knew where I was going.