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“Shanna, we got a hit on one of the prints at the crime scene,” the lab technician said.
“Who is it?” she asked eagerly, glancing at Quinn beside her. An identity would get them one step closer to finding the killer.
“This is going to be a bit of a shock,” the technician continued. “We have a set of fingerprints matching a child who’s been missing for fourteen years.”
A child? Missing for fourteen years? No. Oh, no. Her stomach twisted. She grabbed the edge of the doorframe for support. “Who?”
“Your sister. Skylar Dawson.”
Skylar. It was Shanna’s fault her little sister had been kidnapped fourteen years ago. Her fault that her parents had divorced, destroying what was left of their family. After fourteen years of not knowing anything, those fingerprints meant that Skylar was alive!
But her sister’s prints were found at the crime scene, which made her one of the many suspects in Quinn’s half brother’s death.
Dear Reader,
I’ve always been fascinated by the forensic work of crime-scene investigators. Science was my favorite subject in college, and I’m impressed at how tiny microscopic details can assist in capturing the bad guys. As a result, I decided to make CSI work the focus of my next few stories.
Shanna Dawson carries a secret guilt—she knows it’s her fault her younger sister was kidnapped fourteen years ago. Shanna believes Skylar is likely dead, even though the FBI has never found her, and becomes a CSI investigator to help bring other victims the closure she’d never have.
Campus police officer Quinn Murphy is no stranger to guilt, especially when his younger half brother is murdered at a college party. When Shanna’s missing sister’s fingerprints show up at Quinn’s brother’s crime scene, he decides Shanna’s sister is the missing link to his brother’s murderer.
Past secrets, guilt, love and faith are the main themes in Proof of Life. I hope you enjoy Shanna and Quinn’s story. I’m always thrilled to hear from my readers, and I can be reached through my website at www.laurascottbooks.com.
Yours in faith,
Laura Scott
Give thanks to the Lord for He is good;
His love endures forever.
—1 Chronicles 16:34
Proof of Life
Laura Scott
MILLS & BOON
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This book is dedicated with love to my son Jon. I hope you know how proud I am of the kind and generous young man you’ve become.
ONE
Crime-scene investigator Shanna Dawson paused on the threshold to gather her bearings. The dilapidated four-room house reeked of stale beer, cigarette smoke, greasy fast food and the rancid horror of death. As a CSI, she was more accustomed to the latter than the former.
The interior of the house, located a few blocks from Carlyle University, a private college outside of Chicago, was a pigsty; fast-food containers, smelly clothes, dirty dishes and empty beer cans were strewn everywhere. Talk about a CSI’s nightmare.
For a moment she imagined the kids who lived there. The victim, Brady Wallace, was a young college student who shared the place with three other guys. Yet despite the mess, she imagined this was the type of place the so-called popular kids would gravitate to for parties. A college student’s version of fun and excitement.
Not hers, though. During her four years of college she’d never been invited to student gatherings. The party scene had never appealed to her. She was too serious, too introspective to indulge in lighthearted activities.
Fun hadn’t been a part of her world in a long time.
Suppressing a sigh, she got to work. There was so much evidence to collect, she’d easily be here for hours. As she walked through the foyer and into the living room, she overheard two cops arguing.
“This is a homicide investigation, Murphy. Campus police don’t have jurisdiction over homicides.”
“I know. But this incident occurred on my turf. Give me a break, Nelson. The victim is my brother.”
“Half brother,” the detective corrected.
“Brother just the same.” The campus cop, Murphy, was stubborn. After a long moment where it seemed the homicide cop wasn’t going to give in, Murphy sighed and scrubbed a hand along his bristly jaw. “At least give me the courtesy of keeping me informed of the details of your investigation.”
Murphy snagged her attention, mostly because he was the victim’s half brother and because he didn’t look much like the local campus cops she was used to. And not just because of his tall, broad-shouldered good looks. His body appeared to be pure muscle, and he wore his wheat-blond hair military short. His face wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense but bore deeply worn grooves of experience, as if he’d carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. His green eyes held the shadows of a deep pain she could relate to. She was inexplicably drawn to him, as if he might be a kindred soul, but she forced herself to turn away, examining the crime scene.
Brady Wallace’s body was lying on the floor, in the walkway between the living room and the kitchen. His bright red hair was matted with blood, the left side of his skull concave where it had been crushed. A heavy marble rugby trophy was lying on the floor beside him, the four-by-four-inch base covered with hair and blood. She imagined microscopic evidence would confirm the blood and tissue matched the victim’s scalp.
The position of the body was distinctive. Why was he lying on the floor, in the walkway between the living room and kitchen? Had he run from his attacker? Or had he been on his way to the kitchen for something to eat when someone clubbed him from behind?
And who could hate a college student enough to kill him?
Brady was young, barely twenty. The callous waste of a young life always upset her. She’d grown up believing in God, but over the years had drifted away from the church and her faith. And at times like this, when she faced the hard edge of death, she really couldn’t understand God’s plan. What had this kid done to deserve death? She couldn’t imagine. Feeling slightly sick, she glanced back over at the two cops who’d fallen silent as they’d registered her presence. She forced a professional expression on her face as she faced their curious stares. “Who found the body?”
“One of his roommates, Kyle Ryker.” Murphy’s face was bleak as he scanned the room. “Four boys live here—the victim, Brady Wallace, and three others—Kyle Ryker, Dennis Green and Mark Pickard.”
“They