“Done.”
Upstairs, she showered, dressed in a clean uniform, and contained her messy hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. Then she stopped in the kitchen for a second cappuccino and took it into her home office to check her work email while she waited for Kayla.
It was far too soon to receive any information from the medical examiner or forensics. Most of the emails were routine paperwork. She opened a message from one of the county supervisors bitching about the latest quote for the sheriff station renovations. Scanning the rest of the email, she rolled her eyes even though she was alone.
The supervisor was asking if they really needed two holding cells. Seriously. Bree resisted answering. Her current mood did not allow for the necessary diplomacy. She moved to the next message and froze at the embedded close-up of an erect penis. She scanned the text above the image. You’re going to choke on my cock . . . The message deteriorated into a stomach-turning rape fantasy.
Not again.
Before she could stop it, a mental image of violent assault popped into her head. Bree had more than a decade of criminal investigations under her professional belt. She’d seen enough violence to be able to fill in all the nasty details. Queasy sweat gathered under her arms, and bile rose in her throat. Shame and anger bubbled up. The feelings of vulnerability and humiliation were exactly what he wanted. He was assaulting her mind, her sense of safety, and her personal privacy without even getting close to her.
And she couldn’t stop it, which aggravated her even more.
Damn him.
“More cappuccino?” Dana asked from the doorway. She studied her for a second, then her brows dropped with concern. “What is it?”
Bree waved a hand at her computer. “Why is a dick pic even a thing?”
Dana rounded the desk and looked over Bree’s shoulder. “It’s just another way to harass you.” She frowned. “Did it come to your professional or personal account?”
“It’s the work email.”
“How many have you gotten now?”
“I don’t know. I’ve received the occasional threatening or insulting message since I took the job, but there are a half dozen or so with the same voice. Even though they come from different email accounts, we suspect they’re written by the same person. These are different, beyond ordinary hate mail, and I can’t put my finger on why.”
Dana gestured toward the screen. “These seem like personal attacks—and the violence in the threats is escalating.”
“Exactly.” Bree forwarded it to the county forensic computer specialist, Rory MacIniss, with a brief message: Here’s another one.
“Has the tech had any luck locating the sender?”
Bree shook her head. “Not yet. Rory says the sender knows what he’s doing. He’s spoofing IP addresses to make it appear as if the emails are originating from other accounts, and he’s using a different disposable email account with each message so I can’t block them.” Bree closed her email and shut down the computer. “But there isn’t anything I can do about it. As long as it’s just emails, I have more important problems to worry about.”
Dana gave the closed computer a troubled look that conveyed her worry. “I know how capable you are, but those threats imply too much violence for my liking.”
“I can’t disagree.”
“You need to watch your back.”
“I will.” Bree did not appreciate feeling like a target. Her instincts told her that this hater wouldn’t stop at mere threats.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The mattress shifted, and a cold, wet nose bumped Matt’s face. Even half-asleep, he knew what it was. He opened his eyes. Greta stared at him from approximately two inches away. There was no sign of light behind the window blinds, but Matt had no doubt it was five thirty. The dog had an impressive internal clock. She hadn’t budged when Bree had left thirty minutes before. But now it was time to get up.
When his eyes met hers and he didn’t immediately rise, Greta shifted her position to plant both paws in the middle of his chest. She was not small, and her weight pressed the air from his lungs.
Matt reached up to pat her head, then pushed her off his lungs. “Good morning, Greta.”
Her tail began a slow wag, and she licked his face.
An irritated canine groan sounded from the foot of the bed. Matt looked beyond the young black dog. Brody opened one eye. If the older shepherd could have rolled it, he would have.
Matt sat up and lifted his phone from the nightstand. Five thirty-two.
“You’re good,” he said to Greta.
Her head cocked, and the arrogance in her face made him laugh. The dog had a huge ego.
Brody looked like he wanted to put his head under the covers.
“Sorry, buddy.” Matt patted a hind leg. “Just a few more weeks. If everything goes to plan, she’ll be off to the academy by the end of the month.”
Like Matt, the older dog would likely have mixed feelings after Greta left. Matt had been fostering her for his sister’s dog rescue. Greta had been adopted and returned. Matt had quickly recognized her potential. She was too smart, too driven to make a good house pet. But that same pain-in-the-butt disposition would make her a great police K-9. She was fearless, and in the months he’d been training her, she was never happier than when she was working.
She jumped off the bed and barked at him, prancing with excitement. She did not have Brody’s patience. His ability and willingness to think through a situation was uncanny. Matt had never met a dog that was his equal. Hell, he didn’t know many people as smart or as trustworthy as Brody.
“OK, OK.” Matt surrendered. “How did you get out of the kennel anyway?”
The clip lay on the floor, and Greta looked pleased with herself. The dog was Houdini.
He pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and went to the kitchen, Greta right on his heels, urging him on with bumps from her nose.
“Brody!” he called as he opened the back door. Greta raced into the fenced yard and zoomed around the perimeter three times before stopping to pee. Barking sounded from the kennel on the other side of the fence. Greta ran back into the kitchen. Matt laced up his running shoes. He ducked back into the bedroom, where Brody ignored him.
“OK, then. We’ll be back soon.”
Brody squeezed his eyes closed, settled deeper into the comforter, and snored. Since his retirement, he no longer approved of dark-o’clock runs. Plus, he’d been shot in the same career-ending incident as Matt, and the dog had lingering shoulder issues. The vet had said he shouldn’t overdo the physical activity. Brody had taken the vet’s instructions to heart.
Matt snapped the leash onto Greta’s collar, and they set out at a brisk jog, increasing their pace over the next few miles. They covered five miles at a good clip, returning to the house as the coming dawn brightened the sky. Back in the house, Matt showered. Brody finally got out of bed. After a long, full-body stretch, he ambled into the kitchen for breakfast. Matt served up the dogs’ kibble, then took Brody outside to do his business without being accosted by Greta. Matt scrambled eggs for himself, then left the shepherds settled in for their early-morning nap. He didn’t bother to crate Greta. What was the point?
Outside, the sun had barely broken the horizon as his sister’s minivan turned into his driveway and parked in front of the kennel. After he’d left the sheriff’s department, Matt had intended to train K-9s, but his sister had filled the runs with rescues before he could get started. Since discovering Greta among the discarded dogs, Matt had changed his business plan. Now, he intended to actively search animal shelters for dogs that might make suitable K-9s.
Sometimes you choose your path in life. Other times, it chooses you.
Or your sister chooses it for you, Matt corrected himself with a chuckle.
Cady stepped out of her vehicle and opened the rear cargo hatch. A dog crate occupied the back of her van.