Splintered

Readers love

SJD P
ETERSON

BAMF

“I loved that this book kept me guessing the entire time I was reading. I never knew what would happen or how the characters would react.”

—Love Bytes (The Blog of Sid Love)

“Part of what makes this book work so well is not knowing what is really going on, so just trust me here. Read this and enjoy the ride!”

—Joyfully Jay

“This is one book you REALLY can't put down! What a thrilling story.”

—Happily Ever After (
USA Today
)

Tuck & Cover

“The story was fun and sexy with enough depth in both of their struggles to come to terms with their sexuality within the confines of the military to be interesting.”

—Live Your Life, Buy the Book

“Recommended for readers who like their alpha males a hot, sexy mess and battling for supremacy.”

—Hearts on Fire

Beyond Duty

“I can’t say enough about this story. Read it and fall in love. Seriously, these men are that good.”

—Mrs. Condit & Friends Read Books

“This is a great story of that there is no doubt…”

—MM Good Book Reviews

By SJD P
ETERSON

BAMF

Beyond Duty

Leon

Masters & Boyd

Plan B

Splintered

Tuck & Cover

G
UARDS
OF
F
OLSOM

Riveted

Pup

Tag Team

Pony

Roped

W
HISPERING
P
INES
R
ANCH

Lorcan’s Desire

Quinn’s Need

Ty’s Obsession

Conner’s Courage

Jess’s Journey

Published by D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright

Published by

D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Splintered

© 2014 SJD Peterson.

Cover Art

© 2014 Reese Dante.

http://www.reesedante.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-63216-452-0

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63216-453-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014945074

First Edition October 2014

Printed in the United States of America

This paper meets the requirements of

ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

To my editor, Erika, I’m so, so, so sorry. I promise not to fire you (at least not this week).

Chapter 1

I am the conductor, leading the sweet symphony of pain and agony.

T
HE
DEW
glistening on the grass in the early-morning light gave the impression that each blade had been infused with brilliant, flawless diamonds. The sun just beginning to crest above the horizon cast the field in a stunning orange glow. Special Agent Todd Hutchinson, known simply as Hutch, stood on a slight rise and looked down at the beautiful sight before him. It reminded Hutch of scenes he’d seen in photography magazines. He’d tried his hand behind the lens, but found he didn’t have the eye for it. Still, he enjoyed looking at the work of others. Hutch could get lost in imagining being there; it was calming. The only thing keeping the sight before him that morning from being postcard perfect was the easterly breeze bringing the stench of rotting flesh to his nose.

Turning back to the forest behind him, Hutch scanned the area. He saw no indication of any disturbance in the foliage, no signs of a struggle or that the body had been dragged here. He was convinced the murder had occurred elsewhere, and whoever the killer was, they were fit and strong. They’d carried the body some distance to dump it.

The body was that of a naked man, facedown in the center of a small grouping of trees. He was thin, weighing no more than about one hundred-twenty pounds, and small of stature, approximately five foot six inches. His hair was dyed an unnatural shade of red with black streaks running through it and medium in length. He had ligature marks on both wrists and ankles as well as on his neck. Insects feasted on his pale skin.

Granite, Hutch’s best friend and associate, bent under the yellow crime scene tape and made his way toward him. “Glad you could join us this bright early morning. How ya doing, Hutch?”

“Well, other than a little disgusted at the fine men and women in blue of Jefferson County traipsing all over, fucking up the crime scene—” He took a cigarette from his coat pocket, lit up, and blew out a long stream of smoke. “—I’m good, what have ya got?”

“Not much, other than the obvious,” Granite drawled. He pushed his long bangs out of his eyes and flipped open the small notepad he always carried. “Woman, one Florence Carmine, fifty-four years of age, local resident, came upon the body while walking her dog. Body appears to have been dumped at the site. Still waiting for the coroner to get here before we can fully check out the vic, but the dark blue color on his wrists, ankles, and neck make it pretty obvious he didn’t do this to himself.” He shrugged, closed his notepad, and returned it to his pocket. “Then again, I’ve seen some pretty messed-up shit. Remember that guy with the gasmask hanging from the bedpost by his tie? Fuck, after that scene, nothing really surprises me anymore.” Granite shuddered.

Hutch shook his head as he remembered the accidental death. Young guy alone in a sleazy downtown motel playing autoerotic asphyxiation games. Poor bastard had a dildo up his ass, hand on his dick, and had hung himself from the bed by his own tie. Probably wasn’t the way the man ever imagined leaving this world. Hopefully, for his family’s sake, those crime scene photos wouldn’t make it onto the World Wide Web, though in this day and age, they were more than likely already there.

“Got an ID on the vic?” Hutch took another deep pull from his smoke. It was a nasty habit, but the world was a lot safer for others when he got his fix of nicotine.

“Not yet,” Granite responded as he scratched his head. “Unless he’s hiding it beneath him, we’re not going to know who he is until they run prints. It’s like whoever dumped him here flew in and flew right back out. Hell, maybe he was teleported here, who knows? We’re not going to get shit for evidence with this one.”

If Granite said there wouldn’t be any evidence, then Hutch wouldn’t waste his time looking. Granite was rarely wrong. To look at him, it was hard to imagine that beneath the unusual outward appearance was an intellect that few would ever come close to matching. His straight jet-black hair was cut long so his bangs were always hiding one eye. He had a propensity for anything gothic, including his wardrobe. That morning he wore a
Pure Psycho
black T-shirt. Granite’s shirts were always black; only the words or pictures changed. Black skinny jeans, a Crombie three-quarter black wool jacket, and heavy-soled black boots completed his ensemble. He looked like the poster child for the Goth Nation. He might have looked like a punk kid, but that was just a flash of frosting to cover what lay beneath, and what was under that crazy façade was impressive as hell.

Granite’s real name was Travis Green. He graduated from Simon Fraser University’s School of Criminology in British Columbia, Canada, top of his class, specializing in geographical profiling. He had soon surpassed his professors, and now, if not the best in the field, he was damn close to it. The guy was an absolute genius, which was one of the reasons Hutch wanted Granite on his team, despite his freakish appearance. Hutch also respected the hell out of the man. They had connected the instant they met. Anyone who could sit in the room with Hutch for more than an hour and not piss him off was a hell of a guy in Hutch’s book. Granite was one of the few. Although to be quite honest, Hutch wasn’t sure Granite could say the same thing. Hutch had a way of rubbing people the wrong way. It was a gift.

Hutch spotted the coroner’s van pulling up and stabbed a finger at it. “Well there’s the man of the hour. Hope he’s not one of those who take ten hours to process a scene and weeks to pop out a prelim,” he grumbled.

“You wanna go assist, get a closer look?” Granite asked as he watched the older, balding guy step out of the van.

“What the hell for? You said we’re not going to get anything out of this one. I’ll wait for the photos.” Hutch snubbed out his cigarette on his boot. He started to toss the butt but thought better of it and pocketed it. He watched as the doc pulled his kit from the van and moved to the scene, before turning and heading back to his car.

“Hey! Where the hell are you going?” Granite called out. “Don’t you want to know if I was wrong? What if the doc finds his ID, the perp’s signature, social security card, and a formal invitation to his house under the body?” Granite asked slyly as he chased after Hutch. “I have been wrong before, ya know.”

“Really? When were you ever wrong?” Hutch asked dubiously.

“What about that time I set you up on a double date with Carrie’s girlfriend from college?”