Page 4 of Mile High Mystery

“We were waiting to hear back from the medical examiner’s preliminary exam,” Travis said. “Apparently this woman—Carla or Claire or Camille—was stabbed in the chest. She had been dead several hours by the time that tree fell. I’ve got deputies out talking to as many of the campers who were in that area as we can find, to try to determine if any of them saw anyone else near her campsite.”

“None of this makes sense,” Zach said. “You’re telling me my sister was murdered—twice?”

“We’re still not certain this woman was your sister,” Travis said. “How could she be, if your sister died four years ago?”

“I don’t know the answer to that,” Zach said. “But I’m sure this was Camille. I know my own sister. Can’t you get dental records? Or DNA? You can compare it to my DNA. Or my parents—” He stopped. “Have you contacted my parents?”

“Where are your parents?” Gage asked.

“They live in Junction. They came here not long after Camille...after we thought we had buried her. To make a fresh start.”

“But you’ve only been here a few months,” Travis said.

They must have checked out his background. Or maybe one of his fellow SAR volunteers had mentioned he was new to the group. “Nine months. I moved around a little before I came here to be closer to my parents.” He should have stayed with them all along, but he had been so torn up about Camille. It had been a long time before he had been able to think straight and realize he had a duty to look after his parents. He was all they had left. “You need to let me break this to them,” he said. “But not until we figure out what’s going on.”

“Until we have a positive identification, we don’t see the need to involve anyone else,” Travis said.

“Good.” Zach nodded. “They’ve been through enough.” Losing Laney had crushed them. Losing Camille fifteen years later had almost destroyed them.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about your sister that might help us identify her or her killer?” Travis asked. “Do you have any idea why she was in Eagle Mountain?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Unless she was here to see me.” He swallowed again, fighting a surge of emotion. “Camille and I were close. Especially after Laney died.” After her funeral, he had struggled to accept that she was gone from his life.

He had told himself at the time he was indulging in wishful thinking. But apparently, he hadn’t been entirely wrong. Camille hadn’t been dead then. So was she really gone now?

SPECIALAGENTSHELBYDRYDEN’Sfirst thought upon meeting Camille’s brother at his home in Eagle Mountain was that the photograph in Zachary Gregory’s file did not do him justice. She knew all the particulars by heart—six foot four, broad shoulders, dark hair, dark eyes. But the file—and the grainy photo that accompanied it—hadn’t conveyed the man’s brooding nature, the sensual quality of his lips or the heavy-lidded gaze that lent a seductive air to his expression, though she was certain that was not what he had in mind. If anything, Zach Gregory looked thoroughly upset with her. And she couldn’t really blame him. Five minutes ago, he hadn’t known she existed.

Rather than prolong the inevitable, as soon as he opened his door and she introduced herself and showed him her credentials, she had announced that the woman found dead in that Forest Service campground that morning was indeed his sister, Camille Gregory, aka Claire Watson, that she had been in the Witness Security Program for the past four years and that she had disappeared from her home in Maryland five days ago.

“I understand why you’re angry, Mr. Gregory,” she said, keeping her voice low in case any of the neighbors in the townhomes around them were eavesdropping. She had driven to Zach’s home immediately after confirming Camille’s death with the local sheriff’s department. She had taken the first flight available from Houston to Junction after the sheriff’s department had contacted the FBI with news of Camille’s death. Apparently, Zach had been on the scene when Camille’s body had been found—not at all what Shelby or anyone else involved would have wanted. Now it was up to her to try to calm him down and find out how much he knew. “As terrible as this was for you and your family, we had to make you believe Camille had died. It was for your own protection. And for hers.”

“You didn’t do a very good job of protecting her if she’s dead now,” he said. “If she’s really dead this time.”

“Yes, she’s really dead this time.” Shelby glanced to either side. “Could I please come in and talk about this?”

He stepped aside, and she moved past him into the townhome’s front room, aware of his bulk looming over her. Camille had referred to her brother as a gentle bear of a man, but Shelby sensed none of that gentleness now. She was used to people being angry with her, but they were usually people who had broken the law or failed to cooperate in an investigation. Zach Gregory was the first she had encountered whose anger she understood. In his shoes, she might have wanted to break someone in half.

He closed the door and turned to face her again. “Let me see your ID again.”

She held up her Bureau-issued identification. He peered at it, then at her, and she felt his gaze to her core. Weighing her. Judging whether or not he could trust her. “Shelby Dryden. I don’t remember you from the trial.”

“If you mean the Chalk brothers trial, I wasn’t there.” She tucked the ID back into her pocket. “I met your sister after she went into witness security.”

“They told us she had been murdered, gunned down by an unknown shooter on her way home from work. They said she had refused a security detail, and that they had no suspects in her death. They said they were very sorry.” His mouth was grim, but his eyes had the bottomless look of someone who was beyond exhaustion.

She wanted to take his hand. To try to comfort him. But there wasn’t any way to make this whole ugly mess better. Instead, she looked toward the sofa and chairs arranged in front of a fireplace on one side of the large, open living room. “Let’s sit down,” she said. “And I’ll try to answer all your questions.”

He followed her and dropped onto the sofa, while she sat on the edge of a low-backed, upholstered armchair on his left. All the furniture looked new, which fit with the information she had, that he had lived in Eagle Mountain less than a year. His home was neat, but as impersonal as a hotel, with no photographs or art on the walls, no books or magazines on the coffee or end tables. The only sign that anyone really lived here was a half glass of water and a half-eaten sandwich on a paper napkin on the table beside the sofa. She must have interrupted him eating dinner.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he said. “The truth, this time.”

She nodded and smoothed her palms down her thighs. “Just know that your sister wasn’t forced into anything,” she said. “Going into witness security was her choice, as was the decision to fake her death and not tell her family. She felt doing anything else would put you all in too much danger, and we had to agree.”

“And she went where? To Maryland?”

“Yes. She started a new life there. She had a townhouse in a nice neighborhood and a job as office manager of a small insurance agency. She made friends. She had a good life.”

His expression didn’t soften. “She didn’t have her family.”

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