Twisted Game (Detective Logan Cooper Book 4)

Detective Logan Cooper is back from summer vacation, rested and happy to be reunited with his partner Detective Reggie Hawkins. The long, hot summer has been dull and mostly devoid of big cases, but Logan and Reggie are thrown right into a grisly murder scene, a murder scene that is eerily similar to a murder that happened seven years earlier when Logan had a shiny new detective’s badge and his life was considerably different.

The grisly scene is just the first in a string of murders, each one a macabre duplicate of an earlier crime.

The two detectives are lost about which way to turn until they discover there is one person connected to all the murders—past and present—Detective Logan Cooper.

Prologue:

"Ra-ra, is that you? Tank's head weighs fifteen pounds." 

I drop the keys in my purse and step inside the condo. There's a cloud of pot smoke as thick as the fog hovering off the coast. "As far as I know, it's me." I look pointedly down at my feet. "Yep, those are the sandals I put on this morning, so it's me. And, yeah, I don't think his head weighs that much." 

Jake throws a nacho chip at me. "We weighed it on your bathroom scale." Jake is slumped on his lumpy, stained couch. His friend, Kai, is slouched next to him, gripping his game controller like it holds the power of the universe. Evan, or the guy they call Tank because he's built like one, is flat out on the floor, belly up with a naked girl magazine draped over his face. He does have an enormous head. I can see his ears on either side of the open magazine. 

The cloud of smoke clears enough to reveal a coffee table cluttered with empty soda bottles, bongs and every snack food known to man. "Did you have to take his head off for accuracy?" I asked. Their laughter, slightly unhinged due to the pot, follows me into the kitchen. I need to hydrate before my run. I reach into the cupboard. No more glasses.

"Dishwasher's clean," Jake calls from the couch. My cousin, Jake, is twenty-three, two years younger than me. He hasn't worked a day in his life, and unless he fritters away his entire inheritance on marijuana, porn and Uber Eats, he won't ever have to hold a job. My Aunt Barb, a cool woman who was one of the most sought-after realtors on the west coast, died of an aneurism when Jake was eighteen. He was an only child and inherited everything, including the amazing beach condo with a balcony overlooking the ocean. I graduated college and got a job nearby. Jake generously offered me the spare room for free. Even with the clouds of smoke, the constant flow of friends and loud video game tournaments, it was too good a deal to pass up. I'm saving to buy a place of my own someday. It won't ever be a place on the beach, but a small bungalow outside of town would be awesome. 

I fill the glass with water and head into my room. I have one wing of the condo all to myself with a nice-sized bedroom and bathroom. There's a soak tub and steam shower and a view from the bedroom window. It's my personal sanctuary. 

I close my bedroom door and stand at the window with my glass of water. The sun is barely a blip on the horizon. The coastal fog has obliterated its last sharp lines of light. The ivory sand looks gray at night, but there are still waves of heat dissipating from the surface. It's been a hot August, even on the coast. The sunset has brought some relief. A ten-mile run in the cool night air will help me catch up on my training. 

My phone rings. It's Eric. "Hey, babe, I'm just getting ready for my run. Can I call you later?" 

"I fucking hate my job," he says, completely ignoring my request to delay. "They promoted Brian. The guy doesn't know his ass from his head, and they put him in charge of new projects." 

Eric and I have been dating for two years. There have been a few mentions of marriage, mostly from his side, but I'm leaning more toward a breakup than a wedding. I haven't told him yet because I'm still on the fence about it, but calls like this have been coming more often and they're about to nudge me over the side. 

"I'm sorry to hear that. Let's talk about it later." I have no desire to broach the subject again. Eric gets passed up for promotions all the time. "I've got to do ten miles tonight."

"Thanks for the fucking support, Raina. I've had a shitty day, and I was hoping I'd at least have you to turn to." He doesn't realize how much his neediness is pushing that needle farther toward an eventual breakup. Just do it, I tell myself. He's already at a low point, and I don't want to stress before my run. 

"I told you, I'll talk to you later. I need to change."

"Right. Your fucking run. Fine. Later." He hangs up. 

His angry phone call barely registers. Months ago, I'd be upset about it, but I'm no longer all that invested. I need to end this soon. 

Ten minutes later I'm dressed in my shorts and bright yellow running vest. Jake bought it for me at Christmas. It has glow-in-the-dark stripes, so cars can see me at night. The first half of my run is along the white concrete path that separates the beach from the kiosks along the coast. Not too much traffic to worry about other than the occasional skateboarder or cyclist; even those are rare at night. 

Jake and his friends are in the exact same spots and positions, only Tank has rolled onto his side. 

"Is he all right?" I ask.

Jake kicks the bottom of Tank's massive foot. Tank grumbles angrily.

"Yep, he's fine. Did you remember your pepper spray?" Jake asks. It's cute having my younger cousin worry about me. My parents are across the country in New York, and my sister lives in New Jersey. Jake and I are our only family out here on the west coast. We've learned to look after each other. 

I pat my bright yellow fanny pack. I bought it to match the vest. "Armed and ready for any attackers."

Kai glances up from his game but only for a millisecond. "Hit 'em right in the face. It's the only way that shit works."

Jake doesn't lift his head from the couch as he turns it toward Kai. "Had to use the stuff a lot, eh?"

Kai shrugs but doesn't miss a move on his controller. "You know how the women want me. Sometimes I have to give 'em a little warning shot."

Tank grumbles and lifts his big head. He smiles at me. "Nice vest, Ra-Ra." Jake and his friends came up with the nickname one day during a particularly intense high. His head drops to the floor again. It actually causes a small vibration under my feet. 

"I'll be back soon," I say and walk out. I can taste the salty air on my lips. The fog has started to drift onshore. It'll get thick and dreary in a few hours, but it'll melt away by nine in the morning. I stretch a few minutes and take off for my ten-mile loop. Some people like to get up at the crack of dawn to get in a run before work, but I prefer to go after a long day. It helps shake out the kinks. 

Most of my running friends shove in earbuds and listen to music or podcasts on their runs, but I prefer to be left with my own thoughts, especially on a Friday night. It gives me time to self-debrief on my work week and my training schedule. It's boring, I know, but my workdays are hectic, and with the condo often filled with Jake's friends, my runs are sometimes my only me-time. 

It takes no time at all to find my rhythm. I reach the beach path. It's particularly deserted tonight. The fog swirls around the solar powered lights on the trail. The dim lights are working hard to push their glow through. Fortunately, I know every crack and dip along the way. I've run the path three times a week for the past two years. We're like old friends. My right shin has been burning lately. I'll ice it when I get home. The last thing I need is a bad case of shin splints a month before a marathon. 

A long run always takes me out of reality. I enter my own space, my own world, and the voices, lights and activity around me are merely part of the set decoration. My fitness watch beeps, letting me know I've gone three miles. I glance at it to check my time. It's better than my last time. Some runs are like that, sluggish and irritatingly difficult, but tonight my feet are gliding along the pavement.

A car horn blares somewhere in the distance. It's loud and sudden enough to throw off my stride, but I regain it easily. 

A mile ahead, the long pier stretches out into the deep, charcoal sea. Past that are the lights of the private, multi-million-dollar beach houses. They dot a chunk of the coastline like shiny baubles on a Christmas tree. On my right, the ocean churns gently against the shore as the tide stretches lazily over the sand. Hours earlier, kids played in the waves, moms yelled at them not to wander out too far and lifeguards paced their towers waiting for the notorious riptide to pull someone the wrong direction. Once the towers closed and the lifeguards packed their bags for the day, they encouraged beachgoers to do the same. Tonight, like most nights, the sand is deserted. Even the gulls and pigeons have taken cover for the night.

A runner's high has cleared my head. I'm in my Ra-Ra zone, as Jake puts it, until my peripheral vision picks up a flicker of movement on the beach. A figure is walking across the beach, tall and graceful, something that isn't easy on the sand. The person has a hood pulled up over their head for protection against the onshore breeze. His head is tucked low to avoid the same onslaught of wet wind. Just someone taking advantage of a deserted beach, I tell myself.

My rhythm returns, like a perfect melody, smooth and consistent. The pattern is broken yet again by a noise behind me. I'm not usually so distractible. I blame it on the conversation with Eric. He's got me thinking more than ever that I need to break it off, and that has my inner fine-tuning out of whack. I resist the urge to glance back for a second, then my intuition takes over. Always check your surroundings, I remind myself. I look back. The figure has reached the walking path. It's too dark to see anything more than his silhouette. Even with a brief glance, I can tell it's a man by the way he carries himself, hands in pockets, shoulders slightly rounded and heavy footsteps. He's a good distance back, and I'm confident I can outrun any attacker. It's one of the perks of being a long-distance runner. 

I'm coming to the area I call the bottleneck. It's wide open at this hour, but on a warm, sunny day it's packed with people. Big Max rents bicycles from a shack on the right side of the path, and his wife, Annie, sells soft-serve ice cream on the left side. It's a favorite stopping place for beachgoers. Max has posted a big sign warning people they'll be charged if they bring bikes back with flat tires. The bike kiosk marks my halfway point. Five more miles and I'll be home. A hot shower and book sounds like the perfect end to a long work week. I'll have to make up an excuse not to see Eric. Some alone time will help me work up the courage to break up with him. I'm fairly certain he won't be shocked. I've been pulling away for the last few months, and I know he's sensed it.

I reach the end of the kiosks and pour on a little steam for the last leg of my run. My stride is smooth as cream…until it's not. It happens so fast I barely register the fall in my mind until my knees hit the pavement. Instinctively, my hands shoot out, but they're too late to keep me from faceplanting. My nose smacks the ground so hard; I feel the vibration through my entire skull. It takes me a second to regain my bearings. I push back to my knees. Blood drips from my nose, and I can feel the same warm, wet sensation under my knees. 

My hot, quick breaths mingle with the swirl of fog blanketing the path. I look frantically around, and in the sprinkle of light coming from town, I spot something stretched across the path. I crawl closer to it and touch the tough string. It's fishing line. Some asshole has stretched it from a bench to one of the bike racks across the path. It's a cruel, dangerous prank. A dark silhouette appears in the mist that's collecting around me. 

A gasp lodges in my throat. Everything hurts but adrenaline pushes me to my feet. Blood drips from my chafed knees down my shins. My palms are filled with sand and grit as I search frantically for the bottle of pepper spray in my pack. The figure is right in front of me. His hood is pulled low over his forehead, obscuring his face. My fingers grasp the pepper spray. I pull the canister free, but my trembling hands lose their grip. The canister hits the concrete and rolls away. His hood slips back. 

I nearly collapse in relief. "It's you," I croak out.

And then pain more searing than the slam against the pavement tears through me. My hands fly to the object protruding from my chest. My mind is trying to make sense of things, but my body is already giving way to the inevitable. Blood, warm and sticky, pours between my hands. My face turns toward the dark ocean. It's my brain taking in the last bit of the world. It'll be gone soon. My limbs tingle as the life drains out of them. My head feels heavy. The ground feels soft under my feet. I use my last ounce of strength to look up at my killer. "Why?" I ask weakly. The breath is leaving my body.

"It's complicated."

I let go of the knife. A sinister-looking sky swirls around me. For a moment, it lights up with unearthly illumination…and then darkness.

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