If Spring Comes – Book 3

If Spring Comes – Available NOW!

Can a song be deadly?


St. Louis’s new lead medical examiner Dr. Candice Stevens knows the best way to atone for the blood on her hands is to silence a murderer before he strikes again. A moment of brilliance and a stroke of lu


ck lands her evidence that could bring down a prolific serial killer. But a split-second decision propels her into a high-stakes ruse of cat and mouse that endangers something she guards more than her very life.

Fighting a career-ending injury, FBI agent Dorian “Sal” Salivas will do whatever it takes to reclaim his badge and avoid slipping back into his old life as a con-artist. When he suspects there is a leak in the FBI, and catches the gorgeous medical examiner stealing evidence, Sal realizes playing one last con might be the only way to catch their city’s notorious serial killer. Hot on the trail of the killer’s deadly serenade, lines start to blur and even love begins to bloom. But if Sal’s clever lies manage to keep them alive, will they kill any hope of capturing Candice’s heart for keeps?


With a killer working on the inside and their hearts mere pawns in a twisted game, they’ll need to figure out who they can trust before the swan song becomes their own.


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Peek inside the book:


February 11

St. Louis City Morgue

8:38 a.m.


     Another perfect crime. The familiar rush blazed like fine scotch through his veins. There was no greater high than eviscerating lives, scraping away each painful layer of humanity, witnessing a last breath, and invoking pure, unequivocal terror.

The fevered bloodlust stirred anew, heating his skin despite the crisp temperature in the morgue.

     Mmm. There was something delicious about it all. Their fear, their respect. He was craving more, and this was already his second score of the season.

It was no longer enough, but he couldn’t afford to get sloppy. His palate for their suffering … her suffering had refined to a thing of beauty—a symphony of pain and pleasure that helped her song live on and on. For him alone. Forever and always. The aching need licked across his nerve endings.

Spring couldn’t come soon enough.

Watching from the side corridor, he remained hidden while the harsh lighting exposed every detail of his handy work for his viewing pleasure—from his victim’s bones stripped of their lovely covering to the fluttery vein pulsating in the new medical examiner’s elegant bronze throat.

She spoke quietly into her tape recorder, collecting the few remaining scraps of flesh clinging to the charred remains of his latest masterpiece.

This one didn’t rattle easily, but right now he could almost feel the fear raking over her small body like a rosined bow rasping taut strings. He could smell it too and almost moaned in response. Cold sweat and heated adrenaline mingling with hints of a sweet floral musk.

     She had smelled like flowers too. Her fear as tangy and fresh as the beautiful crimson ribbon he ceremoniously sampled from his first slice—before the injections would taint her essence. “Sarah.” Her name breathed out on a tasty little whisper, the slight intrusion of his voice jarring against the reverent hush.

The screaming was long over for Sarah. She’d had such a lively timbre to her voice, and her cries had blended quite nicely with Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons—Winter.” Though she’d lasted longer than most, the pleasure of the duet died with her screams.

Her silence was monotonous. The static hum of the lights, the occasional clink of the coroner’s tools on the metal tray, and the ME’s quiet dictation provided her soundtrack now.

How he loved watching the whole pathetic lot of investigators, coroners, and scientists try to scrounge up a single scrap of useable evidence against him. It was almost as enjoyable as taking every last thing he wanted from each victim.

A grin tugged at his mouth. How fitting for the police to find her today—on the anniversary of his first.

Forty-one pretty little blondes. Forty-two really. That opening act had been an appetizer, awakening his lust for killing before he could acquire the right taste and trademark his style. He’d collected so many exquisite screams since then.

He licked his lips, remembering the taste and feel of Sarah as the ME—what was her name again? Stevens, yeah, Dr. Candice Stevens—started examining the victim’s mouth. Dentals would confirm Sarah Hoyt’s identity as there was little else identifiable.

Dr. Stevens leaned forward, obstructing his view with her undeniable curves. Though she might try to hide them under those shapeless blue scrubs and apron, she was a rare and eclectic brand of beautiful. Petite yet voluptuous, with eyes like a slip of whiskey and golden threaded mocha hair. Not his type.

Lucky for her.

Though there was something about her that—

What was she doing? He couldn’t see with her back to him. The motion of her arms looked like she was winding string.

She straightened with a start. Her gloved hand snatched the handle for the lighted magnifying scope, dragging it closer to examine whatever had snagged her attention.

When she pivoted to grab a specimen container, he caught a glance of the forceps in her grasp. They didn’t appear to be holding anything.

He couldn’t see her eyes, but her sudden stillness and the hitch in her breathing suggested they were riveted on something significant.

Surely, she was reaching. He was flawless and meticulous.


And right under their noses.