The Echo Killing: A gripping debut crime thriller you won’t be able to put down!. Christi Daugherty

       Chapter One

      It was one of those nights.

      Early on there was a flicker of hope – a couple of stabbings, a car wreck with potential. But the wounds weren’t serious and the accident was routine. After that it fell quiet.

      A quiet night is the worst thing that can happen to a crime reporter.

      With an hour to go until her midnight deadline, Harper McClain sat alone in the empty newsroom with no story to write, doing the one thing she despised most in the world – a crossword puzzle.

      On the far wall, tall windows reflected back a dark image of the huge open room with its white columns and rows of empty desks, but Harper didn’t notice it – she was glaring at the paper on her desk. Smudged and scratched-out letters glared back, like an accusation of failure.

      ‘Why would anyone know an eight-letter word for “reckless bravery”?’ she grumbled. ‘I’ve got a seven-letter word for “bravery” – it’s called “bravery”. I don’t need a longer word …’

      ‘Audacity.’ The voice soared across the newsroom from the editor’s desk at the front.

      Harper looked up.

      City Editor Emma Baxter appeared to be focused on her computer screen, a silver Cross pen glittering in one hand like a small sword.

      ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘An eight-letter word for reckless bravery.’ Baxter spoke without shifting her eyes from the monitor. ‘Audacity.’

      Baxter was pushing fifty at varying rates of speed. She was small and wiry, and that only made her look better in a navy blazer. Her angular face had a permanent look of vague dissatisfaction, but somehow that suited her, too. Everything about her was precise – her perfectly even short nails, her stiff posture, and you could cut your hand on the razor-sharp edge of her straight, dark bob.

      ‘How the hell do you know that?’ There was no gratitude in Harper’s voice. ‘In fact, why the hell do you know that? There is something fundamentally wrong with anyone who could answer a question like “What’s an eight-letter word for bravery?” without first wanting to off themselves with a …’

      At her elbow, her police scanner crackled to life. ‘This is unit three-nine-seven. We’ve got a signal nine with possible signal sixes.’

      Harper’s voice trailed off. She cocked her head to listen.

      ‘I’m willing to forgive your insubordination on this one occasion,’ Baxter said magnanimously. But Harper had already forgotten all about audacity.

      On her desk, her phone buzzed. She picked it up.

      ‘Miles,’ she said. ‘You heard the shooting?’

      ‘Yep. Slow night just got busier. Meet you out front in five.’ His Tennessee accent glided over each word, smooth as warm honey.

      Harper gathered her things with quick efficiency and hooked her police scanner to the waistband of her black pants. Sweeping a light black jacket off the back of her chair, she shrugged it on. A narrow reporters’ notebook and pen were shoved into one jacket pocket. Press pass and phone in the other.

      Moving fast, she headed across the room.

      Baxter cocked an enquiring eyebrow at her.

      ‘Shooting on Broad Street.’ Harper talked as she walked. ‘Possible injuries. Miles and I are heading down now to find out more.’

      Baxter reached for her phone to alert the copy desk.

      ‘If I need to hold page one,’ she said, ‘I have to do it no later than eleven thirty.’

      ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

      She turned out of the newsroom into a wide, brightly lit corridor that opened directly onto a staircase leading down to the front door. Her editor’s final words floated after her.

      ‘When you return, we can have a talk about your attitude.’

      It was Baxter’s favorite threat. Harper knew better than to worry.

      The sleepy-looking security guard at the reception desk didn’t even glance up from the small TV on his desk as she hit the green exit button with hard impatience and hurled herself out of the building into the steamy darkness.

      June had arrived a couple of weeks ago, bringing blistering days with it. Nights were better, but only a little. Tonight, the air was velvet soft, but so thick you could stick a fork in it and expect it to stay standing up. This wasn’t the usual Savannah humidity – this was like breathing under water.

      Summer rain in Georgia is no minor threat – it can wash away your car, your house, your hopes, your dreams, and Harper glanced up at the gray clouds scuttling across the sliver of moon as if they might tell her when the water would fall, but the sky had no news to give.

      The newspaper’s offices were in a century-old, rambling four-story building that took up half a city block on Bay Street, close enough to the slow-moving Savannah River to smell its green river scent and to hear the giant engines of the massive container ships rumble as they rolled slowly out to sea. The neon words ‘DAILY NEWS’ glowed red from a rooftop sign that must have been one of the last things the sailors saw before the great Atlantic Ocean opened before them.

      Down the street, the ornate city hall’s gilded dome gleamed, even at this hour, and through a break in the buildings, Harper could see the cobblestone lanes leading down to the water’s edge.

      She’d never lived anywhere except Savannah, so it had been a very long time since she’d paid much attention to its landmarks and antebellum architecture. To her, like the verdant town squares and endless monuments to ill-fated Civil War generals, it was all just there.

      She didn’t spare any of it a glance now as she waited, one leg jiggling impatiently. Her scanner crackled on her hip. Ambulances were being called out. Backup was being sent.

      ‘Come on, Miles,’ she whispered, turning her wrist to see her watch.

      It was quiet enough for her to hear the faint wail of sirens in the distance, as a gleaming black Mustang rounded the corner and roared straight towards her, headlights blinding. It stopped in front of her, the motor revving.

      Harper yanked the door open and leapt in.

      ‘Let’s go,’ she said, strapping on her seatbelt.

      The tires spun as they sped off.

      Inside, the Mustang was alive with voices. Miles had one scanner on his belt, one mounted within the dash