The Survivors Club by J. Carson Black

running, stuff like that, but who isn’t, around here? It was such a remote place.” Her pace quickened. “Janine!” she called to the mother, who was just getting out of her Cadillac. Jaimie Wolfe darted a glance back at Tess. “Look, I’ve got to get this straightened out. I’m paying fricking alimony to my ex , if you can believe it, the bastard thinks because I’m a DeKoven I’m rolling in it. Which is not the case at all. Plus, it’s the principle of the thing. I’m one of the best there is in this business.”
    “Anything,” Tess said, “that could shine a light on who might have wanted to kill him?”
    “I’d start with Bert,” she said. “He really didn’t like having George around. Selfish bastard.”
    She walked away.
    DeKoven. It didn’t occur to Tess what that meant until she’d driven off the property. She was new to Santa Cruz County. But Tess had been living in Arizona long enough to have heard the name.
    Jaimie Wolfe was a DeKoven?

CHAPTER 8
    Tess rented a house on Harshaw Road. Harshaw Road was a poorly maintained stretch of asphalt outside Patagonia proper—a mixed population of old houses jammed together on dead-end streets, and small ranchettes.
    Tess’s place was just about where the houses thinned out to a few acres per landowner.
    She turned left onto the one-acre lot, the Tahoe’s tires rumbling across the cattle guard, and parked on the narrow lane that ended next to the house. The place needed paint. It needed a lot of things. But there was a voluptuous pistachio tree in the front yard, one of two remaining from a long-ago orchard, complete with a tire swing.
    That, along with the cheap rent and the great view, was what sold her on the place.
    From the deep porch (and the porch swing left by its previous residents) Tess could watch horses graze in the field across the way. She often watched the day time-lapse away on the hill across the road, the emerald mesquites catching the last rays, the sun torching them Day-Glo green before the shadows advanced and transformed them to the color of ashes.
    It was peaceful and quiet here, except when the coyotes awoke her at dawn. She liked hearing them, as long as the cat was inside.
    Her house: two swings but no dryer.
    The cat wasn’t waiting for her at the door. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t; depended on his mood. It seemed to her he distrusted her ever since she’d bundled him off to the vet to be fixed.
    Tess unlocked the door to the house.
    The sun stole across the display case near the big window. Someone had attempted to give the picture window an arch, but this one looked like something you’d carve out of a cardboard box.
    The display case made up for it. She’d bought the curved-glass and wood display case at a local antique store. It had come from a museum and cost her one whole paycheck.
    Tess grew up as an only child, but her two best friends were the twin daughters who lived next door. Her mother and their neighbor, Celia, were very close too. They took the three girls—Tess, Beth, and Jennifer—to theme parks and movies. Tess learned quickly that Beth and Jennifer were well-acquainted with the term “souvenir,” a word she didn’t know. To the twins, it meant getting their mother to buy them something—usually something kitschy, although she noticed Jennifer held out for more expensive swag. Everywhere they went, Beth and Jennifer clamored for souvenirs. Tess caught on quickly, and did the same.
    Fast-forward to her work as a homicide detective. Tess had tracked a serial killer once in her career, the hardest type of killer to find. She’d gotten lucky and made an arrest. That was all it was—luck. What she saw in his house had been expected, but Tess was not prepared for how it affected her.
    The killer had kept trophies from the twelve women and girls he’d killed. A hairbrush, a pair of earrings, panties. Even one girl’s asthma inhaler.
    That got to her more than anything else. She could imagine