Rory Maddox

Rory Maddox had never expected her latest case to lead her underground—literally. The twenty-two-year-old amateur sleuth had traded her usual downtown office for the damp, echoing tunnels of a cave hidden beneath the old quarry on the edge of town. Dressed in her crisp white blouse and dark suit coat and skirt, that were now streaked with mud, she muttered under her breath about the irony of ruining dry-clean-only clothes in the pursuit of justice. Her flashlight beam flickered across jagged stone, the air thick with the scent of earth and secrecy, as she crawled deeper toward the faint glimmer she hoped was evidence, not danger. She froze when she heard voices—low, male, and far too close. Her heart thudded against the damp stone as she killed her light, straining to make out the words. “I told you someone was snooping around,” one of them said, the scrape of boots echoing toward her. Before Rory could retreat, a flashlight beam sliced through the dark, catching the shine of her blonde hair and the professional cut of her jacket. “Well, well,” another voice drawled, amusement lacing the menace.