The Creek Killer

Jane Smith has been running from danger her whole life. That danger followed her everywhere, leaving a trail of death in its wake. When the mummified bodies of six girls are discovered in the wetlands of Los Angeles, Jane is surprised to learn one of the dead girls bears her name—the name she abandoned twenty-five years ago to go into hiding.

Detective Harriet Harper gets pulled into a case to make or break her career…if it doesn’t end her life. When the burial site of six mummified girls is discovered, Harri joins the task force created to bring justice for the dead girls. Forces outside her control threaten her reputation and her coveted position on the team as the killer sets his sights on her, taunting her to come and find him.

When a witness comes forward with details that take Harri in new directions, she finds herself moving ever closer to the dark center of a decades-old secret, one that many people would prefer to stay hidden. With her career in the balance and her life on the line, Harri forges ahead to bring a serial killer to justice before he kills again

My Monday night Krav Maga women’s defense class had been full. Twelve women followed my every move in conference room A of the West Hollywood Recreational Center for a good hour. 
The room smelled of sweat and ladies’ deodorant. Some of my students had been coming for months, and one was new, her bruises fresh. I wiped my face with a towel and noticed the new young woman hovering nearby. The other women had left already. 


“You did really well today, Katie,” I said. 


She peeled off the wall, her skinny arms dangling at her side, wrist bruises covered by long black sleeves. I’d used her as my partner in one of my demonstrations and saw the telltale signs of abuse around her wrists. 


“Thank you, Jane. I…I wanted to ask how to maneuver away from someone who has you pressed against the wall?”


“There are a couple of moves I can show you, next class. Are you coming next week?” I asked. 

She’d only taken one class and cowered when anyone placed their hands on her. 


“I’m going to try. Can you show me now?” 


I noted the urgency in her voice. She wanted to know how to keep safe. 

Leave him, I thought. 
I knew she wouldn’t. Instead, I decided to convince her to come back next week.


I lunged at her. 
She cried out and cowered against the wall, her hands outstretched in a defensive pose. I drew myself back. She wasn’t ready for any of this.


I kneeled before her but made sure not to touch her. The girl was suffering from serious post-traumatic stress disorder. Many of my students came to me with similar symptoms.


“Ssssh, I’m not going to hurt you. You need to come back next week, though.”


“You lunged at me,” she choked out.


“I wanted to show you why you need to come back next week.”


I was close enough to her to see tears dangling, clinging on her eyelashes. Fiercely hot liquid shot through my veins and waves of pinpricks flowed up my arms and down my torso. 
Another girl damaged by another asshole. 


“Why?” Her voice came out so soft I leaned in to hear her. 


“I know you’re used to getting hit. Your body needs to relearn how to move before it gets hit. That takes time. Our bodies freeze and we go into fight or flight like you just did. I can show you the moves, but you need to fight your body to move on command. That’s why you have to come back.”