Detective Cal Dempsey has spent twenty years building walls between her work and her life. At forty-eight, she’s never been in a relationship, never let anyone past her defenses, never been anything but the job. Then crime scene photographer Mara Snowden—the police chief’s niece and a fixture at crime scenes for years—disappears without explanation.
Left behind: a single photograph of a murder victim with three words written on the back in Mara’s handwriting: For U Callisto.
Callisto is a name Dempsey buried at eighteen. A childhood nickname from a group home, known only to people from a life she’s never discussed. A name that no one in her current world should know.
Assigned to find her missing colleague, Dempsey breaks into Mara’s apartment and discovers a black leather journal. Inside: surveillance photographs of Dempsey taken over years without her knowledge. Detailed observations of her routines, her habits, her solitary life. Explicit sexual fantasies about a woman Mara has been watching, studying, wanting—but never approaching. The journal reveals an obsession that’s been growing in the dark, patient and methodical.
The victim in the photograph is Stefan Tapani, a police confidential informant with a history of violent crimes he’s never paid for. Two years ago, he sexually assaulted Mara. Three witnesses—all connected to law enforcement—gave statements claiming the encounter was consensual. Tapani walked free. The case was closed.
Now those three witnesses are dead within weeks of each other: a drowning, a suicide, a fall down the stairs. The kind of deaths that don’t look like murders until someone connects them. Dempsey connects them.
As she traces the pattern through old case files and crime scene reports, Dempsey realizes Mara hasn’t just been watching her—she’s been leaving breadcrumbs. Each crime scene disguised as tragedy. Each death perfectly executed. Each piece of evidence placed where only Dempsey would find it. The investigation isn’t a hunt. It’s an invitation.
When Mara finally surfaces, the confrontation isn’t what Dempsey expects. There’s no denial, no deflection. Instead, Mara offers something Dempsey has never had: to be truly seen. To be chosen. To matter to someone beyond her badge and her cases. The confession becomes a seduction. The evidence becomes foreplay. And Dempsey—who has spent two decades alone, who has never been wanted, who has never let herself want anything beyond the job—feels the walls she’s built beginning to crack.
The choice before her is impossible: turn in the first person who’s ever desired her and maintain her integrity, or become complicit in the only justice Mara could get. Because in a system that protects informants over victims, that values procedures over people, that let a rapist walk free—what is justice actually worth?
Now You Don’t is a noir psychological thriller about obsession, complicity, and the terrible freedom of finally being seen—even when the person seeing you is destined to destroy you, or perhaps especially then.
Now You Don’t on sale January 15, 2026 online, or at your local bookstore.
- Amazon USA
- Amazon Canada
- Amazon UK
- Barnes and Noble
- Thrift Books
- IndieBound
- Kobo
- Find Now You Don’t at your favorite bookstore or online retailer. Click here to search worldwide!
Now You Don’t – Excerpt
Chapter 1
Cal Dempsey clicked through the evidence database. Case number 2438-19. Three-year-old strangulation case. Prostitute in the park. Every detective before her had missed it. The fiber match was right there in the supplemental analysis. Blue polyester with traces of motor oil. Same as Zamora’s work gloves. She’d found it last night at 2 AM. Hadn’t gone home.
The bullpen hummed with morning activity. Desk phones chirped. Keyboards clicked. Coffee cups steamed. Dempsey hunched over the warrant request form, pen scratching as she filled in the boxes by hand. Her back ached. Her eyes burned. Worth it.
Two female detectives from Robbery hung gold tinsel along the edges of their desks. December first. Christmas. Dempsey barely registered the date as she wrote it on the form.
“Suspect: Darius Zamora.” She printed the letters in careful block capitals.
Knight’s voice boomed across the room. “Bet Dempsey’s idea of a hot date is a fresh corpse.”
Polla’s laugh followed, high and nervous. “Better conversation than you, Knight.”
“At least I have conversations.” Knight leaned back in his chair until it creaked. “When’s the last time you had a life outside this place, Dempsey?”
Dempsey didn’t look up. The form required her full concentration. Address. DOB. Prior arrests. The evidence chain that connected Zamora to the dead woman. It needed to be perfect. No technicalities. No loopholes. No way out.
She flipped through her case notes. Highlighted the fiber analysis. Made copies. Stapled them to the warrant application.
The case had gone cold under two previous detectives. Hussain had worked it first, then Miller before he retired. Both good detectives. Both had missed the fiber evidence. Not their fault. The original crime scene tech hadn’t labeled it properly.
Dempsey had found it by accident. Looking for something else entirely when the mislabeled evidence bag caught her eye. A hunch made her send it to the lab. The results came back yesterday afternoon. Perfect match to Zamora’s work gloves. Gloves he’d been wearing when they first questioned him three years ago. She’d seen them in the interview video.
The detectives with the tinsel laughed as they taped it up. One dropped a length that sparkled on the floor. Neither noticed.
“What do you think, RB?” Knight kicked his desk, sending his chair rolling toward Polla’s desk. “Think Dempsey talks to her reflection just to hear a human voice?”
Polla adjusted his glasses. Smiled weakly. Looked away.
Dempsey printed her name and badge number on the last page. Signed and dated it. Put everything in order. Three years waiting for justice. The dead woman had a name. Carla Mendez. Twenty-six. A daughter in foster care. A mother in Phoenix. Dempsey had their numbers ready for when they made the arrest.
She carried the completed warrant request to the copier. Added the final lab report to the packet. The fiber wasn’t just similar to Zamora’s gloves. It was a perfect match down to the specific type of motor oil. Venneroil 10W-48. Same as in Zamora’s garage. Proof he’d been there. Proof he’d lied.
Her desk phone rang. She crossed back and picked up.
“Dempsey.”
“My office. Now.” Chief Brandt’s voice. Clipped. Pissed?
Dempsey hung up. Glanced at the warrant request in her hand. She wanted to get this to the DA immediately. Zamora worked nights. Slept during the day. Best time to arrest him would be afternoon. She wanted the warrant by noon.
“Chief wants me,” she told Knight as she passed his desk.
“Better you than me.” Knight spun his chair. “Probably wants to know why you’re still wearing yesterday’s clothes.”
Dempsey ignored him. The chief’s call couldn’t have come at a worse time. She needed to move on Zamora today. Before he could run. Before the evidence could get contaminated or lost again.
She tucked the warrant request into a folder. Carried it with her. She’d go to the DA right after meeting Brandt. Whatever the chief wanted could wait.
The hallway to Brandt’s office stretched long and quiet. Mint green walls. Polished floor. Budget meeting notices tacked to a bulletin board. Dempsey passed an office where detectives watched surveillance footage, their faces lit blue by the screens.
She rehearsed what she would tell Brandt. In and out. Fifteen minutes tops. She had a case to close. A killer to catch. A family to call with news they’d been waiting three years to hear.
Brandt’s door was closed. Dempsey knocked twice. Heard “Enter” from the other side. Turned the handle.
Chief Brandt’s office smelled like lemon cleaner. A water stain spread across the ceiling in the far corner. Brown. Old. Dempsey had been watching it grow for months. Brandt sat behind her desk, reading glasses perched on her nose, reviewing a document that she set aside when Dempsey entered.
“Close the door.”
Dempsey did. Stood with the Zamora file pressed against her leg. Waited.
Brandt removed her glasses. Folded them carefully. Set them on a stack of personnel reports.
“I hear you broke the Mendez case.”
“The fiber evidence matched. Zamora’s work gloves. I need to get the warrant to the DA.”
Brandt nodded. “Good work. Cold cases are the hardest.”
“Three years. But we’ve got him now.”
“You’re going to make the family very happy.”
Dempsey shifted her weight. The conversation felt wrong. Too much praise. Too much small talk. Brandt didn’t do small talk.
“I need to catch the DA before noon if we want to make the arrest today.”
“About that.” Brandt leaned back. Her chair creaked. “I have another assignment for you.”
Dempsey’s grip tightened on the file. “I’m in the middle of three active cases.”
“Knight can handle the Zamora arrest.”
“It can wait until tomorrow.”
“Your call. The warrant request has your name on it. Your case, your collar.”
Dempsey didn’t move. The Zamora case had consumed her for weeks. Every night. Every weekend. She’d reviewed every report. Every photo. Every interview. What was one more day, except everything.
“What’s the assignment?” Her voice stayed flat.
“Mara Snowden hasn’t shown up for work in two days.”
“The photographer?”
“Yes. She missed a scene yesterday morning. Another today. Not answering calls or texts.”
Dempsey’s eyebrows drew together. “That’s a welfare check. Patrol can handle it.”
“I want you to do it.”
“Why?”
Brandt tapped her fingers on the desk. Once. Twice. “She was scheduled to testify in the Parsons case next week. Key witness.”
The Parsons case. Drug dealer with three bodies on him. One of them a cop. The trial had been all over the news.
“You think something happened to her?”
“I think our best crime scene photographer missing work right before a major trial warrants attention.”
Dempsey thought of the warrant request in her hand. The DA expecting her. Zamora sleeping, unaware they finally had him. The tidy arrangement of evidence she’d constructed that someone else would present.
“I can get the warrant, then check on Snowden.”
“No.”
“The family deserves—”
“They deserve to know we caught him. And they will.” Brandt leaned forward. “This is important, Dempsey.”
Dempsey knew that tone. No arguments. No negotiation.
“You have Snowden’s address?”
“Brownstone on Fourth and Pine. Apartment 3B.” Brandt handed over a slip of paper with the details. “She lives alone. Department tried calling but got voicemail.”
“Who’s the emergency contact?”
“A little early for that, hmm?”
Dempsey took the paper. Folded it. Slipped it into her pocket.
“If it’s just the flu, I’m coming back to get my warrant.”
“Fair enough.” Brandt picked up her glasses. Put them back on. Reached for the document she’d been reading. “Call me when you know something.”
Dempsey turned to leave.
“And Dempsey?”
She paused at the door.
“Keep this quiet. Just a routine welfare check as far as anyone needs to know.”
Dempsey nodded. Stepped out into the hallway. Let the door close behind her.
She stood there a moment. Stared at the Zamora file in her hand. Three years of work. Three years of dead ends and false starts. Three years of a killer walking free. And now she was doing a welfare check instead of arresting him.
Knight was at his desk when she returned to the bullpen. Feet up. Phone to his ear. Laughing at something.
She walked past, went to her desk, put the file in the drawer. Collected her coat, gun, badge. Checked her watch. 11:30. If Snowden was just sick, she could still make it back. No she couldn’t.
Dempsey sat down and quickly sent an email: Request meeting tomorrow, 6:00PM, to get run through evidence, get warrant. ~ Dempsey.
The female detectives had finished with their tinsel. It sparkled under the fluorescent lights. Christmas music played faintly from someone’s computer. Dempsey felt a thousand miles removed from all of it. She hit send, locked up her desk, and left.
She took the stairs down to the parking garage. Cold air hit her face when she stepped outside. Her unmarked car waited in its spot, frost on the windshield. She scraped it quickly. Started the engine. Let it run while she checked the address Brandt had given her. Fourth and Pine. Fifteen minutes in midday traffic.
As she pulled out of the garage, her phone rang. The DA’s office. She let it go to voicemail. Nothing she could say would change anything now. Hoped for the best.
She turned toward Fourth and Pine. Snow began to fall in fine, dry flakes. Perfect weather for staying home sick. Maybe that’s all it was. She’d check the apartment. Find Snowden with a fever. Be back in time to salvage something of the case she’d solved.
But as she drove, Brandt’s words echoed. Key witness. Major trial. Keep it quiet. Something didn’t add up. Dempsey’s detective instincts, dormant since leaving the bullpen, began to wake up.
The brownstone at Fourth and Pine looked expensive. Five stories. Red sandstone. Black iron fire escape zigzagging up the facade. Snow fell against it, melting on contact, making the stone slick and dark. Dempsey parked across the street. Checked the address against Brandt’s note. Right place. Wrong assignment.
Dempsey crossed the street. Snow caught in her hair. Melted down her neck. The cold felt good after too many hours in the precinct’s dry heat. She hadn’t showered since yesterday morning. Hadn’t changed clothes. Hadn’t slept more than twenty minutes at her desk.
The building entrance had an intercom system. Brass plate with apartment numbers. 3B. Snowden, M. Dempsey pressed the button. Waited. Pressed again. No answer.
She pulled out her phone. Dialed the number Brandt had given her. Let it ring until voicemail picked up. A woman’s voice, professional and clipped: “This is Mara Snowden. Leave a message.”
Dempsey didn’t. Slipped the phone back into her pocket.
A man with a dog exited the building. Held the door open with his elbow. Looked Dempsey up and down.
“Thanks,” she said, moving past him.
The lobby smelled musty. Marble floor. Old mailboxes with tarnished brass doors. A potted plant drooping in the corner. The elevator had an “Out of Order” sign taped to it. Dempsey took the stairs.
Third floor hallway. Faded carpet runner down the center. Sconce lights with yellow bulbs. The kind of building that had been fancy once. Still tried to look it.
Apartment 3B at the end of the hall. Heavy wooden door. Brass numbers. Dempsey raised her fist to knock.
Stopped.
The door wasn’t fully closed. Open about an inch. No splintered wood around the lock. No tool marks on the frame. No forced entry.
Dempsey’s hand moved to her gun. Didn’t draw it yet. She leaned close to the gap.
“Ms. Snowden? Police.”
Silence from inside.
“Mara Snowden? Detective Dempsey, Metro PD.”
Nothing.
Dempsey considered her options. Call for backup. Standard procedure for an open door. But this wasn’t a crime scene. Not yet. Just a welfare check on a photographer who’d missed work. Probably left her door unlocked by accident. Gone to the doctor. Visiting a friend.
Except people don’t leave their doors open in the city. Especially not people who live alone. Especially not people scheduled to testify against a drug dealer with three bodies on him.
Brandt’s words echoed. Key witness. Major trial. Keep it quiet.
Dempsey drew her weapon. Held it low at her side. Used her left hand to push the door open wider.
“Police. Anyone home?”
The door swung inward without resistance. No chain or deadbolt engaged. Just the door left slightly open. Like someone had intended to close it but hadn’t quite managed. Or hadn’t cared.
Dempsey took a breath. Felt the familiar focus settling over her. This wasn’t the Zamora case. But it was something. Her instincts rarely lied.
She stepped back. Called Brandt. Got voicemail. Left a message.
“Chief, Dempsey here. At Snowden’s apartment. Door’s open, no signs of forced entry. No response inside. I’m going in.”
She ended the call. Checked her email. Nothing from the DA. Put the phone away.
Traffic sounds filtered up from the street below. A horn. Brakes squealing. Normal city noise. Nothing to match the twist in her gut that said this wasn’t normal at all.
Dempsey positioned herself to the side of the doorway. Drew her weapon properly now. Held it in both hands, pointed down.
“Police. Entering the premises.”
She used her foot to push the door all the way open. Stood listening for any sound from inside. Heard nothing.
The smell hit her first. Jasmine. Strong but not overwhelming. Like a candle had been burning recently. Or perfume.
Dempsey took a step into the apartment. Paused. Listened again. Still nothing.
She glanced back at the hallway. Empty. No neighbors peeking out to see what was happening. No witnesses if this went bad.
Dempsey adjusted her grip on the gun. Stepped fully into the apartment. Kept her back to the wall. Eyes scanning for movement. Ears straining for any sound.
The entryway opened into what looked like a living room, though she couldn’t see much from her position. No obvious signs of struggle or disturbance. No broken furniture. No blood spatters on the visible walls.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She ignored it. Focus on the scene. Deal with Knight later.
Dempsey moved forward another step. Checked corners. Checked shadows. The apartment felt empty but she couldn’t be sure. Not yet.
She took another breath of jasmine-scented air. Thought of Zamora, who should be in handcuffs by now. Thought of Mara Snowden, who should have been at work yesterday. Thought of the door, left open just enough to be noticed by someone at this end of the hall.
Her hand steady on the gun, Dempsey prepared to clear the apartment room by room.
Dempsey swept the apartment in a pattern. Living room clear. Kitchen clear. Bathroom empty. Closets checked. Nobody home. No Mara Snowden. No signs of struggle. No blood. Just a tidy apartment with the scent of jasmine hanging in the air and a desk with items arranged too perfectly to be coincidence.
“Mara?” Her voice sounded loud in the silence. No answer.
She holstered her weapon. The immediate danger had passed. Now it was time to observe. To see what the apartment told her.
The place was neat. Orderly. Bookshelf with photography books and crime novels. Couch with a throw blanket folded over one arm. Kitchen with clean counters. Single mug in the dish rack. A woman who lived alone but kept her space ready for company.
Dempsey checked the bedroom again. Queen bed made with military precision. Corners tucked. Pillows arranged. Closet with clothes hung by type and color. No sign anyone had slept here recently.
She returned to the living room. The desk sat against the wall opposite the couch. Oak surface. Clean. Three items placed in the center. A closed laptop. A spiral notebook. A printed photograph face up.
Dempsey approached slowly. The items hadn’t been left randomly. Someone had arranged them deliberately. A message. For whoever found them. For her.
The laptop was closed. Silver. No visible fingerprints on its surface. The notebook beside it, spiral-bound, green cover. Closed as well.
The photograph drew her eye. Color. High quality. Professionally printed on glossy paper.
A dead man in an alley.
Dempsey recognized crime scene photos. Had seen hundreds. This was different. This wasn’t documentation. This was composition.
The photographer had crouched at the feet of the corpse. Shot upward along the body. The angle made the dead man look larger than life. Important. Like a fallen statue. Sodium streetlights cast everything in amber and shadow. No flash had been used.
The victim lay on his back. White male. Twenties maybe. Death metal t-shirt now ruined with blood. One arm flung outward. The other across his chest. His legs bent at odd angles. The way bodies lay when they collapse, not when they’re arranged.
Dempsey leaned closer. Three wounds visible. A bloody mess at the crotch where denim and flesh became indistinguishable. A neat bullet hole in the center of the chest. And the head… part of the skull missing. Execution style.
This wasn’t a random mugging. This was professional. Multiple wounds. Multiple messages. Emasculation. Heart shot. Head shot. Someone wanted this man very dead.
The photograph made it look like a Renaissance painting. The lighting. The composition. The careful framing that captured the stillness of death and the violence that caused it. Beautiful and terrible at once.
No police evidence markers visible. No measurement tools or case numbers. This photo wasn’t from the official crime scene documentation. This was taken before the police arrived. Or by someone who knew how to work a scene without disturbing the evidence.
Someone like Mara Snowden. Crime scene photographer.
Dempsey didn’t touch the photo. Didn’t move any of the items. She paused, looking again at the dead man’s face. Familiar, but incomplete. She needed an ID on the victim and the scene location. And she needed to know what case Snowden was testifying on. This doesn’t look like a simple missing person anymore.
Studied the photo again. Someone had wanted him dead in a specific, message-sending way.
Dempsey took out her own phone camera. Photographed the desk arrangement exactly as she’d found it. The laptop. The notebook. The printed photo. Evidence of evidence.
Traffic sounds continued from the street below. A siren wailed in the distance, growing fainter. The jasmine scent seemed stronger now, or maybe she was just more aware of it. The smell of someone who should be here but wasn’t.
She looked again at the photo. The dead man in the alley. The artistic composition. The professional eye that had captured death as a moment of terrible beauty. Mara Snowden’s eye.
A key expert in a major trial who had missed work for two days. A door left open. A photograph carefully placed for someone to find. None of it was coincidence.
Stood in the silent apartment. Waited for Brandt to call back. The dead man in the photo stared up at nothing, his secrets as carefully arranged as the items on the desk.