The Four Corners Conspiracy (Detective Lauren Gabriel Mysteries Book 6)

The Four Corners Conspiracy: A Detective Lauren Gabriel Mystery

When a reclusive herbalist is found dead in a remote Colorado ravine, Detective Lauren Gabriel is drawn into a case unlike any she’s faced before. Surrounded by cryptic symbols and whispers of a mind-controlling vault buried beneath sacred land, the investigation quickly spirals into a collision of legend, land fraud, and long-buried secrets.

From an isolated mountain man to the victim’s niece and a mysterious adult performer, the suspect list is as strange as the setting. With only a murdered woman’s coded journal and the visions of a clairvoyant teenager to guide her, Lauren must navigate deceit, danger, and a land that seems to push back against every step she takes.

Book six in the Detective Lauren Gabriel Mysteries series, The Four Corners Conspiracy is a psychological descent into the hidden tensions between past and present, truth and myth.

Start reading The Four Corners Conspiracy today. The mountain is listening.

Excerpt from the book

THE DAWN MIST clung to the jagged cliffs of the San Juan Mountains like a burial shroud. Cold and unrelenting, it coiled in ghostly tendrils around the granite crags, masking the steep, unforgiving terrain. Far below, hidden deep in a narrow ravine where sunlight rarely touched, the body of Agnes Whitefield lay sprawled among the wild columbine and sagebrush. Her silver hair fanned out like frost on stone. From above, it looked as if the earth had exhaled and left her there to be swallowed back into it.

Detective Lauren Gabriel adjusted the brake on her wheelchair, rolled a few inches forward, and stared down the ravine. Despite the chill in the air, a line of sweat trailed along her spine beneath the soft shell of her navy jacket. Her deep brown eyes, sharp and unblinking, followed the path of the broken terrain, reading the rocks and brush like a crime scene poem. Her dark auburn hair, freshly streaked with silver highlights, was pulled back into a no-nonsense twist.

“Looks like an accident,” said Deputy Carl Wheeler, standing behind Lauren with a steaming thermos in one hand and a clipboard in the other. He shifted uncomfortably, his weathered cowboy boots crunching gravel. His Stetson was tilted back, revealing a creased brow and sun-creased blue eyes. His sandy beard—more salt than pepper—was neatly trimmed, and his badge glinted against his quilted vest. “Slipped off the trail. Long drop. Probably broke her neck.”

Lauren did not look at Deputy Wheeler. Her jaw tightened the moment she saw the body’s position.

“She didn’t slip,” Lauren said flatly. Her voice carried the confidence of someone who had earned her scars the hard way—as Colorado’s most esteemed murder investigator. They called her the “Murder Whisperer.” She had earned that moniker by listening—always listening—to the voices, alive, dead, and in her dreams.

“Someone wanted Agnes Whitefield dead,” she said matter-of-factly.

Wheeler sighed. “I’m gonna have to disagree, Detective. People don’t kill each other in these parts.”

The Murder Whisperer did not respond. Instead, she leaned forward and adjusted her binoculars to examine the scene below more closely.

The deputy crouched beside the seasoned detective, following her gaze and squinting. Below, the wildflowers were undisturbed except where Agnes had landed. Deputy Wheeler missed the lack of scuff marks or scattered gravel that would have indicated a struggle on the upper trail. Lauren Gabriel, however, noted the unbroken trail, the absence of debris, and the clean, almost deliberate posture of the body.

“She was dropped,” Lauren said. “From up there. Lifted, maybe even carried. The bend in her arm, the angle of the head… it’s too clean. No tumble. Just an impact.”

Wheeler took a long drink from his thermos, wiped the sweat from his brow, and frowned. “Her family said she comes out here every morning. Herbs. Prayers. They call it the Communion Path. You think one of them did it?”

“Maybe,” Lauren said. “Or someone who knew she’d be here.”

Mandy Toboggan, Lauren’s loyal assistant investigator, came skidding down the narrow slope. She wore a red flannel shirt over a thermal tee, with faded jeans tucked into hiking boots. Her wild copper curls bounced around her round face, flushed from the chill. A camera hung from her neck, and an evidence bag was in one hand.