Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake #5) - Rachel Caine Page 0,50

so I continue around the side and to the back of the property.

The blood shows up thick and dark red in the sunlight. It’s smeared over the grass of the backyard in a long streak. Been there long enough to turn dark and clotted, and the cloud of insects buzzing over it is delighted with the bounty. I hold my breath for a second, then deliberately let it out in a slow hiss.

There’s no body visible, but that’s clearly either a drag mark, or someone crawling. It heads into the trees. I follow it in parallel. It goes from a thick trail to a thin one, then to drops and smears here and there.

I see the soles of her feet first, shimmering in the gloom under the trees. Ghostly white, those bare feet. Her body’s an eerie, cold shade, and I know before I put my fingers to her pulse that she’s long bled dry. There are ants on her, and some trundling beetles. Flies swarming. I swallow hard and move back, careful of my steps, and call it in.

I don’t touch her again. And I don’t leave.

“I’m sorry,” I say. My voice sounds tight and resigned.

Because I think, deep down, that the visit Gwen and I paid got her killed. Whether it was done by the husband, or by someone else, I don’t know and can’t dare guess.

But she was alive, and now she’s lying here naked and dead, and I crouch down, breathing hard, and try not to feel the guilt that pounds at the door in my head.

It takes another ten minutes for the cruiser to arrive, sirens wailing. I walk back around to the front to meet them, and ask the two patrolmen to help me clear the house. The back door’s hanging open; stepping inside, the first thing we see is the kitchen.

It’s neat and organized . . . and covered in blood. Blood splattered on the walls, streaked in frantic marks on the floor. Some on the ceiling. Directional spatter on the clean, white refrigerator and blue countertop and shelves. “Shit,” I whisper softly. “Heads on a swivel. Let’s clear this place, and watch your feet.” I have to say that; these local boys probably haven’t seen too many bloody crime scenes like this one. Can’t say I’ve seen all that many myself, and I take deep breaths to manage my racing heartbeat. Adrenaline is making me jumpy, and I have to consciously work against it. Last thing I want to do is shoot some innocent person hiding in a closet.

I wave the two men one way while I take the other. My way leads me down a dim, narrow hall lined with pictures. I don’t look at them. I can’t spare the attention. There are drag marks clearly visible on the carpet, with blood thickly beaded and dried crusty on top. I hug the wall until I get to the first doorway, take a quick second, and then ease in with my gun ready, finger close to but not on the trigger.

It’s a bedroom—probably, from the look of it, an extra one. It’s set up with a full-size bed topped with a beige duvet and fluffed pillows. A dresser against one wall. No evidence of blood in here, but I check the closet anyway. Empty except for some coats and shoeboxes.

I check under the bed and clear the room. Back to the hallway. There are no other doors my way except a bathroom, and it, too, is sparkly clean and orderly.

The blood rounds the corner. I follow it, and at the end of the hall is another body.

Male, fully clothed, lying facedown, arms outstretched like he’s about to swim. I wince when my brain reconstructs that blood trail; somebody pulled him facedown by his feet all this way. I can see a small gunshot wound in the back of his head. I imagine the exit wound in his forehead will be a hell of a mess.

I check his pulse. Cold as stone. I clear the bedroom—the master, just as clean and neat as the other one—and the closets and the attached bath.

Killer’s long gone.

We have two people dead, and when the other two officers join me, I read from their faces that they didn’t find anybody else. I shake my head and stare at the body.

“Hell of a lot of killing going on right now,” one of the patrol officers says. It’s not helpful, but I let it go because he’s right. Norton’s