and all those other nasty bodily fluids remain. The amount of semen on the three-seater couch isn’t surprising considering it appears to have been purchased when Carlyle was in his late twenties, early thirties, but the other compound is shocking. I can’t tell if it’s urine or sweat, but considering it is mainly on the base of the couches, I’ll go with the former.
With my fingerprints covered by the waistband of my shirt I tugged out of my trousers, I toss the removable seat covers off the couch to expose the sofa bed underneath. The damp smell I mentioned earlier doubles when I carefully fold out the bed. The mattress is the cause of the horrid smell filling my nostrils. It’s stained—badly—enough to have me convinced the Shroud ranch doesn’t have a downstairs bathroom.
Although disgusted about how some people live, ten minutes later, I’ve failed to stumble onto any evidence that will aid in my investigation of the Castros and Bobrovs. If I hadn’t seen Megan’s birth certificate, the mess would have me convinced Carlyle never had a wife, much less one trained to answer his every whim.
As I climb the stairwell, taking extra care not to fall through like Hugo did, I overhear Hugo telling Isabelle the master bedroom’s closets are full of clothes, but the room is empty.
When the creak of warped floorboards announces my arrival, Isabelle’s eyes swing my way. They are more questioning than her words could ever be. She’s hoping I stumbled onto a vault of secrets. All I got was hives.
“Excluding a dozen rats, there’s nothing down there but rubbish.”
She looks as disappointed as me but knows a lack of evidence doesn’t necessarily mean there isn’t something shady going on. Carlyle’s checks have been forwarded to this address for over two decades. His truck is parked at the front of his equipment shed. So where the hell is he?
As my heart beats out of funky tune, I follow the slant of Isabelle’s head. There’s one final room we’ve yet to search. It’s at the very end of the hall.
Once Isabelle is safely behind us as she was when we entered the lower level of the property, Hugo curls his hand around the brass doorknob. After twisting it as far as it will go, he swings his eyes to me. “One… two… three.”
On three, he flings open the door for me to enter it. Bleach is the first thing to hit me. Shock closely chases it. This room is nothing like the ones downstairs. It’s white, spotlessly clean, and reeks like someone showers in bleach.
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath when I take in the room as a whole. Megan’s medical records revealed that she’s unhinged, but this is ridiculous. Every inch of her room is covered with cut-outs of Isaac’s brother, Nicholas. Not even the ceiling is free of his face. For the most part, the collection seems to have been amassed through the gossip magazines that tail every move Nick’s band makes, but there are a handful of images that deserve closer scrutiny. They couldn’t have been taken by members of the paparazzi. They’re in closed quarters—private quarters—such as childhood bedrooms.
I stop scanning the images for any pictures that don’t include Nick when Isabelle asks, “Is this Jenni, Nick’s fiancée?”
When she hands a photograph to Hugo which has Jenni’s eyes gouged out and blood trailing down her legs, Hugo nods.
“Does Isaac have someone watching them?” Isabelle queries.
I hear the gurgles of my gut in Hugo’s reply when he says, “He has Peters watching Nick from a distance, but I don’t know about Jenni. His security team determined the threat pertained more to Nick than his fiancée.”
“You need to get protection for Jenni,” Isabelle says matter-of-factly before she shifts on her feet to face me. “What’s the closest division associated with this district?”
My lips twitch, but I don’t get a word out before Hugo jumps back into the conversation. “Don’t call the authorities until Isaac’s security team gets a look at this first. If you bring in the feds, this will get shut down quicker than Hunter turning down an offer to dance.”
I’m torn when Isabelle wordlessly seeks my advice. Nothing here could hinder my personal investigation into the Bobrovs and Castros, but we entered the property under false pretenses. If there’s a possibility that could have me sidelined for the next six to eight weeks, I’d rather not risk it. But I can’t force Isabelle to tiptoe onto the wrong side of