Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Inside, all there was to be found was unexpected silence, cut through by the ceiling fan in another room that was a ticking metronome that must have been maddening to listen to after a few moments.
We walked first into a small mud room dominated by a built-in cabinet where several men’s jackets and shoes were organized even though the room itself was thick with dust.
Organized but not tidy.
Nothing felt out of place in the mud room.
It wasn’t until we all moved into the kitchen that we froze, all three of us cursing in unison.
Because it was a fucking slaughterhouse.
Blood was splattered across the walls in violent arcs. Arterial spray and knife castoff.
The fridge, once likely a gleaming stainless steel, had bloody handprints all up the front.
There were more on the lightwood cabinets, the dishwasher, the off-white material cushions of the island chairs, overturned and scattered around the floor.
And the floor.
God, the floor.
Blood was pooled heavily in one spot. So much blood. There was no way whoever left that stain was still alive.
There was another smaller pool a few feet away, but the edges were all blurred, drag marks spreading it across the linoleum.
“It’s dry,” Anthony murmured, voice hardly above a whisper.
“Where are the fucking bodies?” I asked, glancing over at Anthony. Who, in turn, looked at Elio. It was likely a hierarchy thing with them. This was Elio’s turf. These were his people. It was up to him to decide what to do.
“Don’t touch anything,” Elio whispered, rubbing a hand up the tattoo on the side of his neck before turning and stepping carefully over the bloodstains, not wanting to leave shoe print impressions that might trace back to him.
I followed behind, sandwiched between the two men. And despite all the violence around us, I felt oddly safe right there with them on either side of me as we moved through the kitchen and into the living room.
Here, too, there had been a struggle.
Two accent chairs were overthrown, something glass was shattered around the floor.
Then, close to the front door, there was one circular blood pattern on the wall that slid down.
I didn’t have to be a witness to the event to know that someone, hearing the attack, tried to rush toward the door, tried to get away, then got shot. Likely in the head, given the height of the stain. Then in the split seconds before death, he slid down the wall, leaving the drag marks.
But, again, no body.
I sucked in a deep breath, smelling the coppery smell of blood, traces of old cigarette and weed smoke, but no decomposition.
So, either the bodies were not in this house, or they were in the basement and still fresh enough that they weren’t in active decomp yet.
I wouldn’t pretend to be an expert in forensics like that. But I did know a mouse once got into my apartment and died under my fridge. And I could smell his body the second I opened my bedroom door. This horrific rotten broccoli type stench that I would never forget.
That was just a tiny mouse.
I couldn’t imagine how much a human body would smell as it started to break down.
Elio gestured toward the hallway, and we once again fell into a single-file line, obedient little students moving through the small house, finding nothing in the bathroom or the small back room that was piled with unmarked moving boxes.
Elio headed for the steps, all of us cringing in unison as the steps squeaked, crunched, and sagged under us as we ascended.
The top landing was empty, but I zeroed in on a small slash of blood at shoulder level in one of the doorways.
Elio must have spotted it too, because he flattened against the wall then moved in that direction as Anthony stayed across the hall, aiming toward the steps, the other bedrooms, and what was likely a bathroom at the end of the hall.
I moved with Elio, wanting to have his back.
We stepped into a small bedroom dominated by a full-sized mattress.
There was no body.
And no sheets.
But the mattress had a sizable bloodstain seeped into it.
Elio moved to the closet, using the bottom of his suit jacket to twist the knob and look inside.
Shaking his head, we both moved into the hallway.
The other two bedrooms seemed to be unaffected by whatever tragedy had happened in this house.
But the bathroom at the end of the hall was straight out of a horror movie.
The white tile was stained blood. Floors, walls. Toilet, sink cabinet, the mirror.
Elio plucked a piece of toilet paper off of the roll, using it to draw back the shower curtain.
The entire tub was caked in blood. So red it was almost black. More of it than seemed possible.
And there, sitting right in the center of it, was evidence of why there were no bodies around.