The front door is locked, but Garrett solves that with a well-placed kick just below the handle. It splinters open, swinging inward with a dull groan. I smack his arm before he enters, mouthing, ‘what the hell.'We’d agreed I would take the lead, and in my mind, we’d check the perimeter first. Gather some intel before we burst in. Garrett obviously had other ideas.
Stepping inside, the air hits me first. Stale and thick, tinged with something sharp beneath the lingering scent of wood polish and stale cologne. I scan the room. It’s eerily still like no one has been here for weeks. But there are signs of life. Cigarette butts overflowing in the tray by the leather couch, an empty drinking glass on the coffee table, discarded men’s shoes just inside the door.
When we’re not immediately confronted, I ease the door closed as much as it will allow and follow Garrett onward. Floorboards creak beneath our shoes, parts of the house shifting with our presence. But there are no screams, no pleas for help like I’d envisioned. When we cross the threshold into the dining room, I see why.
The dining table is knocked over, shards of porcelain from a broken plate scattered across the floor. A chair is lying on its side, one leg snapped clean off. A deep scuff in the wooden flooring leads toward the hallway, like someone was dragged. Garrett stills, his hyper demeanor long gone.
“Fuck,” he breathes. I swallow down the rising panic.
“Check the rooms.”
We move quickly now, methodically checking every darkened space with our metal weapons raised. The kitchen is empty. The fridge hums, but the power in the rest of the house feels empty. The skid marks stop in the hallway, leaving no further trace.
Upstairs, the bedrooms appear undisturbed. Shopping bags of new clothes and toiletries lay untouched, the curtains pulled back, and bedspreads made neatly. All except for one. A pink monstrositycovered in unicorn posters and a vanity against a glimmering feature wall. The mirror is smashed, the floral sheets are twisted, pillows thrown across the floor, and in the dim light, I spot a single drop of blood on the carpet. Bending down to inspect it, the crimson glistens. It’s fresh.
Garrett crouches beside me, running his finger along the seam of his pursed lips. “Would he really be stupid enough to bring Meg to his own safe house?” I rub my eyes, my rattled sigh doing nothing to alleviate the strain in my chest.
“Something weird has happened here, for sure. But whatever it is, we’re too late. Meg’s not here.”
“So where the hell do we go now?” Garrett stands, cracking his neck as he peers out of the window, the heavy weight of the pipe thumping against his thigh. The answer isn’t in the house.
We search every inch, but there’s no sign of her. Just a collection of fragmented evidence, whispers of a struggle, but nothing leading us to Meg herself. I’m ready to slam my fist through the wall when Garrett suddenly spins and grips my arm. Despite my arguments, he tugs me to my feet, down the stairs, and out of the back door at the rear of the kitchen.
At the far end of the backyard, there’s a garage, only big enough for one car. Its door hangs open and swings with a quiet creak against the crisp night. The scent hits me from a few feet away—a thick and metallic potency that is unmistakable.
Blood.
Without wasting any time, I use my crowbar to hold the door open and step inside. A body sprawls beneath the hanging light, the bulb swaying slightly, casting flickering silhouettes across the stained concrete. Fredrick Walters is on his back, eyes glassy, mouth slightly open as if caught mid-protest, with a singular bullet hole through his head. A dark pool has spread beneath him, seeping into the floor's cracks.
“Shit,” Garrett mutters, nudging his lifeless arm with his foot.
My stomach churns. Not because he’s dead. I couldn’t care less about the bastard, but because this means we have no leverage. No leads. Meg is still missing, and the one man who might’ve known where she was is currently bleeding out beneath us. Any hopes of returning toAvery as the hero she’s always trying to make me out to be just vanished. I rake a hand through my hair, gripping tight at my scalp.
“We’re fucked.”
“Yeah.” Garrett exhales slowly. “Unless Meg did this. Maybe she’s managed to escape and gave the bastard what he deserved.” I chew on my inner cheek. Optimism has never been my strength, and somehow, I can’t picture Meg being familiar with shooting through someone’s skull at point-blank range. There’s a slim chance I’m mistaken, but this screams the work of a professional.
“I really hope you’re right, Gare, but I can’t afford to hang around here and dig around any longer. Being present at two murders within the same week doesn’t bode well for me. We can talk theories on the way back to the jet.” Nodding, Garrett attempts to kick this body one last time, but I catch his shin with the crowbar, shaking my head. Fredrick is dead. We can finally put him behind us and have one less threat against Avery to worry about.
Just as we’re about to turn away, a shrill noise cuts through the silence. So loud that I flinch and wave the crowbar around, expecting an immediate attack. Instead, the noise repeats, drawing my gaze down to Fredrick’s body.
A phone shines through the pocket of a vintage, knitted cardigan, vibrating in time with the ringtone. I pause long enough to notice his corduroy trousers and checked slippers, an unsettling and nauseous feeling sweeping over me. The man lying before us is a far cry from the crazed mafia leader I met previously. Something doesn’t quite add up.
Garrett half shrugs and starts to reach out for the phone when I grab his shoulder to stop him. “What?” he frowns, and I can’t help my eye roll. Locating a cloth on a nearby workbench, I slip the device out without leaving any fingerprints and use my knuckle to answer the call. The number is blocked.
“You’re late,” a voice grunts. I hold the phone steady, my mind racing with how to best handle this and coming up completely empty. I figure I’ll let the man talk to himself until a moment arises that I can take advantage of, but as usual, I’m always one step behind. “You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago, Wyatt Hughes.”
Garrett stiffens beside me, and my grip on the phone tightens, myheart slamming into my ribs. I press my lips together, controlling my breathing before forcing an air of authority.
“I wasn’t aware I had a front-row seat to Fredrick’s death, or I would have made sure I was on time,” I reply steadily, playing the devil’s advocate until I know who I’m dealing with. A loaded chuckle follows.
“His death wasn’t part of the plan, but in your absence, he began asking questions. Going back on his word. My hand was forced.”
“I was under the impression that Fredrick pulled his own strings.” Another laugh, this one booming and bitter. I cut a sharp glance to Garrett, who’s wringing his hands around the pipe, his knuckles going white. Trepidation worms its way through my psyche, leaving a dull ache behind.
“Everyone has a boss. Even the group of delinquent kids who have been playing gangster, believing they could walk in here and retrieve their friend with what… a pipe and a crowbar?” I shoot a glance around the garage, spotting nothing out of the ordinary.
Toolboxes and a workbench, a few saws, and spanners hanging on iron hooks. It’s evident a car hasn’t been stored in here for a long time, as I only now notice heavy chains linked through metal loops on the floor. It’s more of a budget torture room, and something I’m sure wasn’t included in the original plans for the safe house. This is a recent addition.
