I speak into the phone but don’t hold it to my ear. “Don’t call anyone else. I’ll be there in ten.”
The metallic tangof blood reaches my nose as soon as I step into Grey’s ranch-style brick house. All of the lights are on inside and it’s disorienting after driving through the night. I squint, holding up a hand to shield my eyes and using my other to close the door at my back. I flip the lock without looking at it, survey the living room. It’s neat and tidy save for half a dozen newspapers splayed on the low wooden coffee table between the TV and the small blue couch. Grey Rush—yeah, really—is a tierone tech support specialist by day and the man who keeps me partially stocked up by night. Coke I get from suppliers, pills too, butother stuff,it comes from Grey. Teddy is the only thing he’s fucked me up on. Usually his shit is good and the side effects I’ve had prior are stomach related, a little nausea here and there. Typically he’s got to make his creations stronger because he starts out low, but Teddy was the exception. The paranoia hasn’t left me but this time, I’m not sure it’s the drug’s fault at all. This time, I think I have reason to be paranoid.
The stench of iron confirms that, and so does the fact I’m standing inside this man’s house on the outskirts of Ellicottville at three fifteen in the fucking morning, unsteady on my feet and definitely not prepared to hide a body. When was the last time I got a good night’s sleep?
Sloane’s.
No. Do not think of her.
“Storm.”His voice is broken, coming from down the hall. It sounded faint, and I think he’s in his bedroom, toward the back of the house.
I close my eyes for a second. If I’m about to find what I think I’m going to find, I need a plan. And the only conclusion I could come to was one I don’t want but probably won’t have a choice in: Call Dad.
I’m in no state to bury a body and get away with it. If we call the cops like we should, the whole house is getting searched. While we have protocols for those type of emergencies, moving product in the middle of the nightandthe police finding a dead body in here isn’t going to play well for us. And I can’t just leave Grey to handle this on his own. He’d potentially rat me out, or he’d go to prison for something that’s partly my fault. That isn’t right by me.
Exhaling, I widen my eyes, brush my fingers over the gun tucked into my waistband, and move through the house. I passthe kitchen and see a box of pizza on the counter, the lid open. There’s one slice missing from it. Based on the cheese oozing along the edge of the counter and the pizza sauce splattered on the floor, I imagine Grey went to pick it up for him and Indie, came back, and he found her dead. And I’m sure the pizza slice itself is behind the counter there by the sink, where I can’t see.
I turn left from the kitchen, duck down the narrow hallway, past the guest bathroom, and into Grey’s bedroom.
The tang of pennies is sharper here and I do my best not to gag.
The first thing I see is Grey.
He’s on his knees at the entrance to the master bathroom, his back to me and his head hung low. His shoulders are shaking and I see smeared bloody fingerprints along the white linoleum to his spot on the floor.
Fuck, Grey. Why’d you have to touch her?
Logically, I know, but he clearly wasn’t thinking with any fucking logic when he did it. Now we’ve got more of a mess we have to clean up.
I glance at his bed.
It’s low to the ground, white sheets messy, two side tables, one with a blue plastic pill container, and I snort at the morbid irony of it all. No way he heard me, since there’s a box fan in the corner of the room on full blast, facing away from the bed so I assume it’s for white noise.
I take another breath.
I don’t let myself think of the hotel room.
Don’t be a fucking child, Storm.
Then I lift my head and take a step so I can see into the small bathroom easier.
Oh, fuck.
Indie is in the bathtub, the water is full, and it’s cloudy red.
The shower curtain is translucent and it’s pulled back all the way, so I can see her pale fingers curled over the ledge.
It looks like when she first got in there, she’d put in bubbles or something, but they’ve nearly died off and what hasn’t is dyed pink and it’s a little weird to look at.
What’s worse is her head tilted back, her short dark hair wet and hanging around her face, but not long enough to hide thegashalong her throat.
There’s red on her fingers too, dripping from the edge of her nails to the floor, and that means they didn’t kill her cleanly. She had time to try and survive.
But her utter stillness, the rot in the air, and the red in the tub, there’s no doubt she’s dead.
The fan is so loud, it’s fucking with my critical thinking skills, so I turn from Grey and his corpse girlfriend and walk across the room. I reach down and rip the plug out.
When I do, I notice the balcony door beside the fan is cracked open. Half an inch, if that, but I can feel the cool air filtering in.
