Her face goes a shade paler.“You’ll want to see for yourself, Detective.”
I follow her up the porch steps, my boots hollow on the wood, making prints in the dirt.I shudder.
Inside, the house is dim, the curtains drawn against the morning.The strong scent of cheap lemons makes me want to vomit.
Palmer leads me into the garage, and there, inside a rusted toolbox, is Farley’s severed hand.
That fucker James really is insane.
I move closer, pulling on latex gloves.The hand is waxy-looking and severed cleanly at the wrist, fingers slightly curled.The skin has the grayish cast of something that’s been dead for days, but I have to admit that the preservation is remarkable.
My gut tightens.
I crouch beside the table and lean closer, tracking the clean line of the severed wrist.Something catches the light.A faint shimmer where the blood has dried around the wound.It’s too clean, too uniform, and I instantly know why.
I recognize that finish.
My pulse kicks up a notch.I glance over my shoulder.Palmer is by the door, her back to me, talking to another officer.The forensics team hasn’t arrived yet.
I strip off my right glove, just for a second.My bare fingertip brushes the edge of the wound, feeling for the texture I know I’ll find.
There.Grainy, almost glass-like.That distinctive polymer finish.
Adhesive No.412-L.
The same rare, lab-only chemical I used three years ago on the Durley homicide.The same formula that requires federal clearance to access.The same adhesive that’s only ever been requested once in this jurisdiction.
By me.
You absolute idiot, James.
But even as the thought forms, another one follows, colder and sharper:How the hell would James even have access to federal-grade adhesive?
Unless he didn’t choose it.Unless someone handed it to him.Or unless…he’s a fed?
Later.I’ll find out later.
I pull my glove back on, my movements measured, controlled.The last thing I can afford is to look like the only man in this room who recognizes the mistake.
Because it is a mistake.A signature.A breadcrumb trail leading straight back to me.
I straighten, keeping my face neutral.
“Bag it,” I tell Palmer when she glances back.“Get forensics on this the second they arrive.I want prints, trace evidence, the works.Search the rest of the house behind me.”
“Yes, sir.”
I move on autopilot, noting details I won’t remember later.Upstairs bedroom.Unmade bed.Bathroom with a ripped floral shower curtain.All of it background noise to the roaring in my head.
They’ll find the adhesive.The forensics team will run it through their database.
And when they do, my name will light up like a flare.
***
Backatthestation,I’m drowning in paperwork when Sheriff Vincent Harrow walks into my office without knocking.The file with photos of Sera’s car sits closed on my desk, unmarked, both the file and the car itself.I found no trace of Red Hands inside.
Vincent moves like he owns the air itself, his face blank, his shirt pressed, his badge mirror-polished.He’s carrying a thin manila folder just like he was in my dream.
