Jesus.
The aftermath of war. That was the only way to describe what he saw. A bloodless war. Couch cushions lay like dead bodies, strewn across the room, shredded, their foamy guts ripped out. The skeleton of a coffee table was broken, legs smashed to kindling. Even the drapes hung in tattered ribbons, like torn flesh.
Glass cracked behind him. He spun toward the door, hoping the police had arrived, only to find Jo closing in on him, her expression as devastated as the room she had yet to see.
“Damn it, Jo,” he whispered as he rounded on her, trying to block her view, “I told you to wait in the car.”
She lifted a trembling hand. “I have mace.”
Of course, she did. A woman, living alone in a shithole like this… He was surprised she wasn’t packing.
He pried the small canister from her fingers, more to assure her than anything else. He had no idea how to use it and would probably end up spraying himself in the face. “Did you call the police?”
“Yeah, but a B&E isn’t a priority in this neighborhood. It could be hours.”
“Jo—”
“I’m not leaving you,” she whispered, both scared and determined.
“Come on, then.” He reached for her hand. We’ll both wait in the car.”
“No.” She dodged his grasp. “I—” She met his gaze and his chest constricted at the resignation in her eyes. “Whatever it is, it’s mine to deal with. I have to see it.”
“I have to clear the other rooms first, and I can’t do that if I’m worried about you.” He pushed her toward the kitchen. “Get down behind the counter and don’t come out until I tell you.”
She nodded, and he crept down the hall. The door was open to the first room. It was empty except for the remains of a vacuum cleaner. The bathroom across the hall was a mess. Another mirror shattered, the shower curtain a repeat of the living room drapes, and shower walls smeared with red lipstick… A fucking scene from a slasher movie.
Avery stopped in the doorframe of the next bedroom, Jo’s bedroom, where he’d planned to spend the rest of the day learning every curve of her body, memorizing every breathy sigh. The afternoon sun poured through the windows, its golden beams a spotlight on the continued destruction.
Her bedspread, the curtains, even the mattress had been sliced open. A small lamp, broken and bent, lay on its side, the picture frame next to it shattered, the photo of Jo and Brooke ripped in half. Several tubs, as empty as the closet, looked like they’d been thrown across the room. Pieces of clothing covered the floor like a colorful rug.
Avery scrubbed a hand over his face. This wasn’t just a break-in. This was personal. But whoever’d done this was long gone.
A low keening pierced the silence.
Jo.
He bolted down the hall and circled the peninsula to find her slumped against the cabinet, surrounded by another field of collateral damage. She clutched something to her chest.
“What is it?” He cleared a spot of glass and debris with his boot.
“No!” She clawed at a shard of a green plate that he’d moved aside and hugged it close to the other. A sob gurgled in her throat as he knelt next to her.
“Jo?” He brushed the hair from her face. “Did you cut yourself?”
Icy blue eyes stared past him. Her lower lip trembled, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “It was the only thing I had left of her.”
Her?
Avery looked at the plate. It wasn’t a pottery. It was metal. He scanned the kitchen floor, identifying matching parts of machinery, the inner workings and outer shell of the mixer he’d made fun of and she’d defended so vehemently. Her grandmother’s mixer.
Ah, fuck.
“She’s gone,” she gasped on a shudder as another tear followed the first, then another, creating a river of mascara on a snowy canvas. “She’s really gone now.”
He sank down beside her and pulled her onto his lap. “It’s okay, baby.”
“No, it’s not.” A sob shook her so hard he felt it in his bones. Her fingers clawed at his shirt. “It’s not okay. What if I can’t hear her anymore?”
