“God.” I pressed my palm to my stomach, staring at the door.
His hand gripped the back of my neck. “What is it?”
“It wasthem. The couple who lived across from me. They werenice.” I couldn’t believe it. “They tried to be friendly. The woman, Tawnee, wanted to make me freaking cookies. I could tell they were nice.”
“Hey, stop.” He tilted my face up.
“I was mean to them. Rude and cold. I couldn’t let them get close, couldn’t let them take too much notice of me.”
“Thisisn’ton you.”
I just blinked, feeling sick.
“It’s not your fault,” he said.
I nodded, but it felt different. No matter what Bastian said, this felt like my fault. He urged me on, and we headed down thehall. The uniformed cop was distracted by his conversation on the radio.
He turned away from us, and I glanced at Bastian.
“Now,” I whispered.
Silently, we ducked under the yellow tape.
The living room of the couple’s apartment was cute. The layout was a mirror image to my place, but that’s where any similarity ended. Their place was filled with life and color. It was homey. There were cheery potted plants, framed paintings done in pastel colors. There were also lots of framed photos of them on the bookcase, the side table.
Sludge settled in my chest. They were dead. Because they were unlucky enough for me to stay next door to them.
I quickly moved down the short hallway, Bastian right behind me.
The familiar scent of blood hit my nostrils.
I stopped at the bedroom door. “God,” I whispered.
Their bodies had been removed from the scene, but there was lots of evidence that the crime had taken place. The crime scene technicians had left behind black powder everywhere they’d dusted for fingerprints.
There was also blood. So much blood. It soaked the bed, sprayed the walls. My gaze locked on a small, bloody handprint on the wall. My guess was, the woman, Tawnee, had tried to escape.
“Fuck me,” Bastian muttered. He took my hand.
I swallowed hard. Then I turned and froze.
He followed my gaze and cursed violently.
Words were scrawled on the wall, written in blood.
You’re next.
Below it was a crude drawing of a bird.
There was a distinctive little tuft on its head.
A lark.
CHAPTER 16
BASTIAN
Something hot and violent stormed through me.
