No. Something was definitely wrong. There was a vibe, a trill that sang in the air like a bowstring pulled taut. The Kings felt it, too. Ayaz and Quinn moved close to me, building a wall of broad shoulders and tight muscles around me. Trey flattened himself against the door and peered inside.
“It’s been trashed,” he whispered. “There’s no one there.”
Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.
This had to have just happened, because Deborah sent me that text.
Unless they’ve got her mobile phone.
Double fuck.
All the fucks.
The fear rose inside me, overpowering my common sense. I elbowed my way through the guys and burst through the door. “Deborah?”
I took in the carnage – the coffee table overturned, a smashed vase on the floor, a chair in splinters in the corner. The only sign of Deborah or the dogs was a dark smear of blood across the blanket on the dog-bed.
Trey lifted a corner the blood-soaked blanket.
“No.” I reached out to stop him.
Too late.
The blanket slipped from Trey’s hand, and he staggered back, his face pale, his jaw tight with horror.
Roger lay on his back, one paw cocked in the air, the other disappearing under a spray of blood and gore. Fresh blood still bubbled from the wound in his chest.
“Shit.” Quinn grabbed the blanket from Trey’s frozen fingers and threw it back over the poor dog. Trey looked like he was going to be sick. Hot rage burned inside me. Roger had done nothing to deserve that.Nothing.
There was one person I could think of sick enough to kill an animal without a second thought. And he’d been in this room, perhaps only moments ago.
And he’s got Deborah.
Ayaz clamped a hand on my shoulder, his voice taking on the authority of Trey’s. When his brother was incapacitated by grief, Ayaz stepped into his place. “Hazel, the bedroom.”
His words snapped Trey out of his stupor. I followed Ayaz’s gaze across the room. The bedroom door had been shut. It had always been wide open when we visited. Blood smeared the handle.
Bile rose in my throat as I imagined what I’d see on the other side.
A hand squeezed mine. Trey. He stood beside me, his back straight, his eyes clouded with his silent rage. He gripped the iron. He nodded, once. Whatever was inside, we’d face it together.
I grabbed the handle.
Turned.
Blood soaked my fingers.
Whose blood? Whose?
I shoved the door open.
The lights were off. Before my eyes could adjust to the gloom, the barrel of a gun swung from nowhere and pointed directly at my face.
The lights flicked on.
The gunman’s face leaped into view. Quinn’s father, Damon Delacorte, although much aged, his eyes and mouth drooping. He licked his lips like he was about to devour a juicy steak. A second man I didn’t recognize held another gun to Trey’s face.
Vincent Bloomberg sat on the edge of the bed, his cruel lips twisted into a smile. “Hello, son.”
