I swivel but see nothing.
Damn it.
He’s like a Native American Ninja. If that was a thing.
Is that a thing?
I’ll have to give that a little Google-fu later.
I keep my hand on the weapon in my holster as I climb the steps to the front porch. The front door is bright red, and a wedding-style wreath circles the peephole. Four surveillance cameras blink from the corners of the house.
“Ms. Norton?” I call out as I knock on the door. “Ms. Tova Norton-Rose? Are you home?”
I pause and knock again. No answer. I try the door. It opens easily.
It’s hard to know if that’s a bad sign or just how they do things out here in the middle of Bumfuck, Florida. But when the smell hits me, I know we’re inbad signterritory.
I pull my weapon and advance into the house, clearing rooms as I go, listening for anyone else who might be inside.
Adrenaline floods my veins. I breathe deep to keep my heartbeat steady, but it’s a losing battle. And I’m getting a nose full of Eau du Dead body.
A state-of-the-art kitchen takes up the entire back of the house. And on the terrazzo floors is where I find Tova Norton/Rose. She’s been dead at least 24-hours in a large pool of blood.
The only warning I get is a slight breeze that brushes against the hairs on my arms before a hand grabs my shoulder. I drop to a crouch and push backward, knocking my attacker on his back. I land on his gut.
A hard, heavily-muscled gut.
“Shit, Kitten,” the attacker growls behind me.
I look over my shoulder to see Ryker’s face screwed up in pain.
I hop up. “Damn it. Why are you sneaking up on me?”
“I called your name twice! You didn’t hear me.”
“Why are you calling me in the first place? I haven’t secured the second floor.”
“I did that while you were downstairs sightseeing with the body,” Ryker smirks.
Before re-holstering my weapon, I briefly consider shooting the smirking bastard in the foot.
“We’ll need to call this in,” he reaches for his flip phone.
I snatch it out of his hand. He frowns at me.
Ha! Not so funny when it’s happening to you, is it?
“We’re trying to stay off-grid,” I point out. “Let’s look around for clues to see if she helped the fugitives first. Do you see a murder weapon?”
Ryker shakes his head, but goes over to the sink, grabs a kitchen towel, and uses it to ease open the dishwasher. A chef’s knife is lying on the top rack, covered with dried blood.
“Rose?”
“Could be. Or someone is trying to make it look like him. Let’s get moving. I don’t want to be here if a nosy neighbor comes calling,” I grab a pen on the counter and sift through the unopened mail. Nothing out of the ordinary. There is no giant neon letter that says: “The fugitives went this way.”
I slip the pen with my fingerprints into my pocket.
“I’ll look upstairs,” I tell Ryker and head for the staircase.
