Brenna’s breath caught. Colt stepped in front of her, Harlan close behind. The air inside the house smelled wrong. Metallic. Damp. Then she saw it.
A smear of blood across the tile floor. Just inside the threshold. Fresh. Red. Real.
Hell.
They were too late. Again.
----- ? ----
Chapter Three
----- ? ----
Colt stepped through the front door first, weapon up, his steps halting just shy of the dark smears on the hardwood floor. The coppery tang of blood thickened in his throat as Harlan came in behind him, Brenna right beside him.
All three had their guns drawn.
“Clear left,” Harlan murmured, sweeping toward the dining room.
Colt eased forward. The entry opened into a wide living space. Open concept, clean lines, a scattering of toppled furniture breaking the otherwise tidy setup. A lamp lay smashed beside the couch, and throw pillows were scattered like someone had tried to claw their way out.
No sign of Leah.
“When I stopped by earlier, I looked through that front window,” Brenna said quietly. “It didn’t look like this.”
She raised her voice a little. “Leah? It’s Brenna. Are you here?”
No answer.
Colt’s eyes moved over the space. Pale gray walls, tall windows framed by floor-length curtains. Bookshelves lined the far wall, half their contents spilled across the floor. A coffee mug lay shattered in the kitchen pass-through, still leaking tea onto the tile.
Careful not to disturb the blood trail or anything else, he moved forward, gliding around the edge of the smear.
“Hallway’s ahead,” he said. “We go slow. Stay sharp.”
They pressed on, one room at a time. The place felt like it was holding its breath.
The hallway narrowed as they reached the last door at the end. Colt glanced back at Harlan and Brenna, then turned the knob and pushed it open.
The main bedroom was still. No sign of Leah. Just the quiet hum of the ceiling fan and a strange rustling of paper.
Then Colt saw the wall.
Photos. Taped in neat rows on the pale blue paint. Eight in total.
He stepped closer, pulse ticking harder with every step. “Shit. It’s the Timberline victims.”
At least the first five were. Every damn one of them. Their faces staring out at them. And below those faces were typed out index cards.
Zachary Grayson’s image was first. Young. Smiling. Probably a school ID photo. Beneath it was his so-called crime in bold, typed letters:Cyberbullying. Directly contributed to the suicide of his peer. Protected by his family.
Colt’s stomach turned. The words were cold, clinical. A sentence handed down after death.
Next was Jennifer Kemp. Her caption read:Inappropriate sexual relationship with a student. Protected by district transfer. Never charged.
Teddy Delgado.Ran a rehab center accused of abuse and medical neglect. Two patients died under suspicious circumstances. No charges filed.
Nora Leung.Falsely accused a rival of assault. Rival later died by suicide. Protected by media family ties.
