“What the fuck?” she muttered, a bit dazedly, as though she’d emotionally disconnected from the scene.
Not that I could blame her.
The house was trashed. Not in a way we’d seen before with this intruder, either. Usually, he’d knock a few things around, throw couch and chair cushions on the floor, sweep papers off desks, rifled through drawers in search of who the hell knew what.
This was much, much worse.
Destruction began with the front door, the pretty fogged leaded glass window broken out and littering the floor inside—the obvious entry point.
Photo frames hung crookedly on the walls or had fallen to the floor entirely, glass smashed and ground into the carpet. Gouges had been punched in the drywall, likely from the fireplace poker abandoned in the center of the room. Each couch cushion had been sliced open, stuffing spilled out all over the floor, with aknife that had apparently then found its way into the middle of Sutton’s television screen.
In the kitchen, every drawer had been opened and dumped onto the tile, which was covered in about a layer of water.
I pulled out the notebook I stuffed into my pocket as Sutton and I had walked out the door earlier and began jotting notes.
“Little shit plugged the drain and left the sink running,” Johns explained unnecessarily. “It’s pretty obvious they wanted to inflict maximum damage.”
Sutton’s hand found her mouth as she took it all in, eyes wide and glassy, posture rigid. Wordlessly, she turned from the kitchen and headed down the short hall off which several doors opened. Bypassing the bath, she went to a room at the end, and I followed behind.
The door to her bedroom was entirely busted, hanging by a single screw from the top hinge. Her bed had been destroyed, comforter and pillows pulled off, sheets askew, mattress beneath slashed. Clothes appeared to have been ripped off the hangers in the closet, torn, tattered, and spread across the room.
Slowly, Sutton approached the dresser, choking on a sob when she located something on top. I ambled up behind her, watching as she reached out with shaky fingers for a glass-topped jewelry box. The window had been shattered, the top tossed carelessly aside, the rings and earrings and necklaces inside scattered around.
“Anything missing?” I asked softly.
She was quiet as she scanned the contents, lifting the top few trays to reveal the ones below. Finally, she gave me a small nod.
“The necklace my mom gave me when I graduated high school. And…” She shook her head. “Those earrings you bought me.”
I inhaled sharply. “You kept those?”
“In the same box and everything,” she whispered. “It’s gone.”
So badly, I wanted to press the issue. To demandwhyshe’d hung onto those, but now was neither the time nor the place.
“Let’s get your stuff together and get out of here,” I suggested, making a note of what was missing but diverting the conversation.
“What’s the rush?”
“Being here is hurting you.”And I can’t stand that fucking look in your eyes for one more second.
Sutton sighed, swiping with jerky movements at her eyes. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.”
Though she averted her gaze, she tried to smile, and I hated it. The fact that she was putting on a brave face, acting like her home hadn’t beendestroyed, made me want to rip the world apart to find whoever had done this and make them pay.
Oblivious to the rage coursing through me, Sutton headed for the closet, rising onto her tiptoes to grab a duffel bag from the shelf. Flicking through the hangers, she grabbed what she could salvage, then moved to the dresser. Miraculously,thosedrawers remained untouched, and as she began shoveling socks and undergarments into the bag, I turned away.
A few more drawers opened and closed, and I glanced over my shoulder to find her moving toward the bed. The bag fell onto the mattress with awhumpas she crossed to the nightstand, adding a few chargers, a rectangular electronic device I recognized as her Kindle, and a couple things from the drawer.
“I just need to grab my toiletries, then we can go.”
She made quick work of her trip into the bathroom, which from the looks of it, seemed to have been spared the damage done to the rest of the house.
I left her to her own devices, walking back out into the living area, where Johns stood, hands on hips, watching Wallace take photos and dust for fingerprints.
“Fucking brutal, boss.”
