Flies.
How many did it take for the noise to be that loud?
Please let a family of raccoons have gotten in and died.
There was little hope for it, but he prayed it all the same. After a bracing breath through the material of his coat, Abraham opened the door.
The potent stench exploded from the room with the force of dynamite.
Lucian took the stairs two at a time but didn’t make it to the bottom before casting up his accounts.
Bile rose in Abraham’s throat and threatened to make him follow Lucian’s example, but he battled against the response. He needed to see, to know for certain.
A quick glance was all it took.
A black cloud of startled flies hovered over a bloated body stretched across the floor. Gagged, bound, and chained to the wall, the body was clearly Ross’s. A plate of dried-out food sat next to a tipped-over water glass, inches from where Ross must have fought to his last to reach.
In contrast to the death and decay, next to the plate stood a fresh bouquet of roses with a note addressed to Lydia in Poe’s handwriting.
He’d beaten them again.
CHAPTER21
THE BORROWEDPLANEMANOR CARRIAGEdipped as it hit a rut on the darkened streets of morning’s twilight. Lydia’s shoulder brushed against Detective Lawson’s, stirring the unease in her stomach. She shouldn’t have come. But how could she stay home and sleep? If indeed that fitful twisting and turning of her mind could be called sleep. The moment Detective Lawson knocked on her parents’ door to summon Papa as coroner, she’d known.
Her words had killed another person.
In her foolish need to see what horrors her pen had wrought, she’d pressed to join until Papa and Detective Lawson acquiesced. Neither man would share which of the remaining four victims had met their end, but as the carriage turned onto Main Street, she knew.
The derelict row house of Samuel Ross sagged beneath the weight of the horror that stood within.
God, forgive me.That man’s fictional demise had been her most disturbing one to write, but she’d done it nevertheless. The vile, evil monster that was her soul had deemed torture and a lingering execution the only sorts of justice Mr. Ross deserved. Where had been her mercy—or her conscience, for that matter? It should have rebelled at such a callous, hideous thought. Had she really learned to strangle it so much that it had gasped its last? Were her heart and mind so degraded that, even now, the Lord had given her over to depravity and washed His hands of her?
No. That was a lie straight from the devil. She’d repented, and God had promised to help her change. Butcouldshe change when the stench of her own wickedness spilled out into the streets from the attic above?
The carriage stopped on the opposite side of the street from where the windows and doors stood flung open. Death mingled with the mist to haunt the air with a foreboding that warned all to turn back. Even with a handkerchief pressed over her nose, the rot seeped into every fiber and breath.
How many days, hours, and minutes had Mr. Ross suffered in the sweltering heat of a summer attic, dying of hunger and thirst while relief lay in sight but forever out of reach?
This wasn’t justice for those poor, abused, and neglected children. This was revenge.
No wonder a vigilante as deranged as Billy Poe had thought her a perfect match for him. It was only natural that one monster should be attracted to another.
“Do not get out of this carriage.” Papa did not wait for her agreement, but grabbed his bag and hopped to the ground.
For once, she had not the slightest objection. She’d lost her courage to face her sins almost as soon as she’d entered the carriage.
“I’ll station an officer to stand with you once I get inside,” Detective Lawson said. “You won’t be alone.”
Gooseflesh pricked her skin.
Though he’d meant his words for comfort, they reminded her that Billy Poe likely watched her. A glance around revealed neither Marcus nor Mr. Clemens, but a small group of curious gawkers with cloths over faces gathered nearby. Any of them could be Billy, should she be wrong about his identity.
She wrapped a hand around the horseshoe she’d nabbed from Theresa’s carriage house. It wasn’t a great weapon, but it would give her punch more potency if she needed to slug Billy.
An officer staggered outside, yanked his face covering down, and heaved near Papa’s feet.
Lydia dipped her chin and took slow breaths to abate the queasiness of her own stomach. How bad must the smell be inside for that to be his reaction?
