Sienna was never squeamish. She could visit a morgue or a crime scene and never lose her calm, and that one time Malcolm stepped on a rusty nail, she’d been more than eager to pull it out rather than waiting until they got to urgent care. It was rather embarrassing, actually, how stoic she was compared to him. He’d told her he had a condition, but the truth was Malcolm simply never had the stomach for gore of any kind.
He doesn’t even like the sight of blood.
And there’s so much now.
On the landing.
On the rug.
On the typewriter. The keys, flecked red, one whole corner shining wetly where it met Sienna’s skull.
“Who did this?” he growls, looking at them all. “Which one of youdidthis?” His voice begins to rise. They stare back at him, all of them, and they have the nerve to look surprised. As ifhe’sthe mad one for saying what they should be asking, too.
“One of you murdered my wife!” he roars, voice breaking on the final word.
Millie sniffles. Jaxon’s eyes go wide. Kenzo shakes his head.
“Malcolm,” he says, “I’m pretty sure this was an accident.” He takes a cautious step toward the stairs. Toward Sienna. Toward Malcolm. He tips his head, as if studying a puzzle. “It doesn’t look like she was bludgeoned.”
“How do you know?” demands Malcolm.
Kenzo frowns. “Well, the denting on the typewriter, for one. It’s not localized, the way it would be if the force was concentrated on a single or repeating blow. The damage suggests it crashed down the stairs as or immediately after she did. And I doubt someone would have relied on the accuracy of bowling it in her wake and hoping for a strike.”
“How can you tell all that, just by looking?” asks Cate.
He sighs. “Because it’s my job.”
“Wow,” says Jaxon, “you must take your research pretty seriously.”
Kenzo shakes his head. “I’m not talking about writing.” He reaches the landing and carves a cautious path around the body. He crouches so that he’s almost eye level with Sienna’s face. “I’m talking about my day job.”
Malcolm wants to push him away. Even as the words register.
“What exactlyisyour day job?” asks Cate.
“Forensic technician.” He cracks his neck. “I study crime scenes.”
“Wait,” says Millie, “so you’re basically that super weird guy who was like an expert at blood spatter and then murdered bad guys on the side?”
“If you mean Dexter, then yes,” says Kenzo flatly. “Aside from the serial killing. And the fact that he is fictional.”
“Um, and you didn’t think to mention that you had a whole other life?”
“Very sus,” adds Jaxon as Malcolm reaches for Sienna’s hand. He’s not actually planning to take it, can’t bring himself to feel the warm, smooth skin, already beginning to cool, but it doesn’t matter. Kenzo catches his wrist.
The horror writer meets his gaze. “Malcolm,” he says calmly. “Please don’t touch the body.”
Indignation flares through Malcolm “How dare you tell me what to do? Thatbodybelongs to mywife.”
A hand settles on his shoulder.
He didn’t hear Cate coming, but she’s kneeling beside him now, speaking softly, in that lovely Yorkshire tone that always struck him as gentle, homey. Like strong cups of tea and slabs of cake, warm from the oven.
“Malcolm,” she pleads, “why don’t we go downstairs? Come on, nice and slow, that’s it.”
He finds himself standing, not because he wants to leave Sienna, mind, but Cate’s so young, she shouldn’t have to see this. And she won’t move away till he does, so he lets her lead him.
Fourteen steps, from the landing to the foyer, but it feels like four hundred, legs leaden with grief.
