Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (books to read in your 20s female TXT) 📕

“I’m sorry,” I say. My voice sounds tight and resigned.

Because I think, deep down, that the visit Gwen and I paid got her killed. Whether it was done by the husband, or by someone else, I don’t know and can’t dare guess.

But she was alive, and now she’s lying here naked and dead, and I crouch down, breathing hard, and try not to feel the guilt that pounds at the door in my head.

It takes another ten minutes for the cruiser to arrive, sirens wailing. I walk back around to the front to meet them, and ask the two patrolmen to help me clear the house. The back door’s hanging open; stepping inside, the first thing we see is the kitchen.

It’s neat and organized . . . and covered in blood. Blood splattered on the walls, streaked in frantic marks on the floor. Some on the ceiling. Directional spatter on the clean, white refrigerator and blue countertop and shelves. “Shit,” I whisper softly. “Heads on a swivel. Let’s clear this place, and watch your feet.” I have to say that; these local boys probably haven’t seen too many bloody crime scenes like this one. Can’t say I’ve seen all that many myself, and I take deep breaths to manage my racing heartbeat. Adrenaline is making me jumpy, and I have to consciously work against it. Last thing I want to do is shoot some innocent person hiding in a closet.

I wave the two men one way while I take the other. My way leads me down a dim, narrow hall lined with pictures. I don’t look at them. I can’t spare the attention. There are drag marks clearly visible on the carpet, with blood thickly beaded and dried crusty on top. I hug the wall until I get to the first doorway, take a quick second, and then ease in with my gun ready, finger close to but not on the trigger.

It’s a bedroom—probably, from the look of it, an extra one. It’s set up with a full-size bed topped with a beige duvet and fluffed pillows. A dresser against one wall. No evidence of blood in here, but I check the closet anyway. Empty except for some coats and shoeboxes.

I check under the bed and clear the room. Back to the hallway. There are no other doors my way except a bathroom, and it, too, is sparkly clean and orderly.

The blood rounds the corner. I follow it, and at the end of the hall is another body.

Male, fully clothed, lying facedown, arms outstretched like he’s about to swim. I wince when my brain reconstructs that blood trail; somebody pulled him facedown by his feet all this way. I can see a small gunshot wound in the back of his head. I imagine the exit wound in his forehead will be a hell of a mess.

I check his pulse. Cold as stone. I clear the bedroom—the master, just as clean and neat as the other one—and the closets and the attached bath.

Killer’s long gone.

We have two people dead, and when the other two officers join me, I read from their faces that they didn’t find anybody else. I shake my head and stare at the body.

“Hell of a lot of killing going on right now,” one of the patrol officers says. It’s not helpful, but I let it go because he’s right. Norton’s murder rate for the year just doubled. “Sweet Jesus, there’s a lot of blood.” He’s the younger of the pair, and he looks pallid and sweaty.

“Go on outside,” I tell him. “Radio for the coroner’s office and get forensics moving. Better advise the sheriff’s office and TBI, too—we don’t need some jurisdiction bullshit right now.”

He nods and walks out. Grateful for the chance to be out of here. I don’t blame him; the rank smell of old blood hangs heavy.

“Stay here,” I tell the other officer. I go to the other end of the house—the side the officers checked—and find a home office with a cheap desk loaded with computer equipment. There’s a separate monitor for the surveillance system. I’ll need a warrant to seize the stuff, but if they have a hard drive saving the recording, then we’re in business.

But I look down and realize that though the display is still showing a live feed, there are dangling wires beneath it.

The killer took the evidence.

I’m on the phone to Sergeant Porter as I walk back out to stand guard over the dead woman to tell him I’m going to need a warrant that covers cloud storage of data, too, just in case.

But our killer would have thought of that too. Maybe he forced one of those two dead people to give him access so he could scrub his dirty fingerprints, just like he probably has in this house.

I can’t help but feel a little tingle of unease. Nobody was following me and Gwen out here, I’d stake my life on that. We’d have noticed a car tracing us. So how the hell did anyone know we’d been here at all?

I can feel invisible eyes on me, though. Watching.

And I shiver.

11

GWEN

The morning starts early. I don’t know what wakes me, just that it brings me instantly awake; I listen, and I hear nothing. It’s still dark and, as far as I can tell, peaceful.

I get up anyway to wander the house like a ghost for the next two hours—putting dishes quietly away, cleaning counters, sweeping floors. Busywork, meant to keep my mind off those damn flyers and the consequences that are most certainly coming for us. When I run out of household tasks, I head to the office, shut the door, and tap into the rushing river of hate that’s always running our direction.

Our new stalker’s been busy. I see him popping up in various troll-friendly hotbeds to leave messages, and when I check, he’s done the expected: he’s posted the wanted poster, complete with our new address. In short