CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Cautiously, Rachel moved up the stairs. The sound of the gated community's guards had faded. She took the stairs two at a time, but moved softly, on the balls of her heels, trying to avoid any sharp sounds.

She could no longer hear the creak of a floorboard, but it had been there.

The house settling?

Perhaps, but this seemed a new construction. Then again, it was a large home, with far more hardwood than most she found herself in.

She reached the landing, her eyes darting across the hall, a stretch of open terrain that felt far too exposed.

She moved cautiously along the hall, glancing from one room to the next. Each was a snapshot of halted time—a bed unmade, a book opened face down preserving its place, a lamp still casting a pool of light on the floor.

Rachel edged forward, her senses keyed up to an impossible degree. She could hear her own heartbeat thudding in her ears like the heavy rhythm of drum, and it took all she had not to flinch at each echoing creak of the house shifting around her.

All the rooms empty. Not a soul to be seen.

Only one room remaining. She arrived at the door set in the far wall.

Locked.

She frowned, tried a gain.

No budge.

Plus, no keyhole. This door was latched from the inside.

She pounded her hand against the door. "Texas Rangers!" she called.

But there was no reply. Not even the distant call of the guards. Maybe they were still searching for her at the neighbor's house who'd called her in.

Or maybe there was no neighbor, and the guards were responding to something else. It could simply be coincidence, if Rachel believed in coincidences.

"Hello?" she tried the door again.

Locked. But not impossible to enter.

The door wasn't particularly sturdy. And if it was latched. Most latches were thin, affixed with little more than centimeter screws.

She took a step back and breathed slowly, like a bull before rushing a matador. She pushed her white hat back on her head, sweeping her dark hair under the brim, her fingers brushing the beads that looped through her locks.

And then she lunged at the door, heavy boot leading.

The door splintered under the impact, the lock giving way with a sharp crack. Rachel stumbled into the room, her boots crunching over shards of displaced wood, and burst into a sprawling master bedroom.

A king-sized bed sat in the middle of the room, blankets tossed aside, pillows askew. A breeze blew in from a half-opened window across the room, carrying with it a cold draft that set goosebumps along her arms.

A creaking sound.

The windowsill, she realized.

The wooden frame had made the noise she'd heard earlier.

She found she breathed a bit easier at this realization.

Her gaze swept across the room. The open closet was filled with clothes—men's and women's. A vanity table by the window held an array of cosmetics, hairbrushes, and scattered earrings. A framed wedding photo of Miguel and Lucy sat on a mahogany bedside table, their smiles frozen in time.

Rachel's heart thudded in her chest as she moved further into the room, her hand instinctively going to her hip to rest on the butt of her gun. She approached the bed slowly; there were indents in the mattress.

She bent over, pulling back the sheets quickly. Empty.

Pulse racing, she scanned the room once more—her eyes stopping at an open bathroom door to her right. She could see part of a porcelain tub and chrome showerhead poking out from behind the wall.

Stepping carefully around a plush rug, she moved towards it. As she got closer, she saw splatters of something dark on the white tile floor leading into the bathroom. Blood?

She pushed open the door fully—and froze. Dried blood.

Old blood. Maybe as old as the meal downstairs? Weeks?

There was no body but way, way too much blood. It splashed across the porcelain tiles, staining the grout between them a sickly brown. It was splattered up the shower curtain, streaking down in long, dried rivulets. The sink counter was a mess of it, too, smeared across the mirror above in an erratic pattern as if someone had frantically tried to wipe it off.

Rachel stepped back into the bedroom, her mind racing. Her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum. She grabbed her phone, snapped several quick photos, then sent them to Ethan with a terse message: "Get backup here now."

She prowled the room, looking for any other signs of violence. A wooden chair was overturned next to the bathroom door.

Her eyes fell on the closet at the far side of the room. The door shut. Bloody fingerprints on the handle.

She let out a slow exhale. Then, cursing under her breath, she approached the door.