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He pulled open drawers until he found a screwdriver and began picking at the wall.
"Shit." I muttered, realization dawning on me.
He swirled the materials in his hand, considering them thoughtfully as he walked back toward the body.
"It fragmented." His eyes still focused on the small metal fragments, even as he spoke. “Part embedded in the wall and the rest was scattered on impact.”
"What does that mean?" Larissa asked, trying to hide the tremble in her voice, even though neither of us begrudged her the moment of grief.
"I'm not sure yet. Another piece to the puzzle."
"But it's not what you were expecting." It wasn't a question, he was clearly confused by the fragments.
"I don't have all the pieces, but it looks like one of mine."
"Well, considering the message at the other house, that shouldn't be surprising."
He nodded, his brow drawn in confusion as he tried to make sense of it. "I love my Dragunov. But it's hardly the newest model. There are lethal upgrades."
"Like armor-piercing rounds." I said, continuing his thought. "You're right. Why not use the most lethal round? I guess I could ask you that question, too." I said, turning to him.
"Superstition. I guess that's the best explanation. My first purchase was a Dragunov. It felt like an extension of me. The shot was perfect, easy money. "
I nodded. "Same with my Scout. After a few kills—swapping it out felt like I was giving credit to my tiny death machine. Not upgrading felt like declaring that I was the weapon. I was the thing they should fear, regardless of my hardware."
"Exactly. Now to make sense of the bullet—"
"That's easy." Larissa interrupted, her gaze bouncing between us. "Don't you get it? She wants to kill you with your own gun, down to the same ammo. "
I blew out a heavy breath, immediately regretting it when I sucked in another mouthful of putrid air.
"Speaking of my gun," he said, pointing to the obliterated half of Jason's head. "That wasn't from a rifle. Looks to be a shotgun blast."
"Agreed. Most likely, she wanted to make a statement, and the wound was too small, so she—improvised."
"See if there are any other clues on the body. I am going to use this," he said, holding up the black light, "in the foyer and see if there is a message. There are too many splatters of blood and fluids for there to be a message in here."
One final look at Larissa and he strode from the room.
My hand landed on hers, stilling her trembling hand as it hovered above his lifeless form. Comfort wasn't really my thing.
Come to think of it, I hadn't allowed myself to be soft with anyone in nearly seven years—not since Carissa died. My sister had been the final shred of humanity tethering me to this life—without her, nothing had any value to me—until now.
I thought I had to choose. That I could either be a world class assassin, or surround myself with friends. Watching Ahren seamlessly balance the two had been eye opening. Sure, he kept his circle small, but he was proof that it was possible to have both.
These were my people now. Ahren, obviously. But Larissa too. So even if comfort wasn't my strong suit, I would try, for her.
"What can I do?"
Her head shook softly. "I need to do this myself. Need to check."
I released her hand, and she reached for the hem of his shirt. My breath caught in my throat as his bloody stomach came into view. "FERAL" was carved into his flesh. Unlike the shallow, halting cuts on Larissa's stomach, these were much deeper and more fluid.
"Found it." Ahren called out, entering the room, freezing at the sight of the new message.
He snapped a picture on his phone. " We should go," he said softly, placing his hand on her shoulder.
She nodded, placing her hand over his as she rose.