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“Don’t apologize for that,” I told him. “You get to melt down on me as much as you fucking want.”

He let out a soft barking sound. Elliot’s bitter laugh. “Thanks. And thanks for coming.”

“Of course. Just tell me what to do.”

He nodded, his hair falling a little in his face, the white streak in the front brilliant even in the overcast light.

Elliot is a handful of inches shorter than me, with light-copper skin and raven-black hair other than the white streak that matches his badger stripe. He’s got broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw and a semi-permanent scowl that makes him look less pleasant than he actually is. The line between his brows was particularly deep at the moment, and his unusual hazel eyes were bloodshot and bruised-looking.

I was going to guess he hadn’t had much sleep in the last thirty-six hours.

“I—I need you to come in with me,” he said, then, his voice rough.

“Of course,” I repeated. I was going to say that a lot over the next week or so, I figured. Maybe longer, depending on just how much bullshit we were going to have to wade through.

Elliot led the way down the walkway, through multiple sets of boot-prints I recognized as standard cop issue. I tried not to look at the marks left by the gurney wheels that would have carried Gregory Crane out of the house for the last time.

Elliot wasn’t looking down at all, and I didn’t blame him.

He spent a long time staring at the front door, breath clouding the cold air in front of him.

“I assume you have permission to break the tape?” I couldn’t help myself.

He nodded, then kept staring.

“Do you want me to do it?” I asked after another five minutes—actually five minutes. I timed it.

Another nod.

I rested a hand on his shoulder, my fingers cold in my gloves, and pulled the two attachment points off the side of the door frame. The tape fluttered to hang down the other side, twitching a little in the mostly-still air.

I heard Elliot swallow.

God, this was fucking awful. I’m sure it was far worse for him.

“Want me to do this, too?” I asked, trying to sound kind instead of like an impatient dick.

Another nod.

I used my key, because I had one, and Elliot hadn’t offered me his. I’d had a key to the Crane house since I was eight. El had one to my parents’ house, too.

There’s something about a house that’s seen death that always just feels fuckingempty. Like the house itself knows that there’s no life inside and that its owner isn’t coming back to get it. Truly empty houses don’t feel like someone could come back at any minute. They feel like fucking mausoleums. Museums, if they’re a little more cheerful, dedicated to whoever lived in them last.

The Crane house felt suspended in between. Not yet a tomb, but not a place where people lived, either, and that hit me harder than anything else had so far on this cursed trip. Because I had a million happy memories—and a few rough ones—in this house, and it being completely empty like this… Oof.

I didn’t even want to know what Elliot must be feeling.

Elliot stopped to take his shoes off by the door, and I followed suit. We both took off our coats and hung them on the coat-tree, deliberately ignoring the heavy navy parka that had belonged to Elliot’s dad. Then Elliot walked down the hall, flicking on lights as he led the way to the kitchen.

“I have to empty out the fridge and stuff,” he told me. “Go through papers. Fuck.”

“I’ll help.” I squeezed his arm. “Where do you want me to start?”

“I—we need to find the will. I know he had one… somewhere.”

“Office.”

Elliot let out a long breath. “That’s… where Henry found Dad.”