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15

Matt

MATT TOLD JOSH TO wait in the living room before ascending the stairs. The stillness of the house grew thicker with each step, and by the time he reached the top, he felt like he was wallowing through some invisible heavy fog. He came upon the daughter’s room first, saw all the red, and felt a sinking feeling in his gut before he spotted the open bottles and realized it was only paint. Relief washed over him, but it was short-lived—every inch of his being knew something was wrong, told him to get out. His throat was as dry as sandpaper.

There were four other doors off the hallway, three of which were open. Matt quickly moved in and out of each of those rooms, confirming what his gut had already told him; they were empty. They were behind that closed door, most likely a shared bathroom. The light was on, visible in the crack under the door, but even as Matt put his ear against the wood, he heard nothing but the steady hum of an exhaust fan.

He knocked twice. “Lynn? This is Deputy Matt Maro. Is it okay if I come in?”

Matt desperately wanted an answer—he’d settle for a whimper out of one of the kids—but nothing came.

Gripping the butt of his gun, he flicked away the leather safety strap with his thumb. His free hand went to the doorknob, turned it just enough to confirm it wasn’t locked. “Lynn, I’m coming in. If you’re near the door, please step back.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, drew in a deep breath, and opened the door.

As a law enforcement officer, Matt had seen some horrible things. Gunshot victims. DOAs at car accidents. Two years ago, he’d been called out to the apartment of Robin and Stew Holland. They’d woken to find their three-week-old daughter dead in her crib from SIDS, sudden infant death syndrome. The images of all those things had burned into Matt’s mind like vivid snapshots. He saw them when he closed his eyes, when he woke at three in the morning either crying or screaming, all of them fluttered back in moments like this, and as he stepped into that bathroom, he knew what he found would stay with him until his dying day.

Gracie and her little brother, Oscar, were both under the water, resting facedown at the bottom of the bathtub, visible only through breaks in the dwindling bubbles and soapy film on the surface. Kneeling beside the tub, bent over the side, her head in the water, was Lynn Tatum. Her hair fanned out, partially covering the body of her son. The water was as still as the air, not a single ripple, and it was clear all three had been dead for some time. Lynn Tatum was wearing pajamas and was soaking wet. There was water all over the floor, partially up the walls, streaking the doors of the vanity and the side of the toilet. Obvious signs of struggle.

A single thought rushed into Matt’s mind—only one member of the Tatum family survived whatever this was, and he was downstairs.

Matt took out his gun and quietly reached for the microphone clipped to his shoulder. “Sally, this is Matt, come back. Over.” When no reply came, he pressed the Transmit button again. “Ellie? Sally? Either of you there?”

He spoke in a low whisper, didn’t dare raise his voice any louder. Nobody responded. He took out his phone and dropped it back in his pocket when he realized he had no signal.

A cold sweat filmed over his forehead. Matt cleared his throat and called out, “Josh? You still downstairs?” When Josh didn’t answer, he added, “I need you to stay down there!”

Matt turned slowly and stepped out of the bathroom. He worked his way back toward the staircase, clearing each room as he passed, knowing that in the coming seconds, there was a very good chance he’d have to shoot Josh Tatum.