Page 11

TEN

Josie barely heard herself over the roar of blood in her ears.

“Trout?”

Keeping one eye on the foyer, she stepped into the living room. The wooden surface of the coffee table was dark, so it was only when she got closer that she saw blood congealing along one of its edges.

“Fuck.”

Some muffled part of her brain—where the professional law enforcement officer lived—screamed for her to step outside and call dispatch to request units. Procedurally, that was the right thing to do. Wait for them to arrive and let them clear the house rather than attempting it herself, alone.

But the blood.

Noah’s blood?

The wife in her forced her body to move, Glock high and on point, clearing each room on the first level of their home. It was a minefield. Nowhere to step without disturbing or treading on something. Every cabinet, every drawer had been dumped. Every surface had been violently unburdened. The contents of each shelf had been carelessly strewn onto the floor. All the mundane possessions that made up their daily lives lay at her feet, discarded, destroyed, defiled.

A window had been smashed in at the rear of the house. In the kitchen and dining room, more blood. An uneven trail of droplets. A smear on the wall of the laundry room that led to the garage. She hadn’t taken the time to snap on her latex gloves so she used the tail of her shirt to turn the knob. Garish red handprints crept along the now-clear shelving units. All the bins and boxes that they’d stored there after their basement flooded from a burst pipe last year were on their sides, lids torn off or opened, their innards disemboweled. More drops of blood dotted the items that had been cast onto the floor and tramped over.

Still no Noah, no Trout.

No answers to her calls.

After a quick scan of their basement, which was currently only home to their furnace and hot water heater—both untouched—she headed for their second floor.

“Noah! Trout!”

As her feet pounded up the steps, terror gripped her, so dizzyingly potent that her entire body felt like it was being crushed. Her mind threatened to separate from her physical being. Halfway up the stairs, she was no longer eyeing the second-floor landing but floating up on the ceiling, watching herself climb. The Glock trembled in her hands. Her mouth formed the names again.

“Noah! Trout!”

Some other distant part of her that had lived through more trauma than any human should screamed at her to get her shit together. There was no time for panic or fear. If Noah was here, injured or being held by some intruder, she needed to be one hundred percent in control. Calm, cold as ice, steady. Which meant she needed to be present in her body.

The first thing she felt when she reached the second-floor hall was a tingle along the scar that ran from below her right ear, down her jawline, and under her chin. The most savage memento from her fucked-up childhood. Externally, that was. Her body dropped into the box breathing she’d learned at a retreat for processing trauma which had—in keeping with her own personal brand of bad luck—ended in even more trauma. And murder.

Murder.

Was Noah already dead?

Her soul shoved against the confines of her body once more, demanding release.

This time, it was Trout’s muted barks that brought her back. A wave of relief crashed over her, so powerful that her knees nearly gave out. It was brief, though, because she still hadn’t laid eyes on her husband. The impulse to race past the doors lining the hall to find their dog was overwhelmingly strong but her tactical training kept her in check.

“Noah!” Her voice shook, telegraphing her weakness.

She kept going, again using her shirttail to open doors. The main bathroom had also been torn apart, towels and toiletries everywhere. In their bedroom was more of the same. Their en suite bathroom was a shambles. Their nightstands overturned. The mattress askew. None of the upstairs closets had doors. Another brutal remnant from her childhood that Ray, and later Noah, had conceded to her. Now, it made her job faster. Nothing was left in their bedroom closet because everything was on the floor.

Trout’s barks grew louder and more frenzied as she moved to the first guest room. She’d once used it for an office-slash-home gym but later, they’d converted it to a standard bedroom since they had houseguests so frequently. No one was inside. What little the nightstands, dresser, and closet held had been flung everywhere.

“Noah!”

The contents of the hall closet—more towels, bedding, backup toiletries, new shower liners still in their shiny packaging, and a small handheld vacuum—were heaped on the floor, blocking her way.

“Noah!”

Still no answer. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come out or called to her?

He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He’s not dead.

Trout’s paws scratching frantically against the final door kept her grounded. His high-pitched barks, now turning to desperate, keening cries were like a thousand tiny knives stabbing her heart.

The nursery. He was shut in what was going to be the nursery.

Leading with her pistol, she eased the door open, nudging against Trout’s manic paws as they scratched and clawed at her in an effort to reach her, to lure her down to him for comfort and reassurance. He kept jumping and pawing her, clearly distraught, but she couldn’t give him her full attention until she’d checked every corner of the room and the open, empty closet.

No Noah.

The baby gate lay broken in two near her feet. Bunched up in a haphazard pile were the drop cloths in the middle of the room. Nearly empty cans of primer had been opened and tipped on their sides, leaving a viscous white trail along the exposed carpet. The ladder hadn’t been disturbed.

Nor had one corner of the room, now markedly different from the way Josie had left it. A standing lamp, now on its side, illuminated a sweet tableau that was perversely at odds with the condition of the rest of their home. A square of soft gray paint had been brushed along the wall with a puffy white cloud crudely painted over it. Two small colorful hot-air balloon mobiles swayed in front of the swath of cloudy sky, dangling from the ceiling on what looked like fishing line.

The idea they’d discussed only hours ago for welcoming the child they hoped to adopt was alive before her, but Noah was gone. Trout’s claws slashed the backs of her legs, stinging even through her thick khaki pants. His mewling was even more anguished now that he sensed her horror flaming to life like a five-alarm fire.

A strangled sound worked its way painfully from Josie’s chest, past her lips.

Where was her husband?