Page 11 of Little Dark Deeds (Georgiana Germaine #12)

I t took some time to talk Ron into going home and getting some rest, but after I promised to keep him updated, he made his exit, giving me the chance to look over the rest of the house.

My last stop was the one place I didn’t want to go, even though I had to—the room where Tiffany had taken her last breath.

I reached for the doorknob, pausing before I turned it.

“I’m still not so sure about you going in there,” Whitlock said from behind me. “I’m not trying to stand in your way, just want you to take a second. I’m just looking out for ya, is all.”

“You know this is something I have to do, right? I’m sure I’ve seen other crime scenes that were a lot worse. And besides, she’s not in there anymore.”

He mumbled something under his breath, then said, “I suppose you’re right.”

As determined as I was to go inside, my stomach had other plans—churning sour, like I’d swallowed something that didn’t sit right.

I took a moment to gather myself and then opened the door.

What hit me next was the blood—everywhere—and a scattering of numbered evidence markers.

“You okay, kiddo?” Whitlock asked.

He was standing beside me now, eyeing me with concern.

“For a moment, I thought I might lose my lunch, but I’m hoping it will pass,” I said.

“Can I answer any questions for you?”

I glanced around the room, taking it all in.

“Tell me about these markers,” I said. “What did you find?”

He pointed to the one closest to where we were standing. “Number one is where we found the knife. Two was a glass. Three her hairbrush. Four, a sock.”

“A single sock?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We looked around for a mate and didn’t find it. We’re assuming it’s hers, though. We found an identical pair in her dresser drawer. On her bed, she’d laid out a sundress, and there was a bra on top of it.”

I pointed at marker number five, which was beside the toilet. “What was there?”

“Liquid of some kind. We’ll have to wait for Silas to test it before we know more.”

“Tell me about the consistency.”

“My best guess? It’s lotion. The bottom drawer was open when we arrived, and a bottle of lotion was sticking out with the lid flipped up. A bit of lotion had spilled onto the container, which could have then dripped onto the floor.”

It made sense.

“Are there any stab marks on the back of her body?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Her wounds were on her front and sides.”

Another wave of nausea hit me, harder than before, and this time, I wasn’t sure I could keep everything down. Not wanting to sully the crime scene, I jerked back, sprinting out of the room and running smack-dab into Giovanni in the hallway.

He took hold of my arms and said, “Are you all right?”

“I need to ... I need a bathroom.”

I jerked free of his grip and ran down the hallway to the guest bathroom, throwing up not once, not twice, but three times. A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened a crack, and Giovanni slid a mug of peppermint tea inside.

“When you’re ready, sip on this,” he said. “I’m right here, right outside the door if you need me.”

A half hour went by, then an hour, and I remained there, huddled in a corner on the floor, my face pressed into my knees as I sobbed, the reality of Tiffany’s death settling in.

I would never see her shining face again.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

As I sat there, gutted and broken, I heard muffled voices in the hallway. Men, whispering like they thought their lowered voices would keep me from overhearing what they were saying. It didn’t work, and I clung on to their every word.

“She’s been in there for over an hour?” Foley asked. “I’ve never seen her react this way to a murder before. Then again, this one lands hard. Not easy, losing a friend.”

“I was with her in Tiffany’s bathroom,” Whitlock said. “She seemed fine, at first. I don’t think she’s allowed herself to slow down enough to take it all in before now.”

“Might be good for her, to get it all out,” Foley said. “Is there anything we can do to help, Giovanni?”

It went quiet, and then Giovanni said, “We’re here, showing our support, which is what she needs right now. When she’s ready, she’ll work through it in her own way.”

It was the perfect response, and given he wasn’t whispering, I was sure he knew I was listening.

“You think maybe I should try talking to her about not pushing herself to work the case with us?” Foley asked. “Might be best if she sits this one out.”

Might be best for me to sit it out?

I think not.

“I’m not sitting anything out,” I shouted. “I’m fine. I just needed a minute.”

Or sixty.

“All right, all right,” Foley said through the closed door. “Didn’t mean to offend you. We’ll ... ahh, I’ll leave you to do, well, whatever it is you’re doing.”

It went quiet again, and then I heard a woman’s voice, and I knew things were about to change.

There was more whispering, only this time I couldn’t make out what was being said. The bathroom door opened. Hands on hips, my mother looked down at me, her expression telling me she was in full problem-solving mode.

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” she said.

I thought about making a witty comeback, but for once, I didn’t have one.

Maybe everyone was right in saying I wasn’t in the frame of mind I needed to be in to work this case.

I didn’t feel like myself.

I felt like the farthest thing from it.

Was everyone else right, and I was wrong?

What if me being involved made things worse, not better?

What if ...

My mother cocked her head to the side and reached out a hand. “It’s time to get up off the floor, dear. You’re coming with me.”