Unbound

“At home. Her neighbor called. She got concerned when she saw the front door left open.” The scrape of Daniel’s shoes on concrete could be heard in the background. It sounded like he was pacing outside, the one place he could get a little privacy at a murder investigation.

“A wild guess, but the neighbor didn’t see anything?”

“Not a thing. Not even sure when Ms. Hixson got home.”

“Has Archie arrived yet?”

“He’s on his way.”

“Tell him to stall if necessary. I want to look at the body before you move it. What’s the address?”

Daniel gave me quick directions as I shifted back into first and drove out of the dark parking lot. Once I found the right street, the house would be easy to identify. It would be the one surrounded by flashing cop cars and decorated in yellow tape like a giant Christmas tree.

I flew through the gears, zipping across town as fast as I could. Katie’s house was just on the outskirts of the city on the opposite end from where Bryce’s nighttime lair was located. While Bryce’s death had annoyed me, Katie’s obvious murder had caused a knot of worry to start growing in my stomach. Had someone else known about her involvement with Bryce and killed her in fear that she knew something or saw something? Or maybe someone thought she was responsible for Bryce’s untimely demise and had murdered her in revenge?

Yet all these concerns and speculation were pushed to back of my mind as I parked my car at the end of the block from Katie’s house. I had briefly hoped it would be in a questionable part of town so her death could be pawned off as a flash of random violence in a violent neighborhood. Unfortunately, Katie had owned a house in a quiet, family-oriented part of town with its neighborhood watches, window boxes, and decorative flags celebrating the upcoming start of summer. Not the type of place a body was supposed to be found drained and broken.

Popping the trunk, I walked around to the back of the car and pulled out a black blazer. I quickly tucked my shirt into my jeans and pulled on the jacket. I briefly tried to straighten my hair and wipe away some of the blood that covered the side of my face. Without seeing a mirror, I knew I looked like I had been dragged through hell. Yet part of convincing a human that we were something other than what we really were was giving them a good reason to believe us. And right now, I needed to be able to convince the cops milling around this crime scene that I was just another detective.

With my shoulders back and my head up, I walked down the street and past the threshold of the house, pausing long enough to wipe my feet on the brown and black welcome mat. As I passed each police officer, detective, and forensic investigator, I mentally pushed the image of my being another detective into their brains. It took a little extra push because my jeans were torn and dirty. There was also dried blood on my temple and along the side of my face from where my scalp had been cut by flying debris at Bryce’s house.

The process was tiring and the strain was already causing my head to throb along with all the other aches in my body. There were close to a dozen people in the area, not counting the neighbors that were standing in their front yards with looks of horror stretched across their faces. Normally, I wouldn’t dare to come into a crime scene littered with so many people, but three people were dead in less than twenty-four hours and I was beginning to fear that the body count was going to continue to rise if I didn’t find the killer soon. My people didn’t need to be drawn into the spotlight by some psychopathic loose cannon.

In the living room, I found Daniel standing on the fringe of the group huddled around the body sprawled on the floor. His lips were drawn into a frown, causing deep lines to crease his face. An unlit cigarette dangled from his fingertips, waiting for him to finally step outside again so he could light it.

The room was a cheery affair in pale orange with a darker orange acting as an accent. The sofa and chair were covered in white linen and surrounded a honey-wood coffee table. Pictures of flowers in black metal frames lined the walls.

Katie lay on the floor with her arms folded over her chest. It was strange. There was no look of strain on her face, no fear. From what I could see, there were no bruises, scratches, or signs that she had fought for her life. It looked as if someone had lovingly laid her on the ground after he or she was done with the distasteful task of killing the young woman.