effect from opposite directions, front and rear of the house.
“What is it?” Reil y said softly.
Veck swung his eyes back to the staircase. Heron and Mrs. Barten were nowhere to be seen, and the light on the landing was gone now, too, the window showing nothing more than the budded branches of the maple tree behind the house and the clear blue sky above it.
“I’m going up there,” he told his new partner. “Just for a minute.”
CHAPTER 8
A s Jim fol owed behind Sissy’s mother, he was out-of-body overwhelmed. In a dim corner of his mind, he knew he had to keep tabs on Veck, but this opportunity was not going to smoothly present itself again anytime soon.
Turning the corner at the head of the stairs, the volume of the house was cranked up to Slipknot levels. Everything from the subtle creak of the carpeted floor beneath his boots to the soft talk down below in the foyer to his own breath in the back of his throat, it al seemed to scream in his ears.
Abruptly, Veck appeared behind them and made some kind of an I’m-only-here-for-a-minute comment. Jim nodded at the guy—and promptly forgot he was even there.
“Sissy’s room is this way.”
The three of them went to the right, and when Mrs. Barten hesitated at the closed door, Jim raised his hand to put it on her shoulder . . . and then couldn’t quite make the contact.
“Would you like us to go in alone?” he asked.
Mrs. Barten opened her mouth. But then just nodded. “I haven’t been in there since . . . that night. It’s the way she left it.”
At that moment, the phone rang, and there was visible relief in Sissy’s mom’s face. “I’l just go get that. Feel free to open the drawers and the closet, but if you have to take something, wil you let me know what it is?”
“Absolutely,” Veck answered.
As she hurried across the landing and disappeared into what he assumed was the master bedroom, Jim cracked the door.
Oh . . . the scent.
Slipping inside, he closed his eyes and tried not to feel like a letch as he breathed in deep. Perfume. Body lotion. Dryer sheets.
It was . . . extraordinary.
And he did not belong in this room. He was an adult male who had done things that shouldn’t even be passing thoughts in a room like this—and the representations of those evil deeds were in the ink that covered his back. Plus he had weapons on him. And then there was that shit he’d pul ed with the demon the night before.
He felt like a stain.
As Veck did his own recon, Jim opened his lids, and went over to the built-in desk by the front window. The flat stretch and shelving were painted white, but the chair was a blue to match the gingham drapes and the striped wal paper. Carpet was an area rug with braided fringe. Bedspread was a quilt made from different strips of blue and white fabric. Handmade. Had to be.
The books that were lined up were orderly and girlie. She liked Jane Austen, but there was also a whole shelf of Gossip Girls—probably left over from when she was thirteen. Couple of 4-H ribbons, red and blue. Track trophies.
On the desk there was an Apple laptop along with two textbooks, one on calculus and the other on . . . advanced trigonometry?
Huh. His Sissy might wel be smarter than he was.
There was also a magazine. Cosmopolitan —from this month.
Okaaaay, the cover with the word ORGASM in seventy-four-point hot-pink print didn’t exactly jibe with the rest of this land of innocence and schoolwork
. . . but then, she’d been growing up, hadn’t she.
Pivoting, he al but ran into the foot of the twin bed.
Shit, now he knew why her mother didn’t come in here. That blue quilt was pul ed back and the pil ows stil dented as if Sissy had just been napping.
“I’m going to take off,” Veck said. Which made Jim wonder how long they’d been in the room.
“See you soon,” Jim said with distraction.
“Roger that.”
When he was left to his own devices, Jim’s hand shook as he reached out to touch the sheets.
“What is it?” Reil y said softly.
Veck swung his eyes back to the staircase. Heron and Mrs. Barten were nowhere to be seen, and the light on the landing was gone now, too, the window showing nothing more than the budded branches of the maple tree behind the house and the clear blue sky above it.
“I’m going up there,” he told his new partner. “Just for a minute.”
CHAPTER 8
A s Jim fol owed behind Sissy’s mother, he was out-of-body overwhelmed. In a dim corner of his mind, he knew he had to keep tabs on Veck, but this opportunity was not going to smoothly present itself again anytime soon.
Turning the corner at the head of the stairs, the volume of the house was cranked up to Slipknot levels. Everything from the subtle creak of the carpeted floor beneath his boots to the soft talk down below in the foyer to his own breath in the back of his throat, it al seemed to scream in his ears.
Abruptly, Veck appeared behind them and made some kind of an I’m-only-here-for-a-minute comment. Jim nodded at the guy—and promptly forgot he was even there.
“Sissy’s room is this way.”
The three of them went to the right, and when Mrs. Barten hesitated at the closed door, Jim raised his hand to put it on her shoulder . . . and then couldn’t quite make the contact.
“Would you like us to go in alone?” he asked.
Mrs. Barten opened her mouth. But then just nodded. “I haven’t been in there since . . . that night. It’s the way she left it.”
At that moment, the phone rang, and there was visible relief in Sissy’s mom’s face. “I’l just go get that. Feel free to open the drawers and the closet, but if you have to take something, wil you let me know what it is?”
“Absolutely,” Veck answered.
As she hurried across the landing and disappeared into what he assumed was the master bedroom, Jim cracked the door.
Oh . . . the scent.
Slipping inside, he closed his eyes and tried not to feel like a letch as he breathed in deep. Perfume. Body lotion. Dryer sheets.
It was . . . extraordinary.
And he did not belong in this room. He was an adult male who had done things that shouldn’t even be passing thoughts in a room like this—and the representations of those evil deeds were in the ink that covered his back. Plus he had weapons on him. And then there was that shit he’d pul ed with the demon the night before.
He felt like a stain.
As Veck did his own recon, Jim opened his lids, and went over to the built-in desk by the front window. The flat stretch and shelving were painted white, but the chair was a blue to match the gingham drapes and the striped wal paper. Carpet was an area rug with braided fringe. Bedspread was a quilt made from different strips of blue and white fabric. Handmade. Had to be.
The books that were lined up were orderly and girlie. She liked Jane Austen, but there was also a whole shelf of Gossip Girls—probably left over from when she was thirteen. Couple of 4-H ribbons, red and blue. Track trophies.
On the desk there was an Apple laptop along with two textbooks, one on calculus and the other on . . . advanced trigonometry?
Huh. His Sissy might wel be smarter than he was.
There was also a magazine. Cosmopolitan —from this month.
Okaaaay, the cover with the word ORGASM in seventy-four-point hot-pink print didn’t exactly jibe with the rest of this land of innocence and schoolwork
. . . but then, she’d been growing up, hadn’t she.
Pivoting, he al but ran into the foot of the twin bed.
Shit, now he knew why her mother didn’t come in here. That blue quilt was pul ed back and the pil ows stil dented as if Sissy had just been napping.
“I’m going to take off,” Veck said. Which made Jim wonder how long they’d been in the room.
“See you soon,” Jim said with distraction.
“Roger that.”
When he was left to his own devices, Jim’s hand shook as he reached out to touch the sheets.
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