Or what if I contaminated the only evidence linking the killer to her?
Guilt creeps in. The phone clunks on the glass as I drop it on the side table.
My eyes stay above the body as I peer across the room. A trail of blood leads out of another doorway, like an angry paintbrush had trailed across the floor in spatters.
She scooted across the floor to her final resting place.
A movement across the room throws me into a tailspin.
It’s the blinds, the air circulating from the ceiling fan causing them to rustle, as if they can soothe away the tragedy. There’s a wooden rod that’s used to keep the patio door from sliding open. Its purpose is to keep intruders out, I think wryly. Grabbing it, I hold it like a shield in case I have to defend myself.
I pull the blinds away from the patio door. It’s closed but unlocked.
Holding my breath, I notice the master bath. The thought of walking through another door, likely finding another body, murder-suicide seems to be prevalent, roots me to the spot.
I clutch my phone in my other hand as I head carefully through the doorway, scared of who might jump out.
It’s an en-suite bathroom, and I open and shut my eyes against the nausea building rapidly as I try not to breathe in the stench of death. The floor’s damp, the chevron pattern of the rug barely noticeable due to the blood stains. I squint at the shower stall, imagining the attack as I notice chunks of white-blonde hair plugging the drain. There’s an emanation of blood and what I guess to be puke, the remnants of brownish-tinged liquid still visible.
Shoving my phone in my back pocket, I pull my shirt over my nostrils, trying to add a layer of protection against the nefarious odor. I walk through the bathroom, careful to watch out for the cat and any signs of life, the rod held tight in my grip. Even the kitty box has speckles of blood intermixed with the chunks of litter. I’m unsure if it’s from Orangie’s paws or back spatter from the attack.
Either way, it’s disturbing.
I pass a large soaking tub, her double sinks, and a laundry hamper. The toilet is housed in its own little room, the door open and the fan on. The last door straight back is a walk-in closet, stuffed to the brim with clothes, shoes, and purses, a large mirror covering one side.
I check to make sure no one’s hiding behind the closet door, no feet sticking out from underneath the crammed hangers.
Tears prick my eyes as I notice her suitcase is upright, ready to go for her trip this morning. A trip she would never get to make.
Sinking down in the closet, my back scraping against the door, I crumple as tears stream down my face. Peering at my reflection, I set the rod beside me and fumble to dial 9-1-1.
It takes two times to dial the number, my hands shaking.
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
“I…uh…I found a girl.”
“Is she injured?”
“Yes.” I sob. “She’s dead.”
“Did you feel for a pulse?”
“Yes, no pulse. She’s not breathing.”
“Did you administer CPR?”
“No…she’s…gone.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“You’re injured?”
“No, I mean, I’m not hurt.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
My voice rises, I become hysterical. “I don’t know…she’s dead. Dead.”
“Where did you find her?”
“In her house.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“She’s been stabbed multiple times. Choked.” I rub a hand over my face.
“Have you touched the body?”
“No.” I reconsider. “I mean, just to feel for a pulse.”
“Okay, don’t move her. I’m sending an officer to the house. Please don’t move or touch anything.”
I nod into the phone.
“What’s your name?
“Rafael. Rafael Hernandez.”
“What’s the address?”
I start to give my address, stopping mid-sentence. “Wait, that’s my home address. I’m picking her up for the airport.” A sob escapes my lips. “Her address is…” I pause, fumbling, not remembering the street name. “Mountain View I think. Wait… Aire. Mountain Aire with an ‘e’.”
“We can trace it.”
There’s a lapse as I breathe into the phone.
“Sir, I need you to go outside and wait for the officer to arrive.”
I gulp. “What if they’re still here? I checked the house, but maybe they’re hiding in the back?”
“Who?”
“The person who did this.”
“Please go out front, don’t touch anything, and be careful. I’ve dispatched the police, and an officer should be there in the next couple minutes.”
I sag against the dresser, not mentioning I’ve touched more than I should have. The woman talks again. “I’ll stay on the line with you until the officer arrives.”
I’m paralyzed with fear. As much as I try and stand up, the weight of this gruesome discovery keeps me frozen against the door, my eyes darting around the closet, the view of the bathroom in my line of sight in case anyone comes toward me.
It feels like eternity but it’s really a few minutes. Sirens blare as I hold the phone and take deep breaths that are supposed to calm me down according to the dispatcher.
They don’t.
I hear the officer’s voice before I see him.
“Officer Morse, anybody in here?” A voice yells from inside the house.
“I’m back here,” I say, my voice stifled.
He repeats his name.
I try again, this time louder.
“Where?” I hear his voice echo.
“Closet. Master.”
I wish I could see how her body affected him, but it’s a part of his job, not mine. I wipe the beads of sweat off my forehead, the image of the poor girl ingrained as if she’s a permanent fixture on my psyche.
Shutting my eyes, I see her.
I open them and I smell the act of violence, the hate and anger radiating through this house like a bad omen.
“Sir.” Officer Morse comes into sight. “I’m going to radio for back-up.” His voice is calm, but I can see a glimmer of human kindness, of shock. It’s reflected in his blue eyes, his blond hair streaked with gray, betraying his age.
I don’t move.
The woman on the other end of the line asks, “Is that the patrolman?”
“Yes.” I whisper.
“Okay, Mr. Hernandez, I’m going to disconnect.”
I nod, dazed, as I hang up.
“Can you come with me?” The officer motions for me to stand up.
I sigh.
“Sir, are you hurt?” He sees a pained expression on my face.
“No, no, I just…” I’m struggling to find the words. He nods. He understands.
“Is that your vehicle in the driveway?”
“The black Tahoe is my work vehicle.”
“Okay, I’m assuming the other one is the victim’s?”
I shrug.
Victim?
Of course, she’s now a victim. Her name, Talin Forrester, has been replaced with the generic terminology of one that came to her death in an unfortunate incident.
It sounds so cold. And final.
“Do you need help?” His voice is not unkind.
I shake my head, gripping the doorknob with my hand and using it as leverage to pull myself up.
“Let’s go outside.” He moves his hand toward his belt where his gun rests. I automatically put my hands up in the air. “I’m not armed, I’m not the intruder.”
“Do you know the victim?”
“No.” I decide to elaborate in case he assumes I’m a suspect. “I just came to pick her up.”
“Uber?”
“No, my company, Elite Transportation, contracts with her company for airport runs.”
“What time were you slated to pick he
r up?”
“Seven.”
“How did you get inside?”
“The front door was open.” I stare at him dumbly. “I found her cat and he wanted in.”
“Why don’t you have a seat in my squad car and we can talk?”
“I didn’t do this.” I motion around me.
“I didn’t say you did.” His tone is gentle. “I need to take your statement. I’m going to secure the premises. Did you go in the back?”
I shake my head no.
He walks me outside, holding the door open as I sink into the leather seat.
I bury my head in my hands.
A nightmare come to life.
Available Now!
Also by Marin Montgomery
Because You’re Mine
The Girl That Got Away
The Ruined Wife
All the Pretty Lies
Into the Night Page 38