Page 43 of Not This Night

A creaking sound.

The windowsill, she realized.

The wooden frame had made the noise she’d heard earlier.

She found she breathed a bit easier at this realization.

Her gaze swept across the room. The open closet was filled with clothes—men's and women's. A vanity table by the window held an array of cosmetics, hairbrushes, and scattered earrings. A framed wedding photo of Miguel and Lucy sat on a mahogany bedside table, their smiles frozen in time.

Rachel's heart thudded in her chest as she moved further into the room, her hand instinctively going to her hip to rest on the butt of her gun. She approached the bed slowly; there were indents in the mattress.

She bent over, pulling back the sheets quickly. Empty.

Pulse racing, she scanned the room once more—her eyes stopping at an open bathroom door to her right. She could see part of a porcelain tub and chrome showerhead poking out from behind the wall.

Stepping carefully around a plush rug, she moved towards it. As she got closer, she saw splatters of something dark on the white tile floor leading into the bathroom. Blood?

She pushed open the door fully—and froze. Dried blood.

Old blood. Maybe as old as the meal downstairs? Weeks?

There was no body but way, way too much blood. It splashed across the porcelain tiles, staining the grout between them a sickly brown. It was splattered up the shower curtain, streaking down in long, dried rivulets. The sink counter was a mess of it, too, smeared across the mirror above in an erratic pattern as if someone had frantically tried to wipe it off.

Rachel stepped back into the bedroom, her mind racing. Her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum. She grabbed her phone, snapped several quick photos, then sent them to Ethan with a terse message: "Get backup here now."

She prowled the room, looking for any other signs of violence. A wooden chair was overturned next to the bathroom door.

Her eyes fell on the closet at the far side of the room. The door shut. Bloody fingerprints on the handle.

She let out a slow exhale. Then, cursing under her breath, she approached the door.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Rachel paused, his pulse ticking in her temple. The upstairs bedroom's closet door loomed before her, the bloody handprint standing out like a trail sign marking the way.

She shot a glance towards the bathroom at her side and again felt as if she’d been gut-punched—chaos splattered across white tiles. Crimson smears painted the bathroom mirror, droplets spattered like gruesome rain against porcelain.

Rachel approached cautiously, her eyes and ears alert, her hand hovered over her holster, ready for what might come. And with a careful fingertip, she pulled the door open.

Rachel's breath hitched. Before her, a shrine of Native American memorabilia sprawled in the closet’s dimness, each artifact meticulously placed as if honoring ancient traditions. Beadwork glinted. Feathers hung motionless in the stagnant air.

She stared at the scene. Some of the items she recognized by their Native names: a kachina doll with faded paint and threadbare feathers, a wampum belt woven with intricate patterns the vibrant hues of sunrise.

Her aunt Sarah had introduced her to their heritage when she was just a child, living on the reservation. The memory swirled to life; Sarah’s weathered hands guiding hers, teaching her the meticulous art of weaving beads onto leather strips, the sharp scent of woodsmoke wafting from the nearby firepit, the distant echo of laughter from the other children playing outside their small home. It was a hard life but a simple one, steeped in tradition and community.

There were more items she didn’t recognize here, symbols from other tribes maybe. Rachel reached out and gently traced her fingers over an obsidian knife lying discarded on a sandstone slab. A shiver ran down her spine; was this the weapon responsible for painting the grisly scene in the bathroom?

Rachel knelt, her gaze sweeping over the shrine. The dim light threw shadows across the artifacts, deepening the grooves and crevices of carved bone and wood. She leaned closer, eyes narrowing, pulse quickening. Crimson stains blotted the floorboards—fresh blood amidst the dust.

"Damn," she breathed.

Her fingers hovered above the dark droplets, not touching. Memories of Aunt Sarah receded, replaced by the cold clarity of the present.

And that’s when the stench struck her.

A powerful, fetid odor was swirling into the bedroom as if attempting to flee the closet. It was more concentrated, more rotten than the abandoned dinner below. Perhaps the close confines of the closet, the damp and the heat, had created a fouler decay in whatever was giving off that stench.

A small tapestry hung from the clothing hanger, blocking her view of what lay behind.

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