Page 43 of A Bloom in Winter

As he trained his light on the door, Qhuinn worked his lock kit at both a knob and a dead bolt. And then they were in a pitch-black kitchen that had been scrubbed clean: In his bright little beam, there was nothing out of place, the counters cleaned off, the little table shut down with its three chairs tucked in tight, the trash bin empty.

And no alarm.

When Qhuinn opened the refrigerator, the light went on—so there was electricity coming into the place and being paid for by somebody.

“Nothing,” the brother said. “Not even ketchup or an old mustard container.”

“Let me check the cupboards.” Tohr found stacks of plates and lineups of glasses, but no food. “Nada.”

“Is this a rental?” Qhuinn glanced over his shoulder, the piercings in his ears glinting in the light. “Or is that Candice’s name on the deed?”

“Don’t know. It’s just the address she listed when she registered with Saxton’s paralegals. He’s researching the property records as we speak.”

The pair of them made quick work of the floor plan: Living room, sitting room with a TV, two bedrooms, two full baths. Upstairs, there was a primary suite, and what do you know, there were no clothes in the dresser or the closet, no toiletries in the bath, no photographs of the female or her family.

Back downstairs, Tohr stood at the base of the steps and stared at the front door as he took out his phone.

Vishous answered on the second ring. “Empty?”

“Like a ghost town. And you still haven’t found anything about her? At all?”

“Nothing. Whoever that female is, she’s a ghost.” When Tohr went quiet, there was a chuckle on the other end. “So you’re thinking the same thing I am?”

Qhuinn came up from the basement. “Nothing in the cellar except a pair of washing machines.”

“She doesn’t live here,” Tohr concluded. “This was a lie, too.”

None of it made sense. Female comes in, to register a name that was fake and an address that was a lie, into the species database. She leaves those papers behind and disappears.

“What’re we doing now?” V said over the connection.

“I want you to send me a really good still of her from the footage,” Tohr said grimly. “And the address of Broadius’s maid, the one who found him.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Let me help you with that.”

As Mayhem tossed the offer out into the breeze, he wanted to sound casual—when in reality, his fangs were tingling with aggression and he was surreptitiously checking that the gun he’d tucked at the small of his back was where he’d put it.

He’d slipped the weapon into his waistband and covered it with his fleece as soon as Mahrci had started putting on those red-and-gray ski pants and the matching parka.

“Really,” he prompted when he got no response. “I want to help.”

She looked up from the bag of livestock feed she was humping off the mudroom’s floor. “Oh, no, it’s okay. I’ve got it.”

And sure enough, she did. Even though it involved some grunting and straining, she managed to get the fifty-pound deadweight on her shoulder, buttressing it with a solid palm.

That landed like the slap on a bare ass.

Okay, that’s hot, he thought as he eyed her braced stance.

“I’ll let you open the door for me, though?” she said.

He was so distracted running his eyes down her body—and trying to pretend he wasn’t checking her out—that he didn’t realize she’d spoken. Then her expectant expression registered and he snapped to attention.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Pulling on his own parka, he hustled for the back door of the mudroom. “And sorry, I’m just . . . I’ve got PTSD from the bite marks on those ski pants, k?”

Mahrci glanced down at herself. “It’s just a couple of little pinpricks? They’re still good enough to use. Now, how about that door?”

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