Page 60 of The Lies We Believe

“Not one. You know he can be a skeevy guy and likes to play power games. I think he likes knowing information we don’t.”

“I guess we’ll find out any second,” I muttered as we pulled off onto the driveway of the big house that had belonged to Christine Hamilton, a.k.a. Dahlia. The wrought-iron gates were wide open, and the sweeping driveway curled through woodland before it opened out to where the large Hamptons-style home had once stood. Flames still licked at the western side of the massive structure. Luckily, the fire department was now in attendance and had jets of water dousing what remained of the fire.

We took the secondary driveway where it forked to the left of the main house and drove around to the guest house. Davis’s car was parked in front of the chalet-style apartment that sat over the three-car garage. Smoke from the fire carried thickly on the wind, but I could make out Davis pacing across the grass, having an animated conversation on his phone, when he should have been working the scene with his partner—even if he was a green rookie. What could have possibly been so important that he had to take a personal call right now? As far as I knew, Davis didn’t have a romantic partner or any dependents. The question niggled at my brain. I spotted his rookie leaning against the side of his squad car, staring intently at the open door to the guest house, his green tinged face filled with trepidation.

We pulled up and parked behind Davis’s car and crossed the brick driveway to the rookie, who now stood to attention. His wide-eyed gaze darted between us and Davis as he shuffled on his feet.

“Barnes, how are you doing?” Montoya enquired and shook his hand. Feeling on edge, I folded my arms over my chest and waited for him to respond. The poor kid was white as a sheet, visibly shaken, and struggled to string a sentence together as he explained the sequence of events that preceded our arrival.

“Is Daniel on his way?”

“Yeah? I-I think so? Davis is on the phone to him now… I think? Told m-me to wait for you here.”

“So our vic hasn’t had a positive identification yet?”

“Y-yeah, well, Davis said?—”

“If Daniel and his team haven’t run it, and the vic doesn’t have any ID on them, how did you confirm who they were?” I was losing my patience with the kid. It wasn’t his fault, but I was spiraling. River was at home, grieving another friend he believed was dead, and now there was a chance they might not be.

“D-Davis said he was brought in the night of the hotel raid a-and that was enough for h-him.”

“Alright, Barnes,” Montoya said. “Why don’t you wait here for Daniel to arrive, then send him up to us. We’re going to check out the scene.”

“Sure.” Barnes kicked a stone and shoved his hands into his pockets. But it was the way his eyes kept darting over to Davis that made my hackles rise.

“You got gloves?” she asked and turned in my direction, her brows pinched together in the gloomy light.

“Here you go.” I passed her a pair and turned to Barnes. “Just to confirm, is our victim in there?” I nodded toward the guest house and waited, growing more and more agitated the longer ittook him to answer. It was like he was scared of us. I refused to believe it was the crime scene that had put him so on edge.

Chuckling, Barnes eventually responded to my question. “Oh, y-yeah. He’s up in the bedroom, second door on the left after the kitchen.”

Without another word, Montoya and I entered the property and took the stairs up to the first floor.

“Wow. Even with the smoke obscuring it, that view is still gorgeous,” she said as we stepped into the open-plan living room where the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooked the grounds and further in the distance the lake I’d taken River to on my bike.

“Benson? You need to come and see this. Now!”

I blinked and realized Montoya had ventured deeper into the apartment, and judging by the alarm in her voice, she was looking at our victim. Turning on my heel, I headed down the tiled hallway in the direction of her voice at a fast clip. Just as I was about to enter the room, she stepped out and stopped me by putting a hand on my chest.

“What?” I grit out through clenched teeth. The set of Montoya’s shoulders put me on edge even more. “Why are you blocking my way?” I tried to sidestep her so I could get into the room, but she anticipated my move and continued to block me. “What the hell?”

She dropped her head to my chest and let loose a harsh breath that chilled me to the bone. Montoya was a hardened cop for a crime scene to do this to her it had to be bad. “Just stay calm, alright? I know why Davis didn’t share this with us, and I think it’s because he wants you to react.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Just let me in there. We have work to do.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Jacob.” I snapped to attention at the use of my first name. “Trust me when I say this is goingto be hard. You need to stay calm. He’s pulling something, I just don’t know what.”

I nodded. “Alright.” She grimaced like she didn’t believe me, and to be honest, I didn’t either, but I said what she wanted to hear.

“I’m here for you, okay?” The soft tone of her voice had the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. What fresh kind of hell was I about to walk into?

Montoya stepped back. I moved into what I assumed was the primary bedroom, judging by the expansive floor-to-ceiling picture windows. That should have been the detail to grab my attention—but it wasn’t. My eyes were riveted to the wall behind the bed where red writing—god I hoped it was spray paint and not blood—dripped down the wall in stark contrast to the bright white paint.

“Jesus fucking Christ. Am I seeing things?” My stomach turned to lead as I read the words over and over, then glanced over my shoulder at Montoya, who solemnly shook her head.

“Unfortunately not,” she murmured and stepped over to the body lying sprawled on the bed. “Looks like he was flayed alive.” She cleared her throat, gagging twice. Her golden complexion had paled, perspiration glistened on her skin and at her hairline.

“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice taut with rage, as I forced my gaze to remain fixed on the body, determined not to let the words scrawled on the wall provoke me. The bitter taste of bile rose in my throat, and I clenched my jaw, grinding my molars to hold back the torrent of vitriol threatening to escape. I knew exactly who had left that message—and precisely what it meant. Blinking away the sting of tears, I fought valiantly to wrestle my emotions under control.

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