Page 101 of Redeeming Melodies

The porch steps creaked under my weight, wood protesting years of neglect. Door hung crooked on its hinges, like someone had forced it recently. Smith took up position on my six, Rio covering our flank. Good men. Solid men. The kind you wanted beside you when walking into darkness.

"Ramirez?" My voice carried command even as my heart tried to punch through my ribs. "Come out with your hands where we can see them."

Silence answered. Not the natural quiet of an empty building, but the held-breath kind that meant someone was listening.

"It's over." Kept talking as we moved inside, flashlight beams cutting through years of dust and decay. "We know about the New York connection. About the payments. Make it easier on yourself."

The floorboards protested under our weight, each step releasing decades of dust into the stale air. Our flashlight beams caught cobwebs dancing, shadow puppets on rotting walls. Something about this place felt wrong. Not just abandoned-wrong, but wrong-wrong. The kind that makes the hair on your neck stand up even before you know why.

"Clear left," Rio whispered, his beam sweeping the kitchen area. Ancient dishes still sat in a sink, like whoever lived here had just stepped out for a minute. Forty years ago.

But things were off. Fresh marks scarred the dust on the counter. Recent footprints broke through years of grime on the floor. Someone had been here, moving with purpose.

The living room stretched before us, furniture draped in sheets gone yellow with age. Smith took point, weapon ready, while I studied the room. Ramirez had police training. Would know how to cover his tracks, how to set up ambush points.

A coffee cup sat on a side table, dark liquid still wet around the rim. Fresh. Couldn't have been here more than an hour.

The stairs looked solid but I knew better. Old houses like this, they had weak spots. Trick was knowing where to step. Third stair always creaked. Fifth one had a nail loose. Knowledge from teenage years sneaking around here came in handy now.

Something crashed upstairs - glass breaking, maybe a lamp. Could be Ramirez getting clumsy. Could be him wanting us to look up while he moved below.

"Check it," I motioned to Rio. He started up, careful on those treacherous stairs, while Smith covered the main floor.

The smell hit stronger now. Copper and salt. Blood, but not fresh enough to be minutes old. Hours maybe.

My flashlight caught something odd - drag marks in the dust. Recent. Leading toward that corner where the owner used to keep her sewing table.

"Sheriff." Smith's voice barely carried. "Floor's different here."

Moved closer, studying where his light pointed. The ancient rug looked undisturbed, but the boards underneath. Something about the pattern was wrong.

Pulled the rug back slow, careful. Dust clouds rose, caught in our beams like ghost stuff. But there it was. A seam in the floorboards. Too clean to be random.

Smith found the handle first, nearly hidden in the wood grain. A hatch. One that wasn't on any building plans I'd ever seen.

The metallic smell leaked up stronger through the cracks. Fresh enough to mean trouble. Old enough to mean we were too late.

Rio rejoined us, shaking his head about upstairs. All clear. Which meant whatever waited below was our only lead.

Grabbed the handle, metal cold against my palm. Everything in me screaming that opening this door would change things. Change our town. Change me.

The hinges fought back, years of rust protesting as we pulled. What lay below was darker than the cabin dark. Hungry dark. Waiting dark.

Stairs disappeared into that blackness, each one old enough to be a death trap. The smell rose up like a physical thing, carrying stories none of us wanted to hear.

"I'll take point," I said, already starting down.

Each step threatening to give under our weight. The basement air hit thick - mud and copper and something worse. Something final.

My flashlight found them first. The Winslows.

"No no no." The words came without permission. Because I knew them. Everyone knew them. Margaret Winslow who still baked pies for the church social. Tom who fixed kids' bikes for free. Part of my town. My people.

Now they lay crumpled together, holding each other even in death. The blood had stopped flowing but wasn't old. Hours maybe. If we'd been faster, if we'd found this place sooner

"Jake." Rio's hand landed on my shoulder, steadying. "This isn't on you."

But it was. All of it. My deputy, my town, my failure to see what was happening under my nose.

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