Page 20 of Protecting Chaos

11

Ashton

The entire drive to the crime scene was heavy with tension I hadn’t meant to create. I was an idiot. There wasn’t room for jealousy; I had no right to that feeling. I was screwing this up, and I’d be lucky if Stella didn’t make me find a hotel room. I parked behind three patrol cars and killed the ignition. Neither of us attempted to get out. The two-story white home looked like something straight from mythology. Large Greek stone statues—the kind one might see produced by a famous sculptor and living inside a museum—acted as columns and lined the patio.

I sighed. “I’m sorry. What I said was uncalled for.”

She didn’t respond, just kept her gaze averted out the window with her fingers entwined on her lap.

“I’m an idiot. You didn’t deserve what I said, and you don’t owe me anything, especially explanations.”

“You’re right; I don’t.” She turned to meet my gaze. Anger stared back at me instead of the desire I’d seen in those pictures.

“I am sorry.” Resting my hand over hers, I gave a gentle squeeze. “I just worry about you.”

She slid her hands free and shoved open the SUV door. “We should go.”

I’d hurt her when I had no right to judge. I followed her out of the car and flashed my badge to the cop manning the door.

The uniformed officer frowned as we approached.This guy isn’t very bright for bringing her here, but I guess they hand out badges like candy on Halloween at the FBI.

I ignored his remark as the crime scene techs handed us booties and gloves before allowing us access.

Detective Morrison tilted his head in acknowledgment.

A dead female body was sprawled out on the expensive-looking rug.

The woman’s blond hair was partially covering her face. The tied halter dress she was wearing didn’t hide the tattoo on her lower back. If this was another abduction gone wrong, then the perp’s tastes had changed from brunettes to blondes.

“I’m venturing a guess that isn’t Marcus?”

Detective Morrison raised a brow. “Her ID says her name is Gretchen Wymore.”

“Marcus Anderson owns this house. He uses this room as his art studio,” Stella said.

Studio? I lifted my gaze and glanced around. Art supplies sat on a nearby table, and a large sheet covered what looked like a sculpture in the middle of the room.

“He’s an artist?” I asked.

“Not just an artist. He was world-renowned. His sculptures sell for millions. He was working on his latest masterpiece,” Stella said.

Perfect. An eclectic nut job.

Stella crossed the room and grabbed a handle hidden in the wall. She pulled out a secret hidden long board that receded into the wall.

“This was where he stored his ideas and what he was working on.” Pictures of various women covered every accessible spot.

Stella slowly walked down the sea of pictures. “Marcus finds his models’ best features and fixates on getting them right. To Marcus, there was no perfect woman. We were all flawed, but he was taking the best from all of us and trying to create the perfect woman in his eyes.”

Judging by the photos, we’re going to have our hands full interrogating spouses and significant others.Morrison’s agitation was seeping through his narrowed eyes.

“And what? He couldn’t decide who to use? Is that why he has all the pictures?” Morrison asked.

“What did you contribute?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

Probably her body, if I had to guess.Morrison’s gaze only momentarily dropped to Stella’s chest before he cleared his throat and looked away.

“He liked my hands.” Stella lifted her hands as if trying to view them through a critical eye. “He said they were feminine, strong, and beautiful. Apparently, they wielded power to bring a man to his knees.”

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