Page 14 of Avidian
I roll my eyes for emphasis, disappearing back into the bathroom to wash my face. The cool water feels refreshing, though it does little to quell my irritation. Malachi supervising me? That’s not going to make this trip any better.
“Fine. If that’s how you want to play this, we won’t be friends,” Malachi says, the lightness from earlier completely gone. “Get dressed. I’ll be waiting outside. We’re going back to the crime scene upstairs so you can have another go at…whatever it is you do.”
He closes the door with more force than necessary. The sound echoes in the silence, and I blink, surprised at his sudden shift. Hmm. I hadn’t expected that reaction. Still, his moodiness might make things easier—less chatter, less pretending.
With a small shrug, I push the thought aside and focus on getting ready. I pull on a pair of warm pants and a thick sweater, tucking the hem into the waistband for extra warmth. Then I pull on my boots from last night, ignoring the blood specs onthem. Finally, I grab my beanie and stuff it into my back pocket, in case we end up outside. Pulling my hair into a quick ponytail, I take a steadying breath and glance at the door. Time to get this over with.
I pull my bedroom door open, expecting to see Malachi, but instead there’s another man standing beside him. Short and stocky with a completely bald head and a face that seems carved from stone, the man immediately gives me the creeps. His eyes are dark and cold, scanning me like I’m a piece of furniture to be assessed and dismissed. Jeez, this place is teeming with nice faces.
“This is Anton,” Malachi says, his posture a touch more rigid than usual. “One of Viktor’s men. He’s going to, uh, oversee the investigation as well.”
I nod with the least amount of effort. Great. Another babysitter.
Anton doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He turns sharply and starts walking, his heavy boots echoing against the wooden floors as he heads back toward the stairs. Malachi falls into step beside me, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine.
“Anton’s…thorough,” Malachi mutters under his breath, sounding apologetic.
“Thorough?” I reply quietly, glancing at the man in front of us. “He looks like he’d enjoy breaking kneecaps.”
Malachi’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t respond.
Anton stops in front of the door to the bloodied room and turns to face us.
“Time to see what you can do, Miss Sinclair,” he says darkly.
I don’t want to go back in here—not after last night—but I push the door open anyway, bracing myself for the metallic tang of blood. Instead, I’m hit with a sharp, stinging scent.
Bleach.
The room is spotless.
In the last several hours, someone sanitized the entire space. The floors gleam, the bed linens are crisp, and not a single trace of what happened remains. The violent scene I witnessed, both with my own eyes and through Carmen’s memory, is gone, replaced by clinical cleanliness.
“Is there a problem?” Anton asks, startling me from behind.
I shake my head, uneasy. “No,” I say, stepping inside. I don’t need the blood and gore to reach the dead—it’s their lingering presence I rely on. But this? Viktor scrubbing the place clean before collecting every shred of evidence? It feels wrong. He either has unshakable faith in what I can do or is hiding something. Both possibilities make my skin crawl.
“Usually, Marco waits outside,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at Anton and Malachi, who have followed me in.
Malachi raises his hands in mock surrender, a shit-eating grin on his face. Anton doesn’t move right away, his dark eyes fixed on me like he’s assessing whether I’m worth his time. Finally, with a grunt, he steps out, Malachi following after him. The door closes with a soft click, leaving me alone.
I walk over to the bed, its stark white sheets a cruel contrast to what I know happened here. Sitting on the edge, I close my eyes and let out a slow breath, trying to push away the exhaustion weighing down my limbs. The memory of last night—the bruises, the chaos, the overwhelming presence of Carmen—lingers like a shadow.
But I push past it.
I focus on the cook, her image sharp in my mind. The long blonde braids, the freckled face, the soft smile from her photo. Almost instantly, I feel her presence, stronger than before. She’s here.
But Damien isn’t. Again.
I open my eyes, turning toward the faint figure of Carmen now sitting beside me on the bed. Her translucent form glows faintly, her expression solemn but clearer than before.
“Tell me who did this to you,” I say.
She turns her head slowly, her pale eyes meeting mine. For a moment, she says nothing, but her mouth opens slightly, and the air around me drops a few degrees.
Her lips move, forming words I can barely hear. “He…was…waiting.”
“Who? Who did this?” I ask again.
