Page 88 of Sinful Justice

“You do that, I’ll start in Carlene and Garry’s room. Carlene already took a page. She might have put the book back where she found it, or maybe she put it someplace else.”

Because we don’t have keys, and Fletch has a general disinterest in taking care of a murderer’s property, he lifts his foot, chambers his leg, and slams his boot down on the door. The locks shatter and give way, wood splinters, and the glass panes in the front door rattle when it swings open and bounces off the wall.

“You start there.” He ducks under the police tape and charges into the house. “We’ll meet in the middle.”

“Yup.”

I follow him in, then turn back and close the door, since the last thing we want is someone to walk in behind us without us knowing.

Fletch takes off up the stairs, skipping every other step and jogging the whole way, while I move slower. I fully intended to head up the stairs too, but I stay on the first level a moment longer and veer toward the living room instead.

I pass the Christmas tree, remembering for the first time in a while that the holidays are racing toward us. Then I peer through the living room window and find Mrs. Jefferson still staring at me through hers.

“I’m gonna talk to the neighbor again before we leave here,” I shout up the stairs. “Fletch?”

When he doesn’t answer, I pause in place and glance to the ceiling. “Fletcher?”

“Yup.” The floor creaks above as he moves around. “Not under the mattresses. Not under beds.”

“Keep going.” I speak quieter now, calmer, as I approach the tree and peek down at the presents already wrapped and placed underneath. “Why didn’t investigators open these?”

When silence greets me again, I shout, “Fletch?”

“Huh?”

“The presents under the tree. Why didn’t Crime Scene open them already?”

“What presents?” Footsteps allow me to follow Fletch’s movements all the way to the top of the stairs. “There were no presents.”

“There are presents here right fucking now!” I take out my phone and snap a picture of them. The wrapping, the size, the shape, the placement under the tree. “They weren’t here this morning?”

“No.” He moves down the stairs with a nasty scowl and lopes around to face me when he reaches the bottom. “There were no presents here this morning.”

“So someone breached the crime scene.” I pull the gun from my thigh holster and spin. “Do a full search. Front to back. Then call CSIs back to do a new sweep.”

I cross the living room, slowing when I enter the kitchen. Powdered tracks cover the floor. The counter is still covered in white residue. Drying blood remains on the tiles, and seeing it, seeing the way it holds its shape, ridiculously makes me think of Minka and the secrets I’ve uncovered about her.

Where Carlene’s blood clotted, Minka’s won’t.

Where Carlene’s injury was serious enough to end her life, Minka’s life is in danger with a much lesser attack.

“Wait.” Fletch’s hand drops to my shoulder and pulls me to a stop. “Wall counter.” He nods toward the counter space opposite from where Carlene’s head impacted. On top rests a length of wood; half a broomstick, the rounded end, and on the other, ragged tips where it was snapped instead of cut.

The smooth end is covered in dried blood.

“We have our weapon from Louisa’s homicide.” Bile rises in my throat at the sight of what was used to destroy that little girl. “Bag it, then keep sweeping the house.”

Fletch’s phone chirps, making us both jump in the otherwise silent home.

Taking it out, he frowns at the screen, then answers and brings it to his ear. “Lieutenant?”

While he listens, I lean closer to the weapon and take photos of it from every angle I can manage without touching.

“What the fuck do you mean a heart attack?” Fletcher booms. “How? We were just there!”

Lowering my phone, my gun by my side, I turn to my partner and wait.

“We’re at the house now, Lieutenant. But someone else has been here. Unauthorized. We found the weapon used to hurt Louisa.”

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