Matt set the journal on the desk. “I’ll see what I can find in the bedroom.”
Bree went downstairs. The forensics tech wore a Tyvek suit. He was taking pictures of the chaos in the kitchen. Bree pointed out the blood stains and drips, then let him go to work. While he did his thing, Bree went over the living room again, but all signs pointed to the violence being limited to the kitchen. The living room was perfect, as if Rhys didn’t use it much.
In the laundry room, she opened the washer to find laundry that had been washed but not dried. She saw several dish towels, one of which seemed to carry a faded red stain.
The forensics tech called out, “Sheriff?”
“Yes.” Bree returned to the kitchen. “It looks like he mopped up the blood and washed the towels.”
The tech shrugged. “You can launder items multiple times, and I can still find the blood.”
Matt came down and waited with Bree.
The tech turned back to the counter and tile floor. “I’ve photographed and sampled the blood stains as is. I’m about to use the reagent.” The tech had set up a camera on a tripod to record the luminescence of the bloodstain. He gestured to a few evidence bags lined up on the counter. “I also found the top half of two torn fingernails—painted red—and six long dark hairs that appeared to have been ripped out from the root. The nails have blood on them, possibly skin as well.”
“Farah was wearing red nail polish when we interviewed her,” Bree said.
Matt nodded. “She fought back.”
The blood and skin on the nails could help ID her killer through DNA, but it wouldn’t save her life tonight.
He removed a spray bottle from his kit. “Here we go.”
Bree stepped back. The tech pulled down his goggles, sprayed, and lit up the kitchen in a bright blue fluorescent glow. Bree could see a small puddle of blue where blood had pooled beneath a smear on the edge of the counter.
Matt pointed to the blue smudge directly above the puddle. “I would bet someone—maybe Farah—hit her head on the edge of the counter.”
Bree crouched to get a better view of the floor. She moved her hand to indicate a round swirl where blood had pooled. “She went down. Maybe lay here for a few minutes, bleeding.”
The blood smeared in a side-to-side pattern. Matt gestured over it. “He wiped up the blood with towels.”
Bree followed a thin trail of blue streaks to the back door. “She was still bleeding when he took her out.”
“The stains look all smeared here too,” Matt said. “He took her out to his Jeep, then came back inside, did a quick mop-up, and tossed the towels in the washer.”
Bree stared at the glowing blue swirls. “That’s quite a bit of blood.”
“The first two murders were bloodless,” Matt said. “Why did he change his MO for Farah?”
“The two male victims were killed in their residences. Rhys called Farah to come here. Why? Why change everything?” Bree shook her head.
“We’ll figure out the answers later. We need to find them.” They already had state, county, and local law enforcement on alert.
Bree called Juarez, who was still working at the station. “I need you to search tax records. See if Rhys Blake owns any other properties.”
“I was just going to call you.” Juarez sounded strange.
“What’s wrong?”
“I got access to Farah Rock’s dating app activity.”
“OK.”
“Last week she went on dates with two men. One of them was your brother, Adam.”
Bree couldn’t breathe. Her chest locked tight, like her ribs were carved out of granite. She started for the door, leaving a deputy in charge of the search. Shaking off her shock, she lowered the phone and relayed the information to Matt.
“Ma’am?” Juarez called over the phone.
She lifted the phone and answered, “Put out BOLOs on both men, and let’s do well-being checks.” But she knew the target was Adam. “Do we have a patrol car near my brother’s residence?” Bree spouted off the address, but even as she gave the rural route info, she knew it was a long shot. Adam lived in an isolated area.
Isolated enough for Rhys to do as he pleased. There were no neighbors to see or hear anything.
She could hear Juarez’s breathing change. He was moving, probably heading to check with the dispatcher. She heard mumbling, then Juarez came back on the line. “There’s no one closer than you. Most of our deputies are being utilized at the two property searches.”
“I’m on my way. Send backup.” She ended her call with Juarez as she ran out the door. On the way to her vehicle, she gave the most senior deputy a few quick instructions. Turning away, she broke into a run.
Matt jogged at her side. This time, he didn’t tell her that everything would be fine, that the danger was in her imagination.
Because it was all too real.
“You drive.” Bree’s hands were shaking.
Matt slid behind the wheel. She rode shotgun, dialing her brother’s number as she fastened her seat belt.
Every unanswered ring tightened the spool of dread building inside her. “He’s not answering.” The call switched to voice mail, and she left a message. “Adam, please call me. It’s important.” She hung up and sent him a text. If he was in an area with poor reception, a text message might go through when a call would not.
Matt drove away from Rhys’s house. Bree pressed a hand to the center of her chest, where a hollow ache surrounded her heart.
She’d buried a sibling—a victim of murder—earlier this year. She couldn’t do it again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Did you know that rattlesnake venom can take days to kill victims the size of adult humans, and some people might not die, even without medical treatment?” At a stop sign, I brake. The Jeep comes to a stop with a slight jolt.
A protesting rattle and hiss sound from the rear of the vehicle.
I lower the window. The cold night air blows in, carrying the scent of burning wood. Someone is enjoying a fire tonight. I pull Farah’s phone from my pocket and heave it out the window. It bounces across the asphalt into the grass on the opposite side of the road.
A distraction for the sheriff and her deputies.
I close the window before the car turns too cool. I’ve piled some hand warmers and blankets around the aquarium to keep the habitat warm. It’s important to maintain the snake’s body temperature. I don’t want it to become lethargic. I need it to be aggressive and angry when the sheriff finally arrives.
Then I turn in my seat to check on my passengers. The rear seats are folded flat, so the cargo area is one big space. Farah lies on her side. Zip ties fasten her wrists behind her back and bind her ankles. Additional ties connect her wrists to her feet. Her body is bent in a backward bow. I’ve basically hog-tied her. Of course, I’ve tucked cloth under the ties to pad them. I wouldn’t want ligature marks to mar that pretty skin. The sheriff needs to believe Farah died by suicide.
A soft gag fills that smart mouth. Can’t leave duct tape residue for the medical examiner to discover. I watch CSI. But I can still hear her whimpering. The sound grates on my nerves like a whetstone.
“Will you shut up!” My command feels pointless. She clearly can’t stop. Tears and snot run down her face. Her eyes are swollen and red. But my heart still pings as I look at her, and I hate her for that.