“It smells like death,” she says as soon as the air hits her nose.
Leroux scrunches his nose up instinctively.
“No kidding. It definitely smells bad.”
Wren shakes her head, and corrects, “No, it actually smells like death. There is a corpse around here somewhere.”
She scans the area now. The three of them make their way to the front porch, stepping up onto the peeling paint that has barely survived the harsh Louisiana weather over the decades. They step into the front hallway, and the smell intensifies. She imagines he can’t smell it as acutely anymore after so much time entrenched in it. Will and Leroux stay on either side of her as they walk into the living room. The dated furniture feels like stepping back into the 1940s. There is a green velvet chaise longue stationed in front of a beautiful set of windows. The lamps are intricately designed and cast a calming light over the room. Art pieces cover the walls, various paintings from different eras and styles. It’s part museum and part bordello. If she weren’t so terrified, she’d almost find it charming.
Then she spots it.
Sitting in the middle of the coffee table, on a mirrored platter, is her grandmother’s ring. She walks to it, crouching down to view it at eye level. She doesn’t wear it because it’s too small for her but always keeps it at her bedside table. It is a comforting thing to fall asleep next to. But because she’s barely slept in her own bed for days and when she did was too engrossed in work, she hadn’t noticed that it was missing.
“John.” Her voice breaks, and she grips the sides of the coffee table. He rushes to her side, placing a hand on her back.
“Muller, what’s the matter? Do you need to leave?” He frantically searches her face and then moves his eyes to the ring in front of her. “What’s going on?”
She suddenly feels like she is in danger. She scans around her, waiting for him to rush out. He doesn’t.
“This ring. It’s from my bedside table,” she says flatly, not taking her eyes off it.
His jaw drops, and he waves over a photographer to take a picture of it.
“Muller, do you mean this used to be on your bedside table when you were last involved with him?”
She shakes her head slowly, finally bringing her eyes to meet his. “No. I mean, this is from my current bedside table. From my current home. This was taken from my bedside sometime in the last week.” She stands quickly, taking a moent to steady herself as Leroux rises with her. “He came into my house, John.”
She chokes back a sob, feeling her body lurch at the thought. She can feel herself spiraling.
“Wren. I don’t know what to say. I truly don’t know what to say,” Leroux says, biting at his lip anxiously.
“It’s okay. We’ll deal with this later. I can deal with it later. Let’s keep going,” she says, hardening her resolve.
“Blood here,” Leroux points to the doorframe, which is streaked in fresh blood. Droplets have rained down on the floor below it. Wren’s eyes move to the shattered green glass to her left, and she notices pieces have fresh blood smeared on them as well.
“Maybe someone cut themselves on this broken glass,” she says flatly.
“Take some samples,” Leroux instructs another officer and waves Wren over to the next room.
They make their way into the kitchen next. It’s spotless and bright. A coffee mug sits on the counter, half drunk. A shiver runs down her spine. As they move into the dining room, another antique, bordello-themed time warp, an officer from the second floor yells down to them about a box with some of the possible victim’s clothing in it.
“Mind running up there?” Leroux gestures to the photographer, who hurries up the creaky stairs to the second floor.