Remnants of the Guilty (The Fatal Five #1)
Prologue
Detective Eleana St. James
Walking down the flower lined walkway beyond the white picket fence like I do every night, only this time I am not supposed to be here. I was kicked off this case and assigned elsewhere because I couldn’t get the job done. A new detective that I fucking despise is taking over. I’m supposed to be on a plane halfway across the world chasing a ghost, but something in my gut was telling me to get home.
Dylan hasn’t answered any of my texts in the last six hours. I was horrible to her yesterday afternoon before she stormed the house. The tears that pooled in her eyes as I said all those mean things to her, was enough for me to pick up on the clues that I was hurting her, but I didn't stop. I was too enraged with all the murders, all the secrets and lies hitting the surface. I refused to see what was going on right in front of me. Just putting the problems in a suitcase and zipping it up for another day. It’s a hard pill to swallow knowing that I wasn’t the only one keeping dark secrets.
She was so fucking upset, but I kept pushing her for answers without giving her any of my own. She was raped and blackmailed to protect me and her brother. I just didn’t fucking believe her.
Between the murders at the frat house, and the boys from the swim team coming up dead, I’m not sure what to believe. Every time I questioned her, it pushed her away and fueled her anger towards me. Hating me more day by day. I was so self-absorbed in finding the person who massacred several men, leaving them mutilated and barely recognizable. Keeping secrets about my past and trying to protect my children all spilled over at once.
There were no leads on the killers at large, so I had to go by the book. Interrogate everyone involved. It's my job. I stood there, took an oath to serve and protect, and find the killers who walk among us. Where did that leave Dylan? Neglected, alone, and scared.
My heart is in my throat as my hands shake holding my pistol. As I walk up the steps, I see the front door is cracked open just a bit. I click on the flashlight, shining it in the doorway, checking both left and right. All clear.
The house lies in ruins. Books litter the hardwood floor, bookshelves knocked to the ground and a knife protrudes from the TV screen. I continue down the hallway, passing childhood pictures of Dylan and Bentley. They never had a want or a need. I gave them everything and anything they asked for. Except my attention. I point the flashlight down and follow the drops of blood leading into the kitchen. Plates and cups are broken on the tile floor, fresh-cut flowers from the garden litter the counter next to their shattered vase.
Drip, drip, drip. Water falls to the ground.
Whatever happened here, she put up a fight. I continue to follow the blood smeared on the ground leading to the basement. Taking out a rag, because this is a crime scene, I wrap it around the handle gently so as to not wipe off any prints.
Turning the knob, I pull open the door. Nothing, I mean nothing, could have prepared me for what was down those basement steps.