Track Her Down (Bree Taggert #9)

CHAPTER ONE

C HAPTER O NE

Juggling a take-out tray and her house key, Claire hesitated in the dark foyer. The AC blasted, and cool air rushed over her hot skin. Even with the movement of air, the house felt too still. Goose bumps rose on her arms. A prickly sensation enveloped her, almost like static electricity, as if she’d rubbed a balloon on the carpet and suspended it over her skin.

It was well past ten thirty. It wasn’t unusual for them both to be asleep by now. But tonight, the quiet wasn’t normal. The stillness turned over and over in her belly, unsettled.

Anticipating.

In the kitchen, she dumped her mom’s key fob and the milkshakes she’d bought on her way home from work and went up the stairs. The landing creaked, as usual, but tonight, Claire startled at the sound. Light glowed at the end of the hall, from her parents’ open door. Passing her own bedroom, she continued down the corridor. The carpet cushioned her steps. Her heartbeat cranked before she stepped into the doorway.

Claire froze as she took in the scene.

It didn’t seem real.

Didn’t seem as if it could be real.

She squeezed her eyes closed, then opened them wide again.

Nothing had changed.

The first thing that commanded her attention was the blood, what seemed like gallons of it, soaking the pristine white sheets. Both of her parents were in bed, as she’d expected. Her father stared at the ceiling, his eyes blank, his face nearly as white as the pillowcase behind his head. Dead , Claire knew instantly with a certainty that chilled her heart. Blood saturated his T-shirt, but his face was untouched. Perfect.

She shifted her gaze to her mother. The gaping hole in her face was so grotesque that Claire wanted to turn away, and yet she couldn’t. She stared, transfixed by the horror. A flash of bone showed in the torn flesh. Bits of— face? —splattered the headboard. More blood pooled ...

Everywhere.

Still, Claire didn’t move, as if her feet were glued to the carpet, shock locking the joints of her legs into position, keeping her upright. If not for her terrified rigidity, her body would have folded like the legs of a camera tripod.

So much blood.

How could two people bleed this much?

Claire stared, not willing to accept what she was seeing.

“Yeow!” The cat ran into the room and jumped onto the bed. With another yowl, it leaped to the floor, arched its back, and hissed.

The cat’s reaction jolted Claire out of her shocked stupor. She stumbled to her mother’s bedside. Was she dead? Claire crouched and touched her mother’s neck. She didn’t feel a pulse, but then again, she wasn’t a doctor. She’d never checked to see whether someone was dead before. How could she know for sure? What should she do? Panicked thoughts raced through her mind.

Something. Do something. Do something.

Claire’s feet tangled. She tripped, falling to her hands and knees. Her phone dropped out of her pocket onto the red-stained carpet with a wet thud. She stumbled to her feet, grabbed her mother’s shoulder, and shook. Her mom’s body jiggled with a limpness that suggested it had given up.

“Mom!” Claire shook her again, then crouched and got a good look at her mother’s eyes in the middle of her ruined face.

Vacant.

No one was there.

Probably.

Definitely?

Unsure, Claire stacked her hands and pressed them into her mother’s chest, the way she’d learned CPR in health class. Her mom’s body bounced on the mattress. Claire knew it was futile. Right? But she did it anyway. For how long should she continue? She saw in her mind the words from the slideshow: Continue chest compressions until help arrives .

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.

Except she hadn’t called for help. Abandoning first aid, she fumbled for her phone, but her pocket was empty. She spotted it on the stained carpet and grabbed it. Her fingers were slippery with blood and shaking so hard that she was barely able to stab 911 before the phone slid from her hand. It fell back to the carpet, landing face up. She touched the speakerphone icon.

“My parents are dead,” she sobbed.

The person on the other end of the line said something, but Claire barely heard anything over the sound of her own pulse pounding inside her head. She shouted her name and address. “I think they’re dead. I think someone shot them or something. Send someone. Please.” The last word came out as a choking plea.

A woman’s voice suddenly clarified, coming into focus like a camera lens. “Is the person who killed them still in the house?”