Chapter Twenty #2
I turn to follow his finger with my gaze.
“Thank you,” I say with a nod. “I’ll see you later, then.
” I glance at Renard, who is carefully not looking at me.
I’m wondering how to extricate myself without getting caught in my lie, but my stomach chooses this moment to grumble.
Perhaps I was being more truthful than I realized.
I decide I have enough time to grab a bite before I walk down to High Street and find Jeffrey Reuter—even if I have to eat alone.
Belly full and energy restored, I make the twenty-or-so-minute walk down to the bottom of High Street to find the house with the red roof.
It’s a quieter part of the port town—perfect for worrying over my strange interaction with Renard earlier.
I hate leaving loose ends on such an acrimonious state of affairs.
As I get farther into town, I count a few houses with red roofs, but only one has number twenty-six on the doorjamb.
It’s a narrow building with two stories, as many of the others squished together along this road are.
The brickwork is limewashed, and the door is painted a shocking blue.
I wonder if Reuter chose that himself, or if he merely lets the house.
I step up onto the front doorstep and raise my fist to knock, only to realize the door is ajar. I stand there for a moment, not sure what to do. I decide the most polite thing to do is knock anyway, so I step closer and knock on the inner frame of the door. “Hello?” I call.
When no one answers, I take one more step and nudge the door open. “Hello? Mr. Reuter?” I lean inside and see him—or who I assume to be him—sitting at a table in the next room with his back to me. “Mr. Reuter?”
Again he doesn’t answer. I step inside, not sure what else to do at this point. I note the two empty mugs on the table in front of him and realize he must be passed out, drunk. Perhaps I can leave a note? “Mr. Reuter,” I say again, setting my hand on his shoulder.
At my touch his shoulder drops—and then the rest of him follows. He falls to the side, and I am caught entirely off guard. I try to catch him but slip on something wet and go crashing to the floor.
“Brilliant,” I snap at no one. I push myself up, but this time my hand slips, and I hit the floor once more with a grunt and a few choice words. The realization that the liquid under me is warm sets my skin crawling. Has he pissed himself?
I raise my hands in disgust—but then my heart skitters to a stumbling halt. I can’t breathe. I have actually forgotten how. I can only stare at the thick, blackish-red liquid on my palms and running down the sleeves of my finest coat.
My throat constricts. I gag, but I clamp my mouth shut and swallow hard to keep from throwing up.
The sickening scent of metal rushes up my nose as I push Reuter away from me and scramble back across the floor, slipping twice more on the ever-growing pool of blood beneath us and nearly falling through a few loosened floorboards in the process. How could this be happening?
He’s staring at me as he lies on his side, his eyes wide and still.
Blood drips from the red-soaked blond curls on his head, and I can hear the sickening tap, tap, tap of each droplet hitting the floor.
His mouth hangs open, as if he died with a scream on his lips—but he couldn’t have, could he?
Surely someone would have heard it? Surely I would have heard it… ?
As my gaze moves to the open gash across his throat, the realization that his body, like his blood, is still warm sets my pulse racing even faster. His body is warm. His blood still flows from the tear in his throat. He was killed mere moments ago.
And I could be next.
I haul myself up using the table, leaving a handprint of blood on the worn wood. Two mugs—his killer was just here. They were drinking together. He could very well be in the house still! How long does it take a body to cool after death? How can this be a question I’m asking myself?
I still can’t breathe. I look at Reuter and the pool of warm blood at my feet, and bile bubbles up in the back of my throat. I wish, more than ever, that I had taken one of the twins with me.
No—I wish I had never come searching for Jeffrey Reuter.
I need to get out of here.
I need to run.
The killer is almost certainly in this house, and he must know I was looking for Reuter. I cannot fathom how, but it’s the only way this makes any sense. I am most certainly next. This whole setup is a warning—why else would he wait to kill Reuter until seconds before I arrived?
I slip once more in the blood, and for the first time a sob escapes me. I can’t help it.
I run from the house, slamming the door open as I careen through the doorway.
I’m not even sure my feet touch the ground as I rush down the front steps.
Blood chases me in the footprints my boots leave behind as I run back into town as fast as I can, Jeffrey Reuter’s silent death scream forever seared into my memory.
And the shadow of his killer close behind me.