Chapter 15
Bradford
The second I step out of the bathroom, my skin prickles. The house is dead quiet except for the slow tick of the kitchen clock and… A cold draft. But before I investigate that, my eyes catch the closet door at the edge of the office, wide open.
I never, ever leave that closet door open.
That’s a rule. And the world only makes sense when you respect the rules.
I stop, mid-hall, and let my pupils adjust. It’s not just the closet. There’s a trace, a whiff, of something outside the usual that isn’t the scent of my home.
And immediately, all my hair stands on end.
I draw my 1911 tucked in my waistband. I keep my thumb tight on the frame, and I cross the hall in three even steps.
I click the office door shut behind me. The closet is first. I pour over it, expecting something, but there’s only coats, boots, and a jumble of hardware and rags.
I sweep the shelf above and run my hand behind the hanging stuff.
Nothing is obvious. But something is off.
I back away and then start the rest of the house. I clear each room, muscle memory from years of MOUT training. Right hand on the grip, left bracing the doorframe, eyes flicking corner to corner, up and down, always a heartbeat ahead of wherever a shadow could hide.
The entire house is clear.
Until I reach the laundry room. And my adrenaline spikes.
“What the hell,” I ease toward the fucked-up window, crimson painted across the frame. I swallow hard, finish checking the room, and then peer out into the night.
Part of me wants to go hunting.
But I’m so goddamn tired. I’m too old for this shit.
I lean against the washer, zoning out as the cold penetrates my thin thermal. Cade is a disaster. Turner is a disaster. And I’m not far behind.
My eyes drop to the ground outside the window, and I click on a flashlight.
Not a single footprint.
My brain keeps chewing at that. Who would get in and out without a single footprint? They’d have to be light. Really fucking light. I should’ve fixed my motion sensors.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I nearly drop it.
Turner: We’re coming in. ETA 5
I groan, haul myself back to the living room, and stand sentry at the window.
Sure enough, Turner’s truck turns up the drive, headlights cutting through the night.
I watch as Turner gets out first, scanning the tree line like someone expecting snipers.
Cade takes his time, hops out of the passenger, no rush, and lingers a second to kick mud off his boots.
By the time they get to the door, I’m already opening it. Turner shoves past me, a sheen of sweat on his hairline even in the cold. Cade holds back, leaning on the porch post. And I smell something off, immediately.
My eyes bounce between the two of them. “Mission accomplished?”
Turner bobs his head, but his silence is alarming.
Cade shrugs. “Well, you said we needed to handle the clean-up efficiently, so I had to torch it,” he says, voice flat. “No other way to clean up that mess.”
My vision tunnels, but I don’t blink. “You burned the whole place? After we already went through it? How are they supposed to… What about…” I can’t even keep my fucking thoughts together.
This is what I get for changing Molly’s goddamn tire.
“Just burned the living room.” His lips twitch. “Well, that’s how it started anyway. That part got a little out of hand.”
Turner gives me a look. “He had the whole place lit before I could even back the truck up to get bodies, and I mean, it wasn’t the worst way to cover the mess…”
“Sit down,” I bark, and Turner collapses into the kitchen chair. I don’t bother inviting Cade, because he strolls in anyway and takes a position by the fridge.
I grab a towel, toss it at Turner. “Clean yourself up.”
He nods, rubs the towel over his wrists and forearms, his expression emotionless.
Cade studies the room, then looks me dead in the eyes. “They would’ve found us. Better to erase the evidence than play hero for the forensics team. I don’t see why my decision was a problem. I think it was clear-headed. We made too big of a mess, so I just erased the entirety of it.”
“Except arson brings every goddamn badge in the county,” I snarl. “You ever think about that, genius? Ever consider that’s your signature?”
He just grins. “They’re all idiots. Nobody’s gonna trace it.”
I don’t believe him for a fucking second, but I don’t show it. I pace to the TV and turn it on, volume low. I flip through the channels until I hit the late-night news.
And sure enough, there it is. A house on fire, flames painting the sky, a voiceover by a local anchor in the standard-issue doom tone.
“Investigators are on the scene of what appears to be a devastating house fire on Ridgecrest. Early reports suggest—”
I mute it, and glare at Cade.
“This was your solution?”
He nods, pride etched in every inch of his face. “Nice, isn’t it?”
Turner’s knuckles are bone white on the towel. “It was supposed to be a clean job,” he mutters. “We royally fucked it up. Again.”
Cade shrugs, not even pretending to care. “You saw the bodies. There was no ‘clean’ left. You think a bleach job was enough, Doc? Well, it isn’t.”
I grip the remote and consider hurling it as his face. “You have any idea what kind of attention this brings?”
Cade looks at me, his eyes empty except for a shimmer of sick delight. “I did you a favor. It still would’ve been a big deal.”
“But now, the computer with all the evidence is destroyed,” I say through gritted teeth. “The guy just went down as a victim. It was supposed to be a robbery gone wrong, then presentation of evidence.”
Turner’s eyes dart between us. “Too late now. We didn’t know that.”
I ignore him, and the mistake I know I made. “You both are done for tonight. You go to the bunkhouse, and you stay there. No booze, no phone, no fucking drama. Understood?”
Cade gives a lazy salute, smirk never leaving his face. “Sure thing, Doc. You want me to tuck myself in, too? Or do you want Turner to do it for ya?”
I jab a finger toward the door. “Go. Wait in the truck.”
He leaves without another word, boots thudding on the deck, then silence.
I wait until I’m sure he’s out of earshot. Only then do I let myself sigh, studying Turner more intensely. He’s broken, too, but at least I can spot that change coming.
“I think Cade is crashing out.” Turner mumbles, hesitates, and then says what I already know. “He scares the shit out of me.”
“He should.” I pour water into a glass and take a sip. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
Turner rises to his feet. “I don’t think I can stop him without a bullet.”
I chuckle, though nothing about the idea is comical. “Me either. Sleep with your eyes open.”
He lets out some sort of laugh, and then heads out into the night. As soon as it’s clear, I head back to fix the laundry room window erasing the evidence that anyone broke into my house in the first place. Is it the right thing? I don’t know.
But maybe if I don’t fucking see it anymore, I can forget about it.
And as I replace the glass, my mind dips to a darker place. A place of relief, where Turner does put a bullet in Cade.
That might be the one fuck-up I’d happily cover.