His sunglasses fell, revealing bloodied caverns where his eyes had been. The sight jolted her from her trance with a retching shudder.
She stepped back, and her foot squelched in the sticky pool of half-coagulated blood beneath him. He was bound to the chair, arms at his sides, his left wrist sliced clean around. His fingertips were burned.
The wound reminded her of something. David Goldfinch’s bracelet.
Blood swamped the floor. The edge of the pool had dried black and desiccated, and yellow fluid separated from the blood, seeping into a corner of a box of Serafina’s books.
In the distance, the warehouse’s door thunked open and slammed shut. Someone was there. She listened, begging for it to be Fernando. Hall lights buzzed on and clanged off in time to heavy footsteps nearing her compartment. Fuck. The tap of those shiny black shoes belonged to a cop. She ran for the door. Her heels left bloody footprints, so she kicked them off, then slammed the gate down and jammed the battered lock shut. Her key was inside. And her bag. There was blood on her toes and her sleeve.
She was trapped, caught red-footed. She had to go back.
She ripped two hairpins from her curls, bit off the rubber ends,and spat them out. There wasn’t time to be ladylike. She bent one pin into an L, straightened the other, and curled the tip into a shallow hook between her teeth. It nicked her gums. She swallowed blood. There were proper picks in her desk back home, a gift from that ex, but he’d also taught her how to improvise. She could do this.
She teased the picks into the lock, but the damn tension rod kept slipping. Whatever fool had been there first mangled the thing beyond repair. She felt for the pins with the pick, sucking her gums to stem the bleeding. The footsteps were too close, too familiar.
The lock pinged open.
Just as Andreas rounded the corner, carrying giant metal shears and a yellow form with the ominous aura of a court order.
She dropped the chain and shoved her bloodstained hand into her trench-coat pocket.
“Sterling? What are you doing here?” he said, eyeing her bare, bloodied feet.
“I came to Floridsdorf for somecevapciciand got, um, lost.”
His eyes narrowed. “What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
“Nothing. No one. I broke the heel off my stilettos and hit my lip when I fell. I tossed the shoes in the trash.”
“In the middle of winter?”
“Yup,” she mumbled, swallowing blood. “Why are you here?” she muttered, tucking her chin to hide her bleeding mouth.
“An anonymous tip came in, suggesting we look in here. They had valid information about the night of the murder.”
Harry.
“Where’s Beate? You know she gets jealous when we’re alone. She wouldn’t want a dignified lady such as myself to be seen here with a man, unchaperoned no less. What if youviolatedme? Think of my virtue, sir,” she said, pressing her hand to her chest in mock modesty.
“Quit stalling,” he said without a hint of humor. He eyed her hand. “Is that blood?”
This was what she got for joking at inappropriate times. She shoved her hand back in her pocket and attempted a demure, oh-clumsy-old-me smile. Too late.
He stepped closer and grasped her shoulders. His face clenched in concern as he scanned her. “Who hurt you?”
She stammered something.
“Out of the way,” he said, moving her aside. He prepped the bolt cutters until he saw the lock was open.
“What’s this?” he asked, pinching her bobby pin off the ground. “Did you pick this? They don’t teach that at finishing school.”
She stepped back as he raised the door.
He looked from the body to her. “Alter Schwede,Sterling. What the hell happened?”
“I swear it wasn’t me,”
“Then why are you here? Goddamn it, you have to get out,” he said, locking eyes with her. He shook his head. “God. What am I saying?”
