I’m out of the car before Lorenzo has the brake on.
“Boss—”
I don’t stick around to chat.
I cross the gravel at a hard walk because running is the wrong thing for what’s ahead of me—running puts you in front of a weapon you didn’t see—and I’ve got the gun up in front of my chest, and I’m scanning the lawn as I move.
First body, at the corner of the garage.
It’s Tomas. That’s whom I stationed days ago to keep an eye on her. He’s been here long enough that the spread under him has gone flat and matte against the stones.
Second body, ten feet past him, on the lawn.
I don’t know this one. He’s one of Victor’s, by the cut of the coat. Two holes through the chest, tight grouping.
Third body, by the front steps.
One of mine.
The front door is open. I go through it low.
The foyer.
Two more bodies. One of mine slumped against the console table. One of theirs in the middle of the marble. Shell casings on the floor. Nine millimeter. A lot of them. Somebody had been carrying a long magazine.
Two of mine I know. The other two I don’t.
That stops me.
The men I recognize were stationed a few miles out tonight. The gunfire from here would have carried. They heard. They came running.
And Victor’s men, who had her, didn’t run. They stayed long enough to put them down too. That isn’t a kidnap crew leaving with a package. That’s a crew waiting for whoever shows up next.
He wanted me to walk in and find this.
Fucking hell.
“Bea!”
The house swallows her name. I keep moving.
I’m not searching anymore. I know I’m not searching. There is no version of this house that has her in it tonight. But my mouth keeps making the shape of her name, and my feet keep going room to room.
“Bea!”
Kitchen.
The island is the way she left it. There’s a cup of tea on the counter at the corner closest to the window. She didn’t drink it. I pick it up. The side of the cup’s at room temperature. She’s been gone for hours.
I go to put it down before throwing it at the wall.
“Fuck!”
I turn.
The whole bank of dishes she left out from this morning is on the counter behind me—two bowls, the small plate she ate toast off of, the little dish for the lemon.
I sweep the lot of them off the counter with my forearm. They shatter on the tiles. I yell out over the crashing mess.
