“No.” He tried the handle. Locked.
“Let’s look for an unlocked window,” she said.
“I’m gonna shoot out the lock.”
“Give me twenty seconds.” When she vanished around the side of the house, he took off after her.
She was waiting at the back door. When he pulled up alongside her, she said, “This isn’t good.”
The back door was closed, but not pulled shut.
Rebel unholstered his Glock before nudging the door open with his foot. The door squeaked on its hinges, as if calling out for help.
The pungent odor hit him the second he stepped inside. Despite holding out hope, dread filled him.
“Oh, no,” Brit murmured as she pulled her coat over her mouth to filter out the stench.
“Wait in the vehicle,” he said.
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
“You’re not armed,” he said.
“But you are,” she replied.
“We gotta clear the place.”
Together they made their way through the compact kitchen into the living room.
His heart sank.
“God, no,” Rebel bit out.
Kurt was sitting on the sofa, his dead eyes staring straight ahead, his skin an ashen gray. His shirt was stained with dried blood from a gunshot wound to the chest.
Muscles running the length of Rebel’s back tensed while anger curled around his broken heart. Then, he thought of his family, especially his aunt and uncle.
This is gonna crush them.
Forcing himself to push past the loss, he scanned the room. The living room blinds had been pulled down, the room as gray as the dreary day.
“I’m so sorry,” Brit whispered. “We’ve got to find his fiancée, unless you think she did this.”
“Let clear the rest of the house.”
They climbed the stairs. No Kayleen in the bathroom or the guest bedroom.
“Clear,” he said.
In the larger bedroom, he eyed the made bed, then strode into the bathroom. Kayleen wasn’t there, and nothing appeared to have been touched.
“Clear,” he repeated.
Brit opened the door to their bedroom closet. “Clear.”
They checked the closet in the hallway. No Kayleen.
As they made their way downstairs, Brit gasped. “The front closet.”
