Page 118 of Not a Word

“What’s this?” Gage asked.

He was staring at the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. Holden took a step back so that the hallway lights would better illuminate what Gage had spotted.

“That oil?” Gage asked.

A thick, dark liquid was seeping out from the room. Like something in there had spilled and this was the farthest point it had trickled to.

Holden said nothing as he knelt down and tentatively touched his finger to it, then examined what was on the tip.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said.

Gage swallowed hard. That dab of liquid on the end of Holden’s finger was deep red.

Holden tried the door, found it locked, inserted a key, and slowly pushed the door open.

“Oh shit oh shit oh shit,” he said under his breath.

Gage, behind him, peered around his shoulder, and seeing Alicia on the floor, took two steps back, pressing himself up against the opposite hallway wall. His mouth hung open, and his hand was frozen halfway to it, as though he couldn’t decide whether he was going to need it to stifle a scream or keep it away so he could puke.

Holden stepped slowly into the apartment, careful not to get blood on his shoes. He didn’t need to be a coroner to know it was too late to help her. He could see the vacant stare in her open eyes, the hole in her forehead, the blood that ran from the wound to the floor and out the door.

But that didn’t stop him, once he had reached her, from getting down on his knees, huddling over her, running his hand softly over her hair and starting to whimper.

“Holden,” Gage whispered, barely able to get the word out.

Holden’s back began to heave as he cried. “No no,” he said softly. “No no no no no . . .”

“We gotta split,” Gage said, glancing up the hallway in one direction and then the other.

At the far end, the ding of an elevator.

“Shit,” Gage said under his breath. He couldn’t be seen standing here, with the door open, the body visible. He quickly stepped into the room, taking the same care his uncle had to avoid stepping in blood, then closed the door behind him.

Holden looked up, his eyes wet. “Look what they did to her . . .”

Gage didn’t have time for that. He had to find a toilet, and fast. He was unfamiliar with the layout of Alicia’s place, but it was far from palatial and it only took a second for Gage to find the bathroom.

He flipped up the toilet lid, leaned over and vomited. Once, then again. Finished, he slowly sank to the floor. He pulled the handle to flush it, then collapsed against the tiled wall, butt on the floor, his legs extended out toward the toilet.

Gage sat there, breathing in and out in quick, shallow gulps. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to go back out there, see that dead woman.

He jumped when his phone started ringing. He took it from his pocket, saw it was his mother trying to reach him. He muted the phone but it kept vibrating, and he’d barely recovered from that when he jumped again. Holden was standing in the doorway, and for half a second, Gage thought Alicia’s killer could still be in the apartment.

“Just me, man.”

Gage took a breath. “Who did that? Who did that to her?”

Holden raised his hands in a beats me gesture. “I don’t know, kid.”

“Maybe there’s like some crazy serial killer living in this building?”

Holden shook his head. “It— it looked like a hit.”

“A what?”

“I mean, like, one shot to the head. That’s no serial killer.”

“You mean like a hit man?”