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This wasn’t anything like that.
The rest of the homes around the house were falling down and in disrepair. Digby’s place had a nice six-foot brick fence and green, healthy grass. It was neat and completely out of place with the aesthetic of the bad neighbourhood. Basically, it stuck out like a sore thumb.
Quinn got out of the car and thumbed a quick message to Grady. He should have already been there; it was closer to where he’d been coming from than Quinn.
Grady:Stuck in fucking traffic. Almost there.
Quinn pocketed his phone and tapped his fingers absently on the roof of his car as he waited. He surveyed the quiet street, but no one was eavesdropping or being nosy. Quiet for this time of the day.
He moved closer to the fence, brushing his fingers across the vines that hung over the top as he walked the length of the front of the property and surveyed the front yard. A black metal gate broke it up in the middle. Quinn rattled it. Locked, of course.
His nose wrinkled as a strange smell wafted past him. Almost like… smoke? He frowned and glanced around, checking the roofs of the neighbouring houses. Smoke wasn’t coming out, so no wood heaters. Considering the bright sun and the comfortable temperature of the summer day, he had no idea why anyone would be using one anyway. It was definitely a distinct smoke smell, though.
Where was it coming from?
He reached up, gripping the top of the gate securely, and then hiked himself up, getting a foothold in the gate’s latch. He pulled himself up and over the gate, landing steadily on his feet on the other side. Better to ask forgiveness.
The front door was ajar, and the smell was stronger now, cloying and stinging his eyes and throat.
“Shit,” he cursed to himself. What now? What if someone were inside and needed help? Quinn couldn’t just stand here and wait for someone else to arrive.
He sent a message to Grady to call the fire department and backup to his location before taking out his gun and barrelling into the building. His nose wrinkled as he moved quickly through the house, swiftly clearing each room as he went. He couldn’t get near the kitchen as flames were quickly overtaking the room, and it had to be the source of the fire.
His grip tightened on his gun as he reached the doorway of the master bedroom. His knuckles went white against the doorframe. Someone was lying face down on the carpet, blood leaking from around their neck. A fatal amount of blood that soaked into the white carpet like a horrifying Rorschach inkblot test, only it was red instead of black.
This is what the crime scene would have looked like in Jericho’s apartment if it hadn’t burned first. Based on the smoke, this was going to look the same in half an hour.
Quinn should leave; he could feel the heaviness in the air like a physical weight against his lungs, and the burning in his throat was only getting steadily worse. But he had to be sure before he left. If there was a chance this man—likely Chris Digby—was still alive, Quinn couldn’t leave him there. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if later they determined he was still alive after the house went up in flames. All life was important.
He crouched beside Digby and checked for a pulse. His eyes closed in a swamping sadness when there was nothing. Regardless of who he had been in life, no one deserved a death like this. This wasn’t how justice was served.
There was no way Quinn could get him out or preserve the scene in any way. The fire was coming for the rest of the house too quickly to hope to put it out by himself. He moved Digby’s head and took a quick picture of his face so they could confirm ID, and then he got out.
Grady burst through the gate, kicking it off its hinges, as Quinn collapsed to his knees in the grass. Grady knelt on one knee, putting a hand on Quinn’s shoulder, peering at him.
“What happened? Are you alright?”
“Body. Fire,” was all Quinn managed, coughing.
Grady slid an arm under his arm. “Fire and Rescue are on their way. Can you stand? Distance is our friend.”
Quinn nodded and let Grady help him to his feet. He took steadying breaths as Grady led him back to his car. He sat in the backseat, door open and his feet planted on the nature strip. The fresh air was helping. He hadn’t been in the building long enough to sustain any permanent or lingering damage. “Digby was inside. Already dead. Slit throat.”
“Seems to be his MO. Likes to go for the throat. I don’t like that he has a pattern, Q. I’m loathe to use the word serial killer, but there are now four bodies—five if you count the one dumped at Peyton, Will, and Parker’s place. He didn’t kill the two prisoners himself, but I’d bet my life on the fact that he was the one that orchestrated it.”
Quinn nodded. Yeah. He didn’t like the implications either. The bodies stacking up screamed “serial killer.” The pattern, however, didn’t. It was worse. “Contract killer.”
“Don’t say that,” Grady said, grimacing. “I’d prefer they be a regular serial killer. Those are easier to find.”
Which said something since neither of them were easy to find. “Both, technically. Not all serial killers are contract killers, but all contract killers are serial killers.”
Grady sighed and leaned back against the side of the car, crossing his arms over his chest. “Either way, there are only three names left on that list now.”
Randall. Jericho. Sebastian. The thought of Sebastian being the one face down in a room somewhere with his throat slit made bile rise in Quinn’s throat. He couldn’t let that happen. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to ensure that never happened.
By the time two fire trucks pulled up to the house, it was already engulfed in flames. There was nothing to do now but mitigate the damage and make sure it didn’t spread to nearby houses.
A black sedan parked behind the trucks, and a large man in a crisp black suit stepped out. Dark scowl. Sunglasses. Crisply ironed slacks. Shining black shoes. Perfectly arranged hair, with silver streaks that looked more dignified than they had any right to.
