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They start walking quickly down the road. Jess briefly watches them go, then opens the door and follows them. Screw Griffin. She needs to see this, to know it’s all for real. This is her life, her nightmare.
She pauses behind a parked car as Griffin and the man stop by a large white van. In the distance she can see blue and white tape fluttering in the darkness.
“What do we have?” she hears Griffin ask.
Alan reaches into the back of the van and hands him something white. Jess watches Griffin as he puts on the crime scene suit; then the two men move away. She waits until they’re a good distance, then grabs one herself: it’s huge, soft and plasticky, and she does her best, pulling the white overshoes on over her sneakers, blue gloves on her hands.
“It’s a massacre,” she hears Alan say as she creeps behind them. “Blood everywhere.”
“You think it’s him?” Griffin asks, and Alan nods.
“Not seen anything like this for a long time. We’re still waiting for the pathologist, but it’s definitely murder. Major Crimes have been and gone. Didn’t say much.”
Jess watches as they put on the face masks, then the hoods over their heads. She does the same. With this outfit on, Jess suddenly feels safe—indistinguishable from the other people teeming around in the road.
They shuffle toward the house and stop at the police cordon. The scene guard watches as Alan bends down and writes in a turquoise logbook, then gestures behind to Griffin.
“He’s already signed in,” Jess hears him mutter as they both pass through.
Jess waits. She’s debating trying a false name, hoping the guard won’t check ID, when a large crowd of scene of crime investigators comes up behind her, talking loudly in their identical white suits. She integrates herself into the middle of the homogenous group as they joke with the scene guard, taking turns to sign the book.
And then he waves them through and she’s in.
It’s a mansion with a long drive leading up to a grand entrance. Jess can see the glow from the open front door, and scene of crime officers move in and out of the area. The ground is littered with small yellow triangles; every now and again she sees the flash from a camera. In the darkness it’s eerie, and Jess feels a shiver run down her back. To their left, a car is parked, driver’s side door open, people leaning inside. She catches up quickly to Griffin, just as Alan points to the car.
“The first one’s in there. Eighteen-year-old boy. Shot. Quite a few times at what seems to be point-blank range. And slashed with a knife. We’re not sure of the specifics yet.”
Jess can’t look away, imagining what might be inside. But then she feels a tight hand on her arm. She looks up into Griffin’s furious glare.
“What the fuck? I told you to stay in the car.”
“I’m coming. I’m a part of this.”
“You know what—”
“I know.”
He stares at her. Takes in her defiant expression behind the mask. “Fine,” he snaps, even though it’s obvious to Jess it’s not. But she knows he can’t afford for her to make a scene, to draw attention to the fact that neither of them is supposed to be there.
They’ve stopped at the entrance to a large white tent to the right of the house. Alan’s been watching their exchange and now glowers at them both.
“She wasn’t part of the deal,” he hisses to Griffin.
“The deal is exactly what I say it is.” Griffin stands over him, clearly the bigger and stronger man. “You fucked up, and if it wasn’t for that …” He shakes his head. “Just do what I ask, and once this is over you’ll never have to see me again.”
Alan meets Griffin’s stare for a moment, then drops his gaze, backing down. He wearily holds the tent flap open, and Griffin ducks inside. As Jess goes past Alan, Griffin grabs her arm again.
“Are you sure you want to see this?” Griffin asks, and she nods.
But nothing could have prepared her for what’s inside.
A body—a woman, Jess realizes—is lying on the ground. Floodlights have been set up and light the woman’s face in a grimace. Everywhere Jess looks, there’s blood. The woman’s white nightgown is ripped and soaked in it. The grass around is stained red. Jess feels dizzy and realizes she hasn’t been breathing. She forces herself to take in small gulps of air.
“We haven’t touched the body, obviously,” Alan whispers. “But it’s a good guess cause of death is from penetration wounds, probably from a knife. At first look I would estimate she’s been stabbed at least thirty times.”
“That’s a pretty chaotic attack,” Griffin mutters, and Alan nods.
“And that’s not all.”
