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I glance upwards, a sense of foreboding crawling up my spine. The ceiling tiles, stained a sinister shade of red, speak of horrors past. “Above us,” I whisper, the realization hitting me with a jolt.
“What are the odds that’s blood?” Avery, with his usual blend of agility and brashness, leaps onto a desk. The floorboards groan under his weight, a somber reminder of the countless footsteps that once echoed in these halls.
“High,” Ashton confirms, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. Both of them possess night vision far superior to mine, a trait of their delta designation.
He prods at the stained tiles. “No way a person’s up there. Wouldn’t hold.”
“That’s not exactly reassuring, Avery.” Ashton steps back, his eyes flicking to me, and a silent exchange of understanding passes between us. The caution in his stance is palpable, a stark contrast to Avery’s impulsive energy.
I can’t blame him for his caution. I watch intently as Avery methodically removes tile after tile. “They are just stained... with blood,” he mutters, perplexed.
A small piece of fabric flutters down from the exposed ceiling, landing softly at my feet. The fabric is blood-red, with “cunt” crudely stitched in black—a vulgar blemish on the otherwise innocuous material.
Avery snatches it up, his voice laced with confusion and a hint of disgust. “Cunt?” His question hangs in the air, heavy with implications.
I remain crouched, the cold floor seeping through my pants, my mind racing. “It belongs to one of my patients,” I say, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. The realization that Dorothea, Seraphina’s sister, is somehow entangled in this dark web sends a chill down my spine.
Avery turns the fabric over in his hands. “Why’s it here?”
“Wrong question,” Ashton interjects. “Who does it belong to, Max?”
I know they suspect the answer, an obvious truth that eludes me. “Dorothea,” I reply, standing up. “Seraphina’s sister.”
Avery’s eyes widen, and he scans the room frantically. “Is it her blood?”
“No,” Ashton states confidently. “It doesn’t smell like her. She has a sweet scent, not a bitter one.”
“Whose blood is it then?” Avery’s voice edges with urgency.
I voice my suspicion. “My realtor.”
“Fuck,” Avery mutters, glancing up at the ceiling.
Avery and Ashton exchange a look, a silent conversation in their shared glance. The fabric in Avery’s hands is more than just a clue, it’s a symbol of a twisted puzzle we’re only beginning to unravel.
“We need to leave before we get snowed in here,” I say, the urgency in my voice a stark contrast to the oppressive stillness of the abandoned building. The weight of our discovery hangs over us as we hasten back, the echoes of our footsteps a solemn reminder of the building’s haunted past and the grim reality we now face.
“No thank you. Snowed inside a creepy building that is definitely haunted? Nope,” Ashton says, a visible shiver running through him. His voice barely rises above a whisper, butit carries the weight of his unease. The dim light flickering in the hallway casts shadows that dance across his features, accentuating his discomfort. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Yeah, and Dev wants to buy it,” Avery adds, his tone laced with disbelief. He hands me the piece of fabric, his gesture slow, almost reluctant. There’s a furrow of concern etched on his brow, a reflection of the unsettling atmosphere that seems to seep from the surrounding walls.
I take the fabric, feeling its coarse texture between my fingers. The chill of the room seems to cling to it, a tangible reminder of the eerie energy of the building. I find myself lost in thought for a moment, pondering the implications of Devlin’s interest in such a place. My decision forms almost instinctively, reinforced by the cold, oppressive air around us.
I think I’ll veto this building as well.The words echo in my mind, a silent resolve forming amidst the shadows and whispers of the past that linger in the air. There’s a weight to this decision, a feeling of finality, as if closing the door on this haunted space could somehow keep its darkness contained.
CHAPTER 22
Seraphina
“Red or white?”Devlin asks, leading me into the kitchen with his palm resting gently on the small of my back.
“Red or white what?” I struggle to think clearly with his touch. His scent hangs heavily in the air, a perfect embodiment of his personality—like tea on the coldest of nights, enriched with a heavy dose of whipped cream. The urge to lick him from head to toe is overwhelming.
“Wine,” he whispers, sending shivers of anticipation through my body.
“Oh,” I murmur as he guides me to the island and pulls out a chair. I force myself to blink and focus on anything but him.
Earlier, when I came in here with Avery, I barely glimpsed the room. Now, as I sit here, needing a distraction, I take in the beauty of the kitchen. A butcher block island dominates the center, surrounded by rustic lights that cast a dim, ambient glow. Behind me, a fireplace lines the far wall at an angle, flickering to life as Devlin presses a button.
