Page 79

He shifts the beam lower.

"Broken wood."

Then to the floor.

"Blood."

Sayer swallows hard.

"There wasn't any."

Rhett nods.

"I know."

"You do?"

"Because if there had been, the police report would have mentioned it."

He finally steps inside.

The kitchen smells...stale. Not rotten. Not abandoned. Just closed up. Like a house waiting for someone to come home.

Morning sunlight spills through the windows, illuminating a coffee mug still sitting beside the sink. A dish towel hangs neatly over the oven handle. The calendar on the refrigerator is still open to October. Rebecca Valentine had circled Halloween in orange marker. Ten days away.

She'd written one word beneath it.

Remember.

I stop.

"What?"

Rhett notices immediately. I point to the calendar. He studies it for several seconds.

"Could mean anything."

"It could."

Neither of us believes that anymore. Sayer slowly walks farther into the kitchen.

"My mom hated leaving dishes overnight."

His eyes settle on the mug.

"She made coffee before Dad woke up."

His voice catches.

"Every day."

The room suddenly feels much smaller.

I gently squeeze his shoulder. He doesn't pull away. Rhett continues through the first floor with practiced precision. He doesn't open cabinets at random. He follows the natural flow of the house.

Kitchen. Dining room. Living room. Every room receives the same quiet, methodical attention.

"Nothing overturned," he murmurs.