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“God, what a bunch of power-hungry creeps,” she muttered. “It’s like they get off on how fantastic they think they are.”

Wes looked from the words to the art, scrutinizing each piece. Then he pointed. “Power. Fantasy. Control.”

She narrowed her eyes at the little plates that named each piece. “Do you care if I take pictures?”

“I’d rather you not.”

“It’s like a museum. The way they’re labeled.”

He ran a hand over his face. “You don’t see private collections labeled in that manner.”

Bailey moved to his side. The heebie-jeebies skittered down her back.

“Do you want to keep looking?” he asked.

“You feel it too? There’s bad energy in here.”

His nostrils pinched as if he were trying to control his breathing. Wes was an evidence kind of guy. He probably would never admit to premonitions or bad energy, but she’d never met someone with a career like his who didn’t believe instinct played a role in investigations. Even if they let the evidence take the lead.

“If you want to step out,” he offered. “I’ll take a look around.”

She shook her head and reached for his hand. They walked down the hallway. Smaller replicas of the living room art pieces lined a wall in rows of six. Each replica was about the size of a piece of paper. Beside each piece was a number. She counted eighteen.

Wes stopped. “Bailey, go wait in the living room.”

She gripped his hand as if she were afraid he’d let go. “No.”

“Then we should leave. Both of us. Come on. We need to get the hell out of here.”

She shook her head. Tears burned the back of her throat as she stared down the hall, past a perfectly normal bathroom, to the three bedroom doors.

Each was partially closed. Each had a matching replica of the living room paintings, each with its corresponding title. First power, then fantasy, and control on the third door.

“Nope. We’re getting the hell out of here.” Wes pulled her away from the first door.

She refused. “We’ve come this far. I have to know.” He locked eyes with hers. A century crawled by as Wes silently pleaded for her to change her mind. She wouldn’t. “Please stay with me.”

“I will never leave you, but this…this is bad.”

“I have to know. Ryan died trying to give you the key.”

Tension ticked in Wes’s jaw. He looked away—at war with himself—before turning back to her. “Fine. You see what you need to, and then we leave. After that, we’ll call…whoever needs to be called.”

They entered the first room. It had no furniture. Nothing at all except for similar art to the one labeled power. She let out a breath, almost laughing at how terrified she’d been to walk in. Bailey turned to leave. At the top of the wall, etched in the same manner as the words above the mantel, was “Your Time Belongs to Me.” Below that, the wall held delicate shelves, each no bigger than a postcard and labeled with a number.

Her eyes jumped to the farthest on the left. Number one.

And there was Caitie’s missing watch.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Wes stared at the writing at the top of the wall and back at the watches on display. A sour taste coated his tongue. Disgust throttled him. He’d known better than to bring Bailey here, but he never could have imagined walking into this shrine of torment and depravity.

Wes tugged her toward the door. This was too much, and she was in the same danger Ryan had been in. Ryan had known too much. His car accident wasn’t an accident. “We have to go.”

Her face had gone grayish green. One hand splayed across her throat. The other wrapped over her stomach. “I need to see what’s in the other rooms.”

He shook his head. If this room had one, four, seven, all the way to sixteen, the other rooms would fill in the blanks. “You know what’s in there.”