Page 80 of She Walks with Broken Things

The scent of rain cut through the exhaust. I waited. Then dragged it into my lungs. Movement flickered briefly at the edges of my vision before dissolving again.

The soft click of polished shoes stopped beside the car.

“Ready?” London asked beside me.

Death waited for no one. “Always.”

Rafe led my way. London moved beside me. Talking to his man on his cell. Doors opened. I stepped inside. Boots resounded against marble. I built the office inside my head. Black. Most likely gold trim. The place reeked of old money. The splash of a puddle. Rainwater pooling on polished stone.

We didn’t stop, cutting across the foyer before the button to the elevator pressed. The grind of steel followed. An ancient, heavy thing. Not well maintained. Typical. Rafe moved. I followed, stepping inside. The scent of London’s cologne crowded the space, but underneath it the faint, unmistakable taste of blood. I lowered my gaze, stilled.

Drops of it on the floor.

“You’re stepping in it.”

“What?” London asked beside me.

I nodded toward the scent.

He moved instantly. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. At first… nothing. Resounding steps. The steady thud of my pulse as we moved along the hallway. Doors opened at the end.

“You’re never going to believe this.” Came a careful male voice. “Just… watch your step.”

I did. I watched my step. Watched theirs too. Marble carried the sound differently beneath my boots. I built the room around me through scents, texture and movement. I stepped inside. Stilled. That choking, cloying scent hit me first. The cloves hit me first. Crushed into blood. I mapped the placement.

There—

Then.

There as well.

Boot prints on polished stone. I took a step as London moved away. His voice fading. There was a body at the end of the conference desk. Killian Armstrong. Whatever made him a man had already left the room. Rafe spoke softly, recounting what he saw.

A gash at his neck. Fear still clung thick enough to taste.

But it was too neat.

Hands hung by his side.

Bone. Blood. Tendons. Ripped open and exposed.

The faint ticking of an expensive watch.

Patek Philippe?

Rafe described the scene like he’d done countless times.

It hung off a mutilated wrist.

Both of them a statement.

But I didn’t see it. Not really. The memory cut through violently. A crooked thumb. The drag of a foot. Small bones healed wrong beneath pale skin.

I turned to the table. Scanned the length and stopped.

Something sat there.