Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

He slid his shades up to the top of his head, his latex shirt creaking with his movement. He stepped farther into the room. Plush sofa and recliner, along with the easy chair, coffee table—magazines and books strewn across its polished surface. A blue, star-flecked fleece throw draped the recliner.

Dante walked through the house, drinking in the details of Heather’s everyday life. He trailed his fingers along the back of the sofa, the recliner—soft cushions, slick vinyl.

Kitchen: A couple of plates in the sink, a green DONE light glowing on the dishwasher, rose and purple accents, twilight colors. The mingled odors of rosemary, olive oil, and lemon lingered in the air.

Dining room: A runner of green leaves and purple grapes draped the small table. A musty and old-blood odor wafted up from a couple of dinged-up cardboard boxes on the table. Printed in black marker on the sides of the boxes were the words WALLACE, SHANNON, CASE NO. 5123441. Photos were spread like tarot cards across the table’s dark wood surface, crime scene photos.

Dante grasped the back of the chair in front of the table, the rings on his fingers and thumbs clicking against the wood, and leaned forward.

In the dirt beneath winter-stark branches, a woman lay half-curled, her gaze on the sky above. Dante’s heart skipped a beat. She looked so much like Heather—red hair, heart-shaped face, lovely even in death.

A sister? She’d mentioned that her sister had fronted WMD before the band had split up, a sister who suffered from migraines too.

A sudden thought pulsed through him. His hands squeezed around the chair’s hardwood rung. Not her sister. Her mother . Murdered and discarded. Like his own.

Pain prickled behind his eyes, snaked through his mind. Voices whispered.

You look so much like her .

Dante-angel?

Shhh, princess. Hush, p’tite. Sleep .

Closing his eyes, Dante touched fingers to his temple. Tried not to listen to the whispers. Sweat beaded his forehead. Focus on Heather. Focus on now . The voices faded until all he heard was the steady thump of his heart.

Dante opened his eyes. He studied the photos, the report pages scattered on the table. Was she reviewing her mother’s case or reopening it? Heather looked for truth in everything she did. No matter how much it hurt. And no matter who it pissed off.

It’d nearly killed her in D.C. He’d bet anything she wasn’t any safer here.

He remembered how she’d looked the last time he’d seen her at the hospital, her face pale, eyes shadowed, sorrow pooled in their blue depths. She’d looked vulnerable, fragile. So alone.

He wasn’t sure he could trust himself to walk away again. Didn’t know if he could actually tell her good-bye. Didn’t know if he wanted to heal. Didn’t know if he deserved to heal. But he wasn’t walking until he was sure she was safe.

Shoving himself away from the chair and the crime scene photo collage, Dante walked down the hallway to the bedroom. Heather’s scent surrounded him, warm and intimate, and he breathed it in.

An inquisitive mew caught Dante’s attention. An orange cat curled at the foot of the bed opened its golden eyes and regarded him calmly.

“Hey,” Dante said, holding his hand in front of the cat’s nose. The cat sniffed his fingers, then rubbed the side of its face against the edge of his hand. He stroked the small, furred head with two fingers. The cat yawned, tongue curling lazily. “I hope you ain’t supposed to be the guard kitty, minou, cuz you’re sleeping on the job, you.”

Dante trailed his fingers across the neatly made bedspread, and a dark restlessness uncoiled within him as he remembered Heather in his lap, her arms wrapped around him, holding him tight as they rocked together. Remembered the feel of her skin—warm and soft and firm, the honeyed taste of her lips, her blood. Remembered the white silence that had cupped around them like hands sheltering flame from the wind.

It’s quiet when I’m with you. The noise stops .

I’ll help you stop it forever .

But pain still blazed within. White light flickered and strobed.

No. Focus. Stay here. Stay now. Keep her safe .

Forcing himself away from the bed, Dante walked across the carpeted floor to the dresser against the wall. Several framed photos stood grouped together, one of Heather with a girl sporting a purple Mohawk and pharaonic black eyeliner and a guy with reddish-blond hair in jeans and tee. The girl and guy both looked enough like Heather to be her sister and brother. In another photo, Heather cuddled an orange cat, her cheek pressed into the cat’s fur, her blue-eyed gaze happy, content.

The same cat now bumping up against Dante’s leg, back arched for pats. Smiling, he bent and petted the orange head. “I see you’re part of the family and not security,” Dante murmured. “Good thing for me, huh?” As the cat swiveled, purring, Dante noticed only three legs. “Looks like a good thing for you too.”

Dante straightened, kissed the tips of his fingers, and then touched them against the photo of Heather and her kitty. He’d wrapped a finger around the iron pull-ring of the first dresser drawer when he heard a faint step-step out in the living room—or maybe just outside it—followed by silence.

Dante tilted his head, held his breath, and listened.

A heart’s steady rhythm, a mortal heart’s steady rhythm. A faint scratch against wood. A key? No, sounded wrong. The window.

Dante spun and strode out of the room. As he sprinted down the hallway to the living room, pain prickled, restless and sharp, against his temples and behind his left eye. He stopped when he saw a gym bag tossed into the room through the open window. It landed on the carpet with a heavy tunk .

The battered bag with frayed straps reeked of old smoke, pot, and cigarettes. A hand holding a crowbar grasped the windowsill. Dante moved . He seized the crowbar-wielding hand and, with one hard jerk, hauled the asshole in through the window. A loud rip tore through the silence as the asshole’s hoodie or jeans snagged on the broken lock.

He smelled her, this B&E chick, before he saw her, vanilla and cloves and lavender soap, but underneath that a chemical tang smudged her scent. Pain spiked his temples at the smell, scratched like thorns across his thoughts.

Grabbing both of B&E Chick’s shoulders, Dante whirled and slammed her to the floor. Her head bounced against the carpet. Her breath whoof ed out and Dante caught a whiff of booze—tequila. He straddled her, snugging a knee against either side of her ribs. Held her tight.

Something whistled through the air, moving fast. Without looking, Dante swung his left arm up and out. Cold steel smacked into his palm. The crowbar. He jerked it away from little Ms. Break-and-Enter. Tossed it. The crowbar thunked onto the carpet. Dante looked into her kohl-smudged, dilated eyes.

And realized with a cold shock that he recognized her.

Whipping her head forward, she smashed her forehead into Dante’s face. Bone crunched and pain followed hard and fast like a one-two brass-knuckled punch. Blood trickled from his now broken nose. “Fuck!”

“Get off !” B&E Chick screamed, squirming and kicking.

Not just B&E Chick, but Annie Wallace. Former front woman for the defunct WMD. He’d recognized her scowling face from the photos on Heather’s dresser.