“THEY DID A THOROUGH job, I’ll grant them that.”
Nate stands just inside his doorway, looking over his apartment. The evidence of the crime scene team is everywhere, with surfaces showing the remains of fingerprint dust, the coffee table standing where the living room rug used to be. Walking through, we see the kitchen drawers open.
“They took all my knives,” he says slowly. “I’ll have to get new ones.”
“Come on,” I say with my hand on his shoulder. “Get what you need, then let’s leave. There’s nothing to be gained staying here.”
Nate nods dully, and I follow him out of the kitchen and down the hallway. The carpet still shows a trail of bloody footprints leading from Nate’s bedroom—not a normal gate, but staggering. There are bloody handprints on the walls where he must have stumbled a
