A Merciful Death (Mercy Kilpatrick #1)(83)

Truman looked pleased and raised one eyebrow at her.

She nodded at him. All was good. At this split second in time all was good.

Rose.

She moved back, gripping her mother’s shoulders. “What happened, Mom?”

Her mother sucked in a deep, wavering breath, but her father answered first. “We just got home. The front door was open, and I can tell there was a struggle in the kitchen.”

“There’s blood on the kitchen floor,” her mother whispered. “Broken glass, a mess everywhere.” Her face crumpled. “She’s gone. Her phone’s on the kitchen counter. She’d never go anywhere without her phone.”

Mercy looked at her father. He hadn’t made a move toward her, and she stood just as still.

“Dad.”

He nodded. “Mercy.” His eyebrows were low, his eyes ice cold.

Is that it?

Strengthened by her mother’s embrace, Mercy felt her father’s rejection roll off her shoulders. I can handle him.

“We’d like to take a look in the house,” Truman said, breaking the silence.

“Who’s been inside?” Mercy asked her mother.

“Just us. We didn’t touch anything. As soon as we saw the open door, we knew something was wrong. And when we went in . . .”

“Did you see any vehicles leaving as you arrived? Anything unusual left behind?” Royce asked.

Her mother’s hands wouldn’t hold still. She touched her bag, her belt, and her sleeves as she looked to her husband, who shook his head. “We didn’t notice anything.”

“Let’s take a look.” Truman handed booties and gloves to everyone. As she slipped them on, Mercy studied the heavy door and its multiple locks. Nothing was busted or bent. Rose must have left the door unlocked even though she was home alone. Mercy knew a lot of rural home owners didn’t lock their doors, but her father had insisted they keep it locked. Especially after the murders of Jennifer and Gwen.

Mistake number one.

Or did you open it to someone you knew?

The house appeared pristine except for the kitchen. Russet potatoes were strewn about the floor. Some peeled, some not. A glass bowl lay in shatters among the potatoes. Mercy glanced in the sink, where peelings covered the bottom. A vegetable peeler was abandoned in the brown mess.

How many times did I peel potatoes in this kitchen?

She glanced at her parents, who’d stayed out of the way of the officers, and was pleased to see her father holding her mother’s hand.

Some good things haven’t changed.

Taking care where she stepped, she walked the tile floor. Smears of blood showed where a struggle had occurred. She squatted to get a closer look and spotted a small paring knife on the floor nearly under the stove. She pointed and Royce nodded, aiming his camera at the knife. The officer had been taking photos since they entered, and Mercy couldn’t find fault with his thoroughness.

The blood smears led toward the front of the house, but quickly vanished, giving no clue where the bleeder had gone. Mercy wandered down the hall, using her small flashlight to study the floor and walls, searching for more blood. She shone her light in the powder room near the front door and froze as her heart fell through the floor. “Mom?”

Her mother appeared with Truman, Eddie, and her father right behind her.

“Was the bathroom mirror already broken?”

Her mother automatically reached to flip on the switch, but Mercy grabbed her hand. “Don’t touch.” Mercy stepped back so her mother could see clearly into the room and aimed her flashlight. A small empty frame hung over a sink filled with mirror shards.

“Noooo. Rose!”

Mercy grabbed her mother’s arm as her knees buckled. Her father pushed his way into the small powder room, took his wife in his arms, and clenched his jaw as he silently stared at the mess in the sink.

They remembered.

Truman swore under his breath. “We need to check the grounds of the ranch. Royce?” The other officer appeared. “Call Lucas. We need more help out here. Tell him to contact Jeff Garrison at the Bend FBI office and tell him we’ve got a case related to the prepper murders.”



An hour later, a search of the ranch hadn’t revealed Rose.

Nausea had pressed at the back of Mercy’s throat since she’d arrived at the house, and twice Truman had asked if she needed to leave. When she’d first studied the blood in the kitchen, the thought that Rose had been taken by the prepper killer had tried to swamp her brain; she’d set it aside, wanting proof. Once she saw the broken mirror, reality had swept in and drowned her doubts.

He has her.

Who is he?

He’d followed Mercy to her cabin. At least twice, maybe more. He’d slashed her tires. Why?

She had no proof, but she was capable of putting two and two together. But why Rose?

Truman had rapidly pulled together the investigative team. Deschutes County had sent some deputies to walk the entire property, and Jeff from the Bend office had arrived with another agent.

They weren’t short on help.

Mercy sat with her parents in her father’s study. The furniture had been rearranged and the rug had been replaced since the night she and Rose were assaulted, but she still felt echoes of the attack. Or maybe they were fresh from today.

“Has anyone been hanging around the ranch?” she asked her parents. Focus on asking the right questions.