Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires, #12)(22)

The living room was marked by an enormous couch on the opposite wall. It was what I’d call the “Official Couch of the Seventies”—long, ruffled, and covered in cream velveteen fabric with orange and brown flowers.

There was a matching love seat, an end table, a lamp. No photographs, no curtains, no television or stereo.

“Not much here,” I whispered.

“Or maybe our shifter wasn’t into décor.”

The living room led into a dining room that was empty but for a small table with four chairs and two more doorways—a kitchen straight back, and what I guessed was a bedroom to the side.

“I’ll take the bedroom,” I said.

“Passing up the kitchen?” Ethan asked with a chuckle. “How novel.”

“As is that joke. Check the refrigerator.”

My excellent suggestion was met by an arched eyebrow. “He’s a shifter,” I reminded Ethan. “If he’s been here lately, he’ll have food.”

Ethan opened his mouth, closed it again. “That’s a good suggestion.”

I glanced back at him, winked. “It’s not my first night on the job, sunshine.”

Ethan humphed but walked into the kitchen while I slipped into the bedroom, a hand on the pommel of my sword. That the house seemed empty didn’t mean we shouldn’t be cautious.

The bedroom held a matching set of white children’s furniture—lots of curlicues and gilded accents. Probably from the same era as the couch in the front room. The mattress was bare, and there were no ribbons or mementos tucked into the corners of the mirror that topped the chest of drawers. Furniture or not, no child lived here.

The bedroom led to a short hallway. Closet on one side, Jack and Jill bathroom on the other with avocado green fixtures. No toothbrushes, no towels, no shampoo bottle in the shower. There was a spider the size of a smallish Buick, and I gave him or her a wide berth.

The next door, probably another bedroom, was nearly closed, and a soft mechanical throb seeped through the crack. I flicked the thumb guard on my sword, just in case, and pushed the door open with the toe of my boot.

It was another small bedroom. A ceiling fan whirred above a black double bed with more gilded accents, the mattress covered by a rumpled duvet and thick pillows. This was Caleb Franklin’s bedroom. And if the fan was any indication, he’d been here recently.

There was a closet in the far corner. It was empty but for a pile of dirty clothes on the floor. No shoes, no hangers.

I opened the drawers of the bureau and nightstand that matched the bed. The nightstand was empty; the bureau held a few changes of clothes. T-shirts, jeans, a couple of hoodies.

Had this been the freedom Caleb had wanted? The freedom to not care about material possessions? Had he found peace in this desolate neighborhood? And if so, why would anyone have bothered to kill him?

The bedroom’s second door led into the kitchen, completing the circle through the interior. I walked through, found a small storage closet behind it that led to an exterior door. There was a mop, a bucket, and a worn pair of snow boots.

I felt Ethan come in behind me.

“Some clothes in the bedroom,” I said, pulling open the door of a metal cabinet, finding it empty. “That’s about all I’ve found. What about you?”

In the answering silence, I turned around. Ethan had walked to the refrigerator, opened it.

It was absolutely stocked.

There were bundles of produce—carrots with the green tops still attached, glossy eggplants, heads of cabbage—besides piles of steaks and dozens of brown eggs in a carefully placed pyramid. There were blocks of cheese, a dozen bottles of water, a plate of what looked like profiteroles, and several bundles wrapped in aluminum foil. The scent of spiced meat wafted out. I’d have bet good money they’d been prepared by Berna, Gabe’s strong-willed and culinarily skilled relative.

“No processed foods in this man’s diet,” Ethan said.

“And a big appetite. Of course, he’s a shifter.” That meant he was an animal of some type, although we wouldn’t ask Gabriel. The animal variety was considered very personal among Pack members.

“So we have an empty house and a stocked fridge,” I said. “By all accounts, Caleb Franklin slept here, ate here, stored the barest necessities here. Didn’t seem to do much else here.”

“No,” he didn’t,” Ethan agreed.

I looked around. “Whatever got him killed, there’s no evidence of it inside.” I glanced back at Ethan. “You want to finish up in here? I want to take a walk around the yard.”

Ethan nodded. “I’ll take a pass. Be careful out there.”

I promised I would and walked back to the front door, then outside. I needed to think like him. He might not have had a Pack, but as the stocked fridge showed, he was still a shifter.

I hopped down the steps, walked around the house. There were shrubs in front of the foundation every few feet, and a few trees just beginning to bud around the edge of the narrow lot.

The backyard was small, bordered by the back neighbor’s chain-link fence, which was covered in brambles and vines. There were a couple more trees back here, as well as a cracked and peeling redwood picnic table. A swing hung from one tree, a simple wooden plank attached to an overhanging branch by a thick, braided rope, probably hung for the same child who’d once owned the white bedroom furniture.