The Wrong Bones (Widow's Island #10)(24)

They moved down the hall to the next door. Logan peered around the frame. A double bed and plain dresser occupied the space. No personal effects. Guest room? He looked under the bed. Tessa checked the closet before they left the room.

Logan eyed a set of double doors at the end of the hall. The primary bedroom.

They crept down the hall, their boots silent on the cream-colored carpet. The right-hand door stood ajar. Logan put his eye to the crack at the hinge to view a skinny slice of room. He saw no one. Tessa nudged the door. It swung to the opposite wall, giving them a view of the whole room. Clothes hung over the edges of dresser drawers. The closet doors stood open.

They went through the doorway and scanned the room for threats.

Logan checked the walk-in closet.

Tessa checked the bathroom. “Clear.”

They stood in the middle of the space.

Tessa turned in a circle. “Someone packed up in a hurry.”

Logan scanned the closet. “Things are so pulled apart that I can’t tell whose clothes are missing.”

“Maybe Simon is taking the bones and running with them,” Tessa suggested.

“Why would he do that?”

“The bones are important for some reason.” Tessa continued to study the room. “With some crimes, the whys never make sense to us but are clear to the perpetrator.”

“I’m glad I can’t understand.” Logan had seen enough senseless death and destruction to know people did the unimaginable every day. “Simon is probably on the run. But where’s Shannon?”

Tessa crossed the room and studied the partially opened drawers of the dresser. “Looks like they both took clothes. Maybe she went with him. She said she loved him.”

“He could have forced her.”

“True,” Tessa said.

“Let’s see what’s in the garage.” Logan headed for the hall.

Tessa jogged to catch up. “I’m not taking the time to apply for a warrant.”

“Nope.” Logan didn’t have a single fuck left for procedure or paperwork.

“I’m calling an active shooter an exigent circumstance,” Tessa said. The set of her jaw told him she didn’t have any fucks left either. Normally, they needed a search warrant to enter a private citizen’s home, but if lives would be endangered by procedural delays, the requirement could be bypassed.

Tessa retraced their steps to the back door, went outside, and jogged down the deck steps. They ran across the side yard to the garage. They’d have to break in. They approached a human-size door on the near side of the building. Logan tried the knob. Locked. But there was no dead bolt, just a cheap doorknob lock. He pulled out a credit card and slid it into the crack next to the knob. A little maneuvering, and he had the door open in thirty seconds.

He glanced back at Tessa. She nodded, and he pushed open the door. An F-250 stood in the middle bay. The spaces on each side were empty.

A metallic scent hit his nose. He froze. The smell brought images of Afghanistan back to his mind that he had no interest in reliving. He fought the memories. Not now. Focus. If you fuck up, Tessa could die.

He glanced at her, using the eye contact to ground him. Her eyes widened. She recognized the smell too.

Blood.

He flexed his fingers. He’d cleaned off Kurt’s blood, but he could still feel it coating his skin. Or was that sweat? He wiped his palms, one by one, on his thighs, then adjusted his grip on his weapon. Logan crouched and scanned the concrete under the truck. He froze for two seconds. On the other side of the truck, dirty bones were scattered on the concrete, and a hand stretched out from behind the far front wheel. He gestured toward the hand and mouthed, “Person down,” to Tessa.

With a nod, she started across the space, leading with her weapon. They moved around the front of the truck. Logan stopped when a red puddle came into view.

He jerked his head back and mouthed, “Blood,” to Tessa. Her mouth flattened into a grim line.

Had Simon killed his wife before going after the bones and shooting Kurt? Had he then traded his vehicle for hers?

Logan continued around the truck. His gaze swept over the body, ignoring it until he’d made certain the rest of the space was cleared of threats. They were alone.

He and Tessa stood side by side, staring down at the lake of blood, the tipped-over box of bones, and the body of Simon Dooley.





9


Shocked, Tessa shoved her gun into its holster and crouched to touch Simon’s neck. No pulse. No surprise. No one could survive a blood loss that great. The garage looked like a slaughterhouse. She rocked back to sit on her heels. Three blood blossoms stained the front of Simon Dooley’s shirt.

“Damn.” Logan holstered his gun. “Not what I expected to find.”

“No. Not at all.” Tessa spotted a long brown hair lying on the concrete, one end stuck in the edge of the blood puddle. “Do you see that?”

“Dwyer has long dark hair.” Logan rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. “Simon and Shannon are both blond.”

Tessa sorted through the possibilities. “When we first saw the blood, I thought Simon had killed Shannon.”

“Same.”

“Speaking of Shannon . . .” Tessa used her shoulder mic to ask dispatch to identify any vehicles registered to Shannon Dooley and to put out a BOLO on her and her vehicle and to notify the ferry operators not to leave port if she was on board.