It looked like someone stayed there, but not that someone lived there. He’d moved in shortly after the accident that had killed his wife and son and never made it a home, his love for them a ghost that haunted every room. Anders stood outside the door to the flat. Behind her, Barry and Duncan paused. No one wanted to be the first inside. They knew what they would find. Anders’ hand shook as she inserted a key into the lock. She’d taken it from the janitor and it scraped noisily as the key brushed against the metal. Pushing the door open, she gathered her courage and stepped into the flat. The smell of death hung heavy in the air, an iron tang of blood mixed with the fluids released from the body at the time of death. Anders knew Mal was dead before she saw him. Her world stilled as she entered the living room and saw the horror of Buckland’s work. Her own scars tingled and crawled on her back. The Washington Whipper had done the same to her, but she had been lucky to escape.
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