"I know. It's not a puzzle we'll solve tonight. For now, we need to call the police. First, though, I want to take a look in the attic. Do you want to come or guard the evidence?"
"I'll go. You can guard."
"That wasn't one of the options."
"I know," I said as I brushed past him.
--
Gabriel didn't try to stop me, but he didn't hang back at the foot of the stairs, either. He came up until he could see what I was doing, while keeping one eye on the "evidence" below.
"Don't touch anything," he said. "Try not to leave too many footprints."
"I've been shedding hair lately. Is that a problem?"
"I will explain the footprints and any additional forensic evidence by saying you came up after the cat. I'm merely asking you to keep that evidence to a minimum."
"I was joking about the hair."
"I wasn't. Quickly now. We've established a timeline, and the longer it takes to phone . . ."
Unlike the basement, this space wasn't empty. It wasn't exactly jam-packed, either, just dotted with covered furniture and storage chests. From the dust, none of it had belonged to the previous owners. Not unless they'd moved out fifty years ago. As I walked, I remembered what Gabriel had said about footprints, and I stopped dead, cursing under my breath.
"What's wrong?" Gabriel's head crested the steps.
"You mentioned footprints. If someone's up here, that would be a sure sign of it." I backed up a few steps and waved my light around.
Gabriel gave me 1.3 seconds before saying, "Anything?"
I took another five before answering. "Not even my own, because someone has swept a path. I can see a few of TC's prints, but he seems to have stuck mostly to the cleared part. Meaning at the end of this path, presumably, is where the head was. Or where the killer is lying in wait." I raised my voice. "Did you hear that? I know where you are!"
"And now he knows where you are," Gabriel muttered.
"Like he wouldn't have the moment we started talking. Also, it could be a she."
"Olivia . . ."
"I'm moving. Following this handy path to my doom. Did I mention I had a vision down there? I think it was some kind of banshee. Which is--"
"I know what a banshee is, and I hope you're joking, and that you would not venture up here after hearing a death knell."
I said nothing.
"Olivia . . . ?"
"Hold on." A few more steps. "I think I see where . . ."
I trailed off as I shone the flashlight at the path's end. It was a table. Covered in a sheet. With something under that sheet.
The rest of Ciara Conway.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As Gabriel phoned it in, I moved around the table, illuminating every surface with the flashlight beam. The swath swept around the table left enough room for the killer to maneuver without leaving footprints. I couldn't smell the body or the embalming fluid; the stink of bleach was too strong. He--or she--had washed everything down. Laid Ciara out here, covered her, cleaned up, and left.
When Gabriel finished his call, he came up for a look himself. He surveyed the area and then scanned the floor with the flashlight, until he was reassured I hadn't messed up anything. We left the sheet in place.
"We should wait downstairs," he said.