After listening for several moments, he was fairly sure he was alone. As such, he took a bit more time to look around the main level. He knew Finley had grown up here—something he’d learned by eavesdropping in on one of Finley and Titus’ training sessions. During their breaks, they’d sip water and chat like lifelong friends. While Carrick often ignored the pair as they made use of his home gym, sometimes he would step inside and watch them.
Other times—if they weren’t actively working out—he’d listen in from just outside the door where they couldn’t see him.
Yes, he knew this was Finley’s childhood home and that her mother went into a very fast labor on a horribly stormy night, delaying the arrival of the ambulance. That would be Carrick’s first clue that perhaps Finley was born different because Seattle rarely had storms. Just rain. It was probably a portent.
Finley had told Titus that Fallon was born first, right on her parents’ bed, and then she came out a few minutes later, squalling louder than the storm outside. Sadly, her mom died on the same bed her twins were birthed, shortly after Finley’s arrival.
Carrick’s gaze roamed slowly. The living room and kitchen were clean, which was surprising given she lived here with three roommates. By all accounts, from what he’d learned, Finley had been close to her dad. It was surprising there weren’t any personal Porter photographs in the living room, and Carrick wondered if she perhaps did that in deference to her roommates so they felt this was truly their home, too.
It was that soft spot she had, despite the toughened exterior she kept in place. Sadly, it would probably get her killed at some point.
Carrick spent a few moments poking around in drawers, opening cabinets, but always careful to leave everything just as it had been. He hadn’t expected to find anything of importance in the public areas all of the roommates shared, but he had to be diligent.
He moved to the second floor, climbing the staircase quietly despite his size and steel-toed boots. Carrick noted a creaking sound on the fourth step up. He didn’t know if he’d ever come back, but he had the ability to remember small details, and tucked it away.
At the landing, he chose the door to the left. Opening it, he immediately determined it was the male’s bedroom. Unmade bed, dirty clothes on the floor, and an open closet door with male clothing haphazardly hung up. There was nothing in here he wanted, so he backed out and shut the door.
Moving to the next room on the left where the door was open, he stepped in. Definitely a female room, but he could tell by the scent of perfume hanging in the air it wasn’t Finley’s. The aroma was strong, spicy, and sexualized. By smell alone, he knew it was one of the other female’s bedrooms. Thus, he exited without giving it another thought.
Pivoting to face the door on the opposite side of the hall, he pondered the closed door and wondered who it belonged to. Finley or the other female roommate?
Only one way to find out, and without hesitation, Carrick opened the door and stepped in.
At once, he knew he was in Finley’s room. It smelled faintly of coffee and orange blossoms, the light floral scent of her shampoo he’d become accustomed to and frankly, liked a whole hell of a lot. A pair of ragged-looking Chucks kicked off under a small desk. A zip hoodie he recognized hung over a chair, and there was a Foo Fighters poster on the wall. On her bedside table, she had a small Tiffany lamp in the shape of a butterfly beside a framed photo of Finley and a man he assumed was her father.
Carrick moved that way and sat on the unmade bed. Simple white sheets and a light blue blanket was all she had in the way of bedding, but he didn’t expect any different. She wasn’t the type of woman to need frills. Her sheets and blanket were twisted and kicked low, indicating a restless sleep. He wondered if that was always the way she slumbered or if it was only since finding out about the secret world of fae and daemons.
Picking up the photo, Carrick studied it. He estimated Finley was in her mid-teens. He knew—this time through the investigator he’d hired—that her dad died by suicide when she was sixteen. Maybe this was one of their last photos together. Looking happy and completely at ease with each other, they were outside somewhere, the sun was bright, and it was warm enough they both had on short-sleeved shirts. Their arms were slung over each other’s shoulders, and they were smiling brightly at whoever was taking the photo.
Maybe Fallon?
Carrick scanned the room for other photos but found none. No more of her father, none of Fallon.