CAINE
To the unobservant eye, the house is exactly as Elizabeth says. Her home.
But it doesn't take much effort to scratch at the lie.
Devoid of personal effects, lacking the clutter everyone's living space acquired. Every piece of silverware is accounted for. There are no scratches on any of the cookware. Even the closets are eerily empty.
The cleaning supplies located under the kitchen sink are all brand new. There's no bag in the trash can, and the box of replacements is unopened.
No vacuum. No broom.
Everything you'd consider a daily necessity of life is missing. There are extra sheets in the linen closet and a small stack of towels, as if this is a guest house, not a home.
The fading light casts long shadows across the room. Fenris's hackles raise from his position by the door. He's been tense since we arrived.
Me, too.
My phone vibrates against my thigh. Another message.
