Emerald blazed forth from Bones’s eyes, bright as a traffic light. As quick as she could gasp, she was caught in their depths, mutely stepping back when Bones told her to let us inside.
I closed the door behind us, wincing when I saw the destruction in her apartment. Her couch was overturned, lamps and tables smashed, kitchen cabinets half-torn from their hinges, and multiple pieces of broken dishes littered the floor. Either this was Kramer’s work, or she had real issues with her temper.
“Who did this?” Bones asked, still holding her gaze.
Anguish skipped across her expression. “I don’t know his name. I can’t even see him unless he wants me to.”
That was enough confirmation for me, but Bones asked her one more question. “How long has he been coming to you?”
“Over three weeks,” she whispered.
I exchanged a grim glance with Bones. That was earlier than we’d expected. If Kramer had started terrorizing his intended victims at the end of September, it made sense that he’d already picked out his accomplice. It only stood to benefit Kramer if his dirty little helper was familiar with where he’d be kidnapping the women from, after all. And if Kramer was covering his tracks well enough that it had taken Elisabeth over five weeks to find the first of the three women, would she be able to find the other two in just seventeen days?
“Don’t be afraid, but you need to come with us,” I told her.
A single tear slipped down her cheek, but she made no protest when I started leading her toward the door. Bones stopped me, gesturing toward what I assumed was her bedroom.
“Let her collect a few things, and make sure she takes what’s most precious to her. Those will help her feel more comfortable later. I’ll get some sage burning just in case.”
Leave it to Bones to know how to make a girl feel better, even under the most stressful circumstances.
“Come on, we’re going to pack real quick,” I told her, making sure I said it with the brights on in my gaze. “Don’t forget to take whatever has the most sentimental value to you.”
“I can’t,” she said, another tear trickling down her cheek.
“Sure you can,” I murmured encouragingly. Then, after another glance at the carpet, I picked her up. Otherwise, her bare feet would be shredded with all the broken glass. From the coppery scent wafting off her, she had some cuts on her feet from letting us in. Why hadn’t she put on shoes before answering the door?
Once we were in her bedroom, which was as trashed as the rest of the apartment, I had my answer.
“Bastard,” I whispered with a fresh surge of loathing.
From the looks of her closet, Kramer had destroyed all her clothing. Suits, dresses, blouses, pants . . . you couldn’t tell them apart from the piles of shredded fabric. Dresser drawers were overturned, more haphazard pieces of fabric spilled out of them. He’d even split apart her shoes.
“I don’t have anything left that matters to me. He broke it all,” she said, the words more heartrending because of the acceptance in her tone.
Anger made my hands tremble. Since he died, Kramer no longer had the ability to rip women from their homes, taking them away to a pitiless prison. So to make up for that, he turned their homes into their prisons. This woman—and I still didn’t know her name—wouldn’t even be able to leave her apartment unless she wore that robe as an outfit.
“Don’t worry, we’re taking you to a safe place,” I promised her, picking her up again.
I’d cleared the bedroom door when Helsing let out an extended snarl.