How long would it take them to get there? And how would she get out of the yard if they did?
Her wrist watch showed the time: a quarter after nine. She’d wait ten minutes, such a good round number. There was no noise beyond the occasional car and the distant bark of a dog.
She couldn’t hear Cameron’s voice inside her head, but his warmth was against her as she waited.
When ten minutes had passed, she glided back along the length of the house, climbed the deck steps, and entered through the French doors. Her shoes crunched on the glass.
Standing in the deep silence of Traynor’s house, she knew she should have told Witt what she’d planned to do.
“What are we looking for, Max?” Cameron murmured.
“I don’t know,” she croaked, then swallowed. “A torture chamber maybe, with sound proofing. Tiffany was in a weird room when she died.”
The fact was she didn’t have a clue what she was looking for.
She didn’t want to examine the man’s house, was afraid the way he lived might somehow taint her. But of course, that was ridiculous. After all, it was the reason she’d put her life on the line here.
The room she entered was a large dining area with white tile floor and a Persian carpet in the center. The furnishings didn’t suit him. Large paintings hung on each of three walls. The table and six chairs were massive. A breakfront stood on the far wall.
She wandered deeper into the house. The living room held a chintz sofa and loveseat, a dark wood coffee table. Plush carpet cushioned her feet. She hadn’t turned on her flashlight. Whatever she looked for wasn’t in these rooms.
This room didn’t feel like Bud Traynor, either. It was a facade he hid behind.
From the living room, she moved into the front hall. Through long windows on either side of the door, light filtered in from outside. Stairs led to the upper floor. Max looked up and swallowed. This was the house Wendy, her previous murder victim, had grown up in.
“Don’t go there, Max,” Cameron whispered.
She wasn’t sure whether he meant physically or psychologically.
She would, however, go where she had to.
In the streamers of light, she could see down a corridor, which presumably led to the back of the house. There were two doors off this hallway.
Max tiptoed across the tile floor, her tennies squeaking, and opened the first of the doors. A coat closet. The second revealed a water heater and furnace. Neither led to a secret room.
She wasn’t wrong. She knew she wasn’t wrong. Beneath the neat, homey exterior lurked the scent of evil. And there was no one but her to ferret it out.
An arched doorway sat across the entry way from the living room. Max rolled her head on her neck, fortifying herself, then crossed the hall until she stood on the threshold.
Something fell with a crash. Max jumped and dropped her flashlight on the tile. Her heart pounded like a jackhammer.
“Jesus Christ, is that you, Cameron?”
Oh God, please let it be you.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Truly sorry.” His voice came from the darkened interior.
She waited for the sound of sirens, heard nothing. “Dammit, don’t scare me like that.” She picked up the Mag-Lite, checked to make sure it had survived the fall, then moved into the room.
It was a den. The windows were covered by louvered shutters, so Max turned on her flashlight for the first time. The sofa, a rich coffee-brown leather, faced a big screen TV. On the sofa’s right-hand side, the leather seat had been worn down by Bud’s butt, the ottoman in front scarred with the imprint of his feet. On a side table, a brandy glass sat empty and forlorn atop a coaster, with the TV remote next to it. Beyond that, Max’s light flashed over the edges of a silver-framed photograph.
Like quicksand, the lush carpet seemed to suck at her shoes as she crossed to the picture. When she picked it up, Cameron’s heat still clung to the frame. She shined the light on the photo.
A much younger, dark-haired Bud Traynor stared up at her, his arm around a lovely woman whose eyes sparkled with laughter and love. She might have been a few years older than him, her hair a vibrant chestnut that seemed bottle-enhanced. Her features were thin, almost gaunt, her cheekbones prominent. But her smile was wide and adoring. As she looked at him, he posed for the camera. Bud had always posed for everything he did in life. It was another of those things Max just seemed to know.
She ran a finger along the crack in the glass. “Why’d you do that?”
“It was an accident.” She hadn’t heard that flat emotionless tone in his voice since his death. He hadn’t been a lawyer since his death. He hadn’t presided in that world of evil men. He hadn’t needed to. The tone chilled her heart.
“Who is she?”
“His wife.”
“Wendy’s mother?”
Cameron said nothing.
“Is she dead?”