Page 24 of Vetted for Vengeance
“Run off to France to lie low in the sunshine.”
Rhys nods, his eyes fixed on me like he's pulling layers away to expose my soul. He watches me like a vet examining an animalfor hidden injuries. If I can believe my words, hopefully he can too.
“I'll wash up.” His words are sudden, catching me off-guard. Rhys stands too quickly, as if the room suddenly became too small. He gathers what's left on the coffee table and hurries out of the room as if the leftovers are taunting him about the mess. I pick up the remaining glasses and follow him out.
“I don't know whether to offer to help or give you space,” I call from the kitchen doorway.
“Space,” he replies quickly. “Put those down and make yourself at home. I'll be fine in five minutes.”
I obey and slip out of the kitchen. I get it. I really do. Outgoing vet by day, in the spotlight, in control, and his home is where he can relax. Let the mask slip. And now I'm here, reminding him of everything he can't control. The dogs, me. The fact that I know all about both of his lives.
I understand he needs space. I also understand that he needs time. If he wants me to leave, I will. Whether that's just moving out or moving to the other side of the country. If he wants me to stay… well, despite everything I know he's done, that's where I question his sanity.
Why would he want me?
My aimless wandering leads me into the one room downstairs I haven't been in yet. I've seen the kitchen, living room, and dining room while texting two dead brothers this morning. I resisted opening the closed door, didn't even check if it was locked. Back then, I thought I'd be figuring things out for myself by now. But he said to make myself at home, and here I am. Standing in his home office.
His veterinary certificate hangs on one wall; a few framed magazine covers surround it, all of him holding something cute. No family, no holiday snaps, nothing personal. Just Rhys, thevet. Maybe it's just workspace separation. Maybe the personal stuff is somewhere else? Somewhere I haven't seen yet.
Veterinary textbooks line his bookshelf, organized in obsessively controlled height order, perfectly aligned against the front of the shelf.
My fingers move to the first in a group of books about veterinary nursing, intrigued by his suggestion to learn. I pull it off the shelf, knowing I flunked high school biology. After flicking through about three chapters, my gaze is drawn to the gap on the shelf. Behind the missing book isn't space; it's polystyrene. The books aren't perfectly aligned with the front of the shelf because he doesn't push them back, but because he's filled the gap behind them with polystyrene so they can't go back further.
A dangerous thought crosses my mind. If I was being this anal about order, my polystyrene would be secret compartments.
Twenty books come off the shelf one by one, lined on his desk in order so I can put them back perfectly. I pick the smallest ones, those needing more polystyrene behind and…
Nothing.
He's got no secret cutouts or hidden objects. He's just a boring guy with OCD.
A boring guy who kills people in his cellar.
Maybe not so boring.
Maybe clever.
If anyone searched this room, they wouldn't find any secrets, because secrets make people look deeper.
Having no secrets means people stop looking. It means people like me are disappointed, even knowing about the kill room.
I put the books back perfectly and turn to his desk. It's a monstrous mahogany beast with three drawers on either side and one small drawer across the middle.
The top is bare; no computer, no photo, nothing but three pens perfectly lined up, like this entire room is just for show. Sitting in his wide leather chair, I slide out the drawer, bracing for what I expect will be more souvenirs.
It's not what I was expecting.
It's worse in a way.
Foam, I think, or maybe sponge, fills the drawer, nurturing a line of slender instruments in perfectly sized cutouts. Perfect sliver implements sit in their perfect row, gleaming clean but probably holding more secrets than anything else in this room.
A scalpel.
A mean-looking pair of forceps.
Some kind of surgical saw.
Clamps.
