Page 129 of Flint’s Strike

He throws the door open. I go right. He takes the left.

The cabin is spotless.

The sweet scent of tequila is gone. So’s the bottle. The duffel bag. The overflowing trash can. The dirty dishes. The clutter. A subtle hint of bleach cuts through the traces of old upholstery, body odor, and buckshot.

The counters are bare. Not wiped down—stripped. No dishes or glasses. The towel that was hanging off one of the cabinet doorknobs yesterday is gone.

The table—where we told Kessler his name had been taken off the inspection records for Aldrich and Rutherford Lane—is polished almost to a shine, all the chairs pushed in, equally spaced.

Drawers open and close in the single bedroom. A closet door scrapes on its track. Nate moves through the space with the same precision he brings to everything else in his life.

A moment later, he emerges, shaking his head. “Empty.”

The trash can isn’t though. Not completely. It’s got a new liner. “Nate. A guy runnin’ scared doesn’t think about trash bag liners.”

“He doesn’t think about stripping the bed either.”

Shit.

We don’t touch anything—yet. First, we walk the exterior of the cabin. This time of year, it’s too dry for usable footprints in the forest litter. We check anyway. The outhouse is…still disgusting, but there’s a fresh roll of toilet paper hanging from a rusted metal hook mounted to the wall. It hasn’t been touched. Not a single square missing.

“Either Kessler’s a neat freak when he’s not on a bender, or…”

I glance back at the cabin. “Or someone else did the cleaning. Now we need to find out if they also cleaned up Kessler.”

We return to the Impala, where Nate unlocks the trunk. We aren’t expecting to find much. No prints. No fibers. No bodily fluids. Not with how well this place has been scrubbed. But if we don’t look, we don’t deserve our stars.

Two hours pass before we’ve swabbed every surface. We’ve taken enough photos, we could wallpaper the whole damn cabin with them. “I’m callin’ it,” I say. “Kessler’s either in the wind, or he’s gone from this life, but he definitely ain’t here.”

The Impala’s AC struggles against the heat as Nate takes the cattle grate at a whopping two miles an hour. The trees and brush blur outside the windows, but neither of us say a word until Cooter’s comes into view.

“You hungry?” Nate asks. He waits for my answer, but I’m too wiped to give one, so eventually, he shakes his head. “Neither am I.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

Eliot

There are thirty-six steps between the parking lot and Parker’s front door. I’ve never counted them before, but tonight my knee is definitely doing the math for me.

By the third landing, I consider sitting down. Maybe even sleeping right here. Six hours in a hundred-year-old sanctuary attic will do that to a man. Especially one whose body is already falling apart.

I had just enough time after inspecting the church and giving it the all clear to run home and take a shower, stare at the mess in my bedroom, and wonder when and how the hell I’m supposed to finish putting up the acoustic tiles when I’m underwater with inspections by day and can barely lift my arms over my head at night.

I did stop to buy a small bouquet of flowers. Though I doubt she’s gotten around to buying that vase yet.

I lean against the wall next to her door, working up the energy to knock. When I finally do, the deadbolt clicks a few seconds later.

Fuck. The sight of her—hair falling in messy waves to her shoulders, no makeup, bare feet, in a pair of loose shorts and a tank top—sends the exhaustion running for the hills.

“Hey,” she says with a small smile. “Come on in.”

“Brought you somethin’.”

Parker’s eyes light up, and she pulls the bouquet to her nose for a quick inhale. “Guess it’s a good thing I stopped at the Dollar Mart on the way home.”

Locking the deadbolt behind me, I follow her through the living room. The scent of fried tortillas hits me, and my stomach makes a noise that doesn’t sound human. “God, that smells amazing.”

“Don’t get too excited. Quesadillas are about all I’ve got the energy for tonight. And the tortillas are store-bought.” She hunches her shoulders slightly, like working a case this size and cooking an elaborate meal is somehow the bar for a successful day.