Red. All I could see was red.
On instinct, I tried the door, found it unlocked. I threw it open, stepped across the threshold.
Red was everywhere. Raked across the off-white walls. Caking onto all that original wood—an elaborate chair rail, an exposed-beam ceiling. Dripping, even, onto a tufted ottoman, a sheepskin throw. Droplets on an antique mirror. Splashed across all the décor added to make this place look cozy. A mounted Gibson guitar. Antique snowshoes. A topographical map of Esopus Creek. Red, destroying what would have been a picture-perfect image, something you could pin up in the windows of the real estate office in town. I stepped forward, pulse pounding in my ears.
What the hell is going on? What happened here?
My eyes focused, and I spotted the open paint can in the corner, the brush dipped inside.
It wasn’t blood; it was paint.
And before me, scrawled in huge letters across the wall:
DIE RICH PIG
A break-in, of course. Another break-in. But what happened?
Was . . . was he here when it happened?
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
I turned to my right, but as I did, my toe caught on something soft and heavy, weighty and, and . . .
I fell forward, reaching out and scrambling to catch myself, my knees smashing against the hardwood floor, my hands barely breaking my fall. I struggled to push myself up, but once I did, I screamed.
Because there it was, red again.
But not paint this time. Blood. Spatters and splatters and splotches and pools.
And in the midst of the blood, a body.