He grabbed his phone and got out of the car.

  The wind rose again, raking his hair, a cold hand pressing against his cheek. He hurried across the icy street. He could smell the cold dark and something like dog piss and his own breath. Little clouds of vapor trailed him. The night was so still, he thought the first sound would crack it.

  When he reached the house, another breeze forced open the door, and John-Henry found himself staring inside: a foyer, dark timbers, dark tile, a switchback staircase, a rug. It was impossible to make out anything else without more light. He listened. TV voices, too low for him to make out the words, came from an archway to his left, and he caught those glimmers of bluish-gray light again. A smell wafted out to him, unpleasant but too faint for him to be able to tell what it was. He told himself to call out, to announce himself. But he didn’t.

  He’d been police for a long time—at this point, he’d been police longer than he’d been anything else. And right then, instincts honed over the years were screaming at him, telling him to get back to the car, call this in, and next time, pack a fucking gun. But he didn’t do that either. This was Auburn, and the chief of police in Auburn was Jonas Cassidy. Cassidy’s past was problematic enough—the short version was that he’d been Emery’s partner and then, when Emery had exposed his corruption, Cassidy had been saved by his father, a captain in the Metropolitan Police, and Emery had found himself ejected from the force. On top of that, though, Cassidy was somehow tied into whatever organization was operating out of the Cottonmouth Club. If something was happening here tonight, calling Cassidy would be like bringing in reinforcements for the bad guys.

  He might have turned back. He might have gotten in the Mustang and driven away. But a sound stopped him—a phone buzzing. John-Henry shoved a hand into his pocket to silence it, cursing his stupidity and bad luck. But his phone wasn’t vibrating, and a moment later, he realized the sound had a different quality. A dim glow showed him where a phone lay on the floor next to the stairs. The screen went dark, and the phone’s buzzing stopped.

  Nobody left their phone on the floor, John-Henry thought. Not unless they had a good reason. Not in the entry hall. It would have been another thing if it had been somewhere else—on the floor in the living room, say, where it might have gotten knocked off the arm of the recliner and overlooked. But here? Something had happened. And it had happened right here.

  John-Henry stepped inside and shut the door, leaning against it to close it firmly. No prints, he thought. Absolutely no fingerprints.

  He started off at a quick walk and, the next heartbeat, almost ended up on his ass. The rug slid underfoot, and because he’d been walking so quickly, it had almost taken him out. He recovered his balance and took a deep breath; he could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. His first thought, mingling disbelief and outrage, was that Emery never would have let something like that happen. He would have bought one of those rug backers, the no-slip kind. And the thought, how immediate it had been, made John-Henry want to burst out laughing. He recognized the laughter, too, as an overflow of adrenaline, and he managed to swallow it as he moved deeper into the house.

  When he cleared the rug, his sneakers made a soft squeak on the tile—the rubber, wet from the snow and ice, and it squeaked again on his next step. He moved more slowly, trying to minimize the noise, hoping the sound of the TV would cover it.

  He started with the archway on his left. It connected with a hallway, and the first opening in the hallway led into what must have been called a great room or a family room or a gathering room. A massive television hung on one wall, faced by an ancient Chesterfield sofa and a much more modern-looking recliner, with gleaming leather and chrome. An updated wet bar, with a lot of expensive-looking glassware, took up the wall opposite the TV. A large opening connected with a kitchen, where the only light came from under the microwave. The television displayed the Netflix home page, and as John-Henry stood there, it cycled through the preview clip for what appeared to be a Christmas-action-horror movie called Just Clause. A bare-chested and ridiculously buff Santa was carrying a waifish (and mostly naked) girl over his shoulder. He had positioned her just right so she didn’t get in the way of the assault rifle strapped across his muscular back.

  “We’ve got to get out!” the girl screamed.

  “The only way out,” Santa answered, “is up.”

  Since they were approaching the fireplace, John-Henry decided that meant going up the chimney. He also decided that if he survived the next few days and didn’t spend the majority of the next decade or two in prison, he and Colt were definitely going to have to watch that movie.

  The Netflix trailer reached its end. Silence swallowed the house again. Then something beeped, breaking the quiet, and John-Henry started. His gaze moved to the kitchen. The microwave’s display flashed. The Netflix trailer began again, but now that John-Henry was listening for it, he could hear the microwave’s reminder beep when it came again. He passed into the kitchen.

  The stink that had met him in the entry hall was stronger now. Burned popcorn. The microwave flashed the word DONE at him and beeped again. John-Henry’s mind began to assemble a narrative: Brey had been ready to call it a night. He’d turned off the lights. Popped a bag of popcorn. Started scrolling through Netflix, looking for something to watch. And—

  A gap opened in the story. Something had happened. Something that had left the front door swinging in the breeze.

  John-Henry retraced his steps through the great room, out into the hallway. Without the glow from the TV, the darkness seemed even thicker, but he didn’t want to use the flashlight on his phone because it would reveal his position, announcing his presence to anyone still in the house. He moved slowly, each step coming down carefully on the tile, straining to hear. The next door opened onto an office—he could make out the shape of the desk, the computer, the filing cabinets—and the one after that appeared to be a guest room, with a bed and dresser, but pristine and smelling slightly musty, with no personal effects to suggest anyone used the room regularly.

  The hallway turned, and the final door was bolted. After a moment’s hesitation, he covered his hand with his sleeve and threw back the bolt. When he opened the door, he found the garage. Cold air washed over him, making him shiver. A single car occupied the garage. The gloom made it impossible to make out details, but he guessed the shadows clumped up against the walls were the usual junk that accumulated in a garage. He shut the door, wiped down everything he’d touched, and retraced his steps to the entry hall.

  He found a dining room with big windows that looked out on the street. Light filtered into the room and gleamed on a table and chairs and china hutch. Next, a formal living room, with more of those big windows. Another old-fashioned sofa and chairs, a piano with its lid open, the steel and bronze inside glittering like teeth. Someone had left a copy of Country Living on the coffee table, and even though there wasn’t enough light to read the date, it looked like it might have been older than John-Henry.

  The only other door off the entry hall led into a bedroom. John-Henry knew at once it was the master or the primary or whatever you were supposed to call it these days. The size was one clue—the room was much bigger than the guest room he’d seen earlier. Heavy wooden furniture made bulky shadows in the weak light. He caught a faded, floral scent that reminded him of the sachets his grandmother used to keep in dresser drawers, but it mingled with a musty smell that reminded him of the guest room. John-Henry debated exploring the room further. Curiosity made him want to check the closets, the walk-in bath, the bedding. Why hadn’t Brey moved into this room after his parents died? What might John-Henry find if he poked around? He had a Hitchcock-induced vision of finding a mummified Mother Brey wrapped in a nightgown and propped up in an old-fashioned wheelchair. Honestly, he thought as he eased the door shut and retreated, at this point, Psycho would be a relief compared to what he was dealing with.

  The only place left was up, and John-Henry fought the urge to whisper to himself, The only way out is up. He didn’t, of course. In part because his instincts were still screaming at him. And in part because he knew the goofiness was a result of the hormones rushing through his body, making it hard to think clearly. But mostly because he knew that Emery would have killed him if he’d been here.

  He was on the landing of the switchback stairs when a thud came from above him, and then a muffled grunt. John-Henry stopped. His heart raced, the sound of its drumming filling his ears. He thought, for a moment, it was too loud for him to hear anything else. But then the microwave beeped downstairs. He waited. On the walls, generations of Breys stared down at him, their eyes silver in the weak light that filtered in through the windows. No more noises came from above. After a minute, he started up the stairs again, testing each tread to see if it would creak before he trusted his weight to it.

  Why didn’t you bring a gun, he asked himself.

  Because I’m an idiot, he told himself. Because I was making a point.

  What that point might have been, though, was lost to him. It had been a long time since he’d run away from a fight—even a fight with Emery. And he was aware, under the roil of emotions, that he’d acted like a child, and that even Colt had probably rolled his eyes at that display of emotional maturity.

  He drew himself back to the present moment as he reached the top of the stairs. The argument didn’t matter, not right now. What mattered was that he was here, alone, without backup and without even the option of calling the local police. And he didn’t have a gun. And someone was here. Maybe it was only Brey, but someone was in this house.

  A door stood immediately to the right of the stairs, but no light showed inside the room. He kept going. The hallway continued, the shadows thickening as it stretched away from the windows facing the street. John-Henry thought he could make out a pair of double doors. He filed the other details—the console table with a vase and flowers; the dull gleam of the wainscotting; the smell of wax and polish and pine; oil paintings that showed pale-faced men and women in antiquated clothing—all the way at the back of his brain.

  The double doors opened onto what he would have called a trophy room or a game room—he could make out the animal heads mounted on the wall, the shape of the furniture filling the space. It was the kind of thing that didn’t really exist anymore, but here it was, existing. He could smell it, an animal smell, dry and dusty and unpleasant. He shut the doors and kept going.

  When the hall turned, he stopped. Ahead, light spilled from a partially open doorway, cutting an arc out of the darkness. For what seemed like an eternity, he heard nothing. And then the rustle of clothing came, strained breathing. He inched forward.

  The door stood open far enough for John-Henry to see into the room, and he registered some of the details instantaneously: the unmade bed, the dresser cluttered with the usual wallet and keys and loose change, the familiar smell of a space heater. Like the great room and the kitchen, this was a lived-in space—one of the few in the old Brey house. The sound of movement came again, then it stopped, and someone exhaled in frustration. John-Henry moved closer, tested the door for squeaky hinges, and then pushed. It swung open another handsbreadth.

  Two men were on the bed, one straddling the other, and for a single moment, embarrassment washed over John-Henry. Then he took in the rest of the picture. Both men were fully dressed. Eric Brey sat propped against the headboard, a belt looped around his neck and between the headboard’s spindles. His head hung loose on his neck, and he didn’t appear to be breathing.

  The other man wore dark jeans and a dark coat, and the coat rustled when he moved. John-Henry did the automatic catalogue: possibly Hispanic; dark hair buzzed; muscular but not big—a whipcord kind of strength. John-Henry guessed that if the man were standing, he’d probably be Auggie’s height, maybe even a little shorter. The raised tissue of an old scar ran along the side of his neck.

  With a satisfied noise, the man yanked the belt tight. Then he shimmied back until he was clear of Brey’s body. He undid Brey’s jeans and yanked them down to his ankles. Brey’s peppermint-striped boxers went next. The man sat back on his heels, inspecting the picture. And then his whole body stiffened, and his head snapped toward the door.

  Dark eyes locked with John-Henry’s. Then he cut them to the left. The man didn’t cry out. He didn’t demand to know what John-Henry was doing there. He rolled off the bed, the movement liquid, and landed easily on his feet. Then he lunged toward something out of sight.

  Instinct took over. John-Henry hit the door with his shoulder as he barreled into the room, and he was moving at full speed when he jumped. He caught the shorter man in a flying tackle, and they both went down. They hit the floor hard, the impact sending a shock through John-Henry’s shoulder. It was like heat. Like a flower of heat opening inside his shoulder. A bad tackle, a small part of his brain thought. Coach would have his ass.

  But those thoughts were happening in a far-off place as he rolled across the floor. The smaller man was trying to get free, twisting and bucking, and John-Henry grappled with him, trying to hold on. It was harder than he expected—the coat was some sort of synthetic, the material slipping out of his grip, and the man was strong. Much stronger than he looked. They crashed into the dresser, and something toppled. Glass broke. A sweet, citrus smell filled the air, and that far-off part of John-Henry’s brain said, Cologne. When the man planted his feet and tried to rise, he dragged John-Henry into a sitting position.

  That was when John-Henry saw the knife and gun resting on a chair near the door.

  He only had a moment to process the threat before the man tried to headbutt him. John-Henry avoided a blow that would have broken his nose and, quite probably, left him unconscious, but only by letting go of the man’s coat and dropping back. The man twisted like a snake, taking advantage of the sudden freedom to break toward the gun and knife.

  John-Henry scissored his legs, trapping the man’s ankles. The man’s own momentum worked against him, and he crashed to the floor again. The whole house seemed to shake under the impact.

  Seconds, John-Henry thought in that far-off place. It would be over in seconds, not minutes. He wasn’t a brawler like Theo. He didn’t know how to fight dirty like Jem. He lacked Emery’s mass and strength.

  But even as those thoughts spilled out, years of training, years of being a cop, were already activating: lines of defense going up inside his brain, conditioning taking over. You fight to win. That was the first and final rule of any engagement. You will win. They called it the winning mind. You fight until you win. The one who keeps fighting, the one who doesn’t give up, that’s the one who wins.

  He crawled toward the smaller man, grabbing his leg, the waistband of his jeans, one flailing arm, and dragging him back. The smaller man must have given up on reaching the weapons, at least temporarily, because he flopped onto his back, obviously having decided he had to deal with John-Henry right then. But John-Henry had already closed the gap, and he was ready.

  John-Henry’s first punch caught the smaller man in the face, and his head rocked back and clipped the floor. John moved into the blow, following it up by clubbing the man on the side of the head, and then again. He stuck with his right hand; his left shoulder, where he’d fallen, was still a white-hot bloom of pain, and the most he could manage was to keep those fingers hooked in the smaller man’s belt loop, securing him as John-Henry rained down blows. The smaller man’s face was a mess of gore, and the third time his head rebounded from the old boards, John-Henry felt a flicker of hope.

  Then, faster than John-Henry could believe, the man sat up, grabbed John-Henry in a bear hug, and rolled. They came down on the floor together again, and John-Henry let out a cry of pain when his shoulder took the fall. They rolled again. And again. Suddenly teeth were at John-Henry’s throat, and animal instinct took over: panic. All he wanted to do was get away from those teeth, the sharp threat seeking his jugular. He threw an elbow with his good arm, twisted, whipped his head from side to side. The teeth withdrew, but too late, John-Henry realized he’d given his opponent exactly what he wanted: an opening. And then fingers were at his injured shoulder, as though the man had a sixth sense for weakness, biting down.

  John-Henry’s world exploded. He screamed. He couldn’t fight; he couldn’t think. But he thrashed, a frenzy of uncoordinated blows, and something must have connected because the pain stopped, and a choking, gurgling sound reached him from what seemed like a long way off.

  Somehow, he scrambled to his feet. The smaller man was on his hands and knees, choking and gagging. John-Henry stumbled back. They’d gotten turned around. He was closest to the door now. The chair, where the gun and knife had been, had gotten knocked over in the fight, and the weapons had disappeared. Under the bed, maybe. Or under the dresser. Or—

  The man spat blood and wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. His head came up. His nose was broken, that much was obvious. Blood was caked around nostrils already beginning to swell. More blood ran around his mouth. It looked like a clown’s heavy makeup, John-Henry thought. Like some grotesque lipstick.

  “I’m going to cut your cock off and stuff it in your mouth,” the man said. The words were hard, but he sounded younger than he looked. “That big fuck of a husband too. I’m going to leave you in your kids’ beds. I’m going to let them find you. And tonight, before I kill you, I’m going to tell you everything I’m going to do to them before I finally, eventually, let them die.”

  John-Henry had heard a lot of hard men make threats. He’d heard a lot of bravado. A lot of bluster. And he’d heard the real thing, too. People who said what they meant. People who did things other people couldn’t fathom. A matter-of-factness to the words. The conviction—

  Cover and concealment.

  The old cop part of his brain was still alive, still running tactics.