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For a moment, the two of them struggled desperately, both quiet, save the occasional grunt or gasp.
It took Cora’s entire concentration not to lose her hold. And then she ratcheted up the tension. Her arm went tighter. Squeezing.
He struggled desperately, but the choke was in too deep. She used her heels to pull him flat, latching onto his thighs. Dripping wet, her back shoved against the cold floor, she kept the squeeze. And after a few more seconds, he slowly went limp.
She held the choke a couple of seconds longer, to make sure he wasn’t faking, but she could tell by his muscles relaxing and his whole body turning into one large, limp strand of spaghetti that he was out.
He crumpled to the floor, and she extricated herself, tugging on his shirt for traction and pulling to her feet. As she did, his earpiece fell out. She frowned, hesitant, listening to a faint hum of sound. She leaned in, picking the earpiece up briefly, holding it to her own ear.
Chatter from what sounded like a sports event. Soccer? It wasn’t in English. Was that Russian? The man’s fighting style had also been somewhat odd.
She frowned and cataloged this strange piece of information, but then she was already moving again. Cora slipped into the hall, feet padding against the carpeted floor.
A couple of doors to her side were open. An empty bedroom—no mattress and no dresser. Even an outlet was missing, displaying electrical wires. The next room was another, larger bathroom.
At the end of the hall, though, the final two doors.
She frowned as she drew near these, glancing over the staircase towards the front, main door. Two men armed with heavy weapons stood in the hall, quiet and with earpieces affixed.
She ignored them, moved to the door on the left, and eased it open.
A bedroom.
Quaint, pink, and displaying pictures of ponies along the wall. The bed itself was brightly colored as well with cartoon characters etched in the fabric. But no cartoons Cora knew.
She frowned, studying the bedroom. It took a few moments to realize the anachronisms. An older room. A daughter’s room, left in a time capsule for more than a decade. She spotted a closet full of old-fashioned clothing. A tape-player next to the bed and cassettes with children’s songs. Play-Doh and Lincoln Logs.
Clearly, the mayor still had a soft spot in his heart for his daughter. While she’d been killed in the pool, Cora wondered if perhaps she lived elsewhere year-round. She stared through the space. No one had lived in this room for years. She closed the door and moved to the final room.
Her fingers grazed the handle, and she went still, motionless.
The handle was warm. She heard a faint humming sound from inside the room.
Carefully, she eased the door open and peered inside.
A figure lay on the bed, jammed beneath multiple covers, head pressed against thick, fluffy pillows. A visor over the figure’s eyes kept out any errant light. Two earplugs in the figure’s ears, stoppering any sound.
The additional hum was coming from a small, plastic noise machine by the bed. Every few moments, it emitted soft sounds like twittering birds or the crash of water against sandy shores.
Cora stepped farther into the room, her heart picking up the pace. She closed the door slowly behind her, wincing as she did, listening to the faintclick.
No reaction from the sleeping man. It was difficult to tell from the visor and the covers, but he had the tanned jawline of the man from the photos.
This was Mayor Castillo.
He didn’t look like much, wedged under his covers like some large stuffed potato. She exhaled slowly, and then moved into the man’s room.
There was evidence that a woman had once shared the space with the man. A purse in a corner. Some makeup on the nightstand. A dress in the closet. There was a photo, shaped like a heart, of the mayor and his wife, sitting on the desk. This still faced the bed.
Cora paused, staring at it, finding her heart skip.
The photo pointedatthe bed.
Why was this important?
Because...would a guilty man keep a photo of his murdered wife if he’d been the one to kill her? Would he keep his daughter’s room if he’d also killedher?
A sociopath might.
