Widows of Medina (FBI Task Force S.W.O.R.D. Book 3) by D.D. Black

Author:D.D. Black [Black, D.D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Darkness and Light Publishing
Published: 2024-11-29T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The next morning, Claire stepped out of the car and took in the estate before her. They hadn’t reached Helene, so they’d decided to make a surprise visit.

Jack and Sonya got out after her, followed by Kiko, who’d convinced Claire to let her come just this once.

To Claire, the house looked like a relic from another era, its cedar shingles aged to a silvery gray. It was nothing like Vincent Blackwood’s modern fortress of glass and steel. This place had weight, history, the kind of presence that didn’t need to impress you but still made you feel small.

The roof sloped gently down to meet deep eaves, and ivy curled up one corner of the house, clinging as if it might eventually swallow the entire structure. Tall, dark green shutters framed the windows, which seemed too small compared to the sprawling façade, as if they were holding secrets behind their fractured glass. She noticed the porch—wide, with a pair of heavy columns that looked as if they could have held up the world in their prime. Now, one had a faint crack running through its base, barely noticeable unless you were looking closely.

Claire shifted her weight, her boots pressing into gravel that was so finely raked it looked like a Zen garden. The air smelled clean, sharper than the Seattle suburbs, with an undercurrent of wet cedar. Somewhere on the property, she caught the faint hum of a gardener’s trimmer, far enough away to feel irrelevant but close enough to remind her this place was too perfect for its own good.

“Looks like old money,” Claire murmured, glancing at Jack and Sonya.

“Definitely not Vincent’s style,” Jack said, craning his neck to take in the steep gables and the heavy stone chimney at one end.

“I like it,” Kiko said. “Sure beats my five hundred square foot studio.”

Sonya was already scanning the front door, painted an almost-black green that matched the shutters. The brass knocker was polished to a mirror shine, but the door itself looked weathered, its edges slightly warped.

Claire approached first and rang the bell. Its chime wasn’t a normal ding-dong but something deeper, richer, like a note from a church organ. She waited, her eyes flicking to the stained-glass transom above the door. Pale light filtered through it, throwing fractured patches of green and gold onto the porch’s dark wood.

After a long moment, nothing happened. Claire rapped the knocker once, a sharp, purposeful sound. “Helene Marquez? FBI.”

No answer.

Jack leaned over and gave the door a push. It creaked open an inch, the sound soft but deliberate, as if the house itself was considering their presence.

Claire exchanged a glance with Sonya, who was already pulling on gloves. Jack muttered, “Doors don’t just open themselves. You think she’s expecting us?”

“Security said she’s home,” Claire said, pushing the door farther open. The dim entryway stretched ahead, wood-paneled walls absorbing what little light spilled inside. “Could be a wellness check.”

“That’s what we’re calling this?” Jack asked, but he followed her lead, his hand drifting toward his holster as he stepped inside.

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