The Blonde

12:10 a.m.

Edison Avenue, Somerton

Kowalski made his way into the house and pinpointed the source of the screams. Upstairs. Female. Older woman. Sobbing and wailing between the screams, like a car alarm cycling through its various sounds.

There wasn’t much time now. Even though this was a single house, there were still two houses in shouting range, and in such a quiet neighborhood as this, they would not go unnoticed.

The living room was up the hallway and to the left. Kowalski checked the walls: framed photos of his subject, a woman, presumably his wife, and two females, presumably daughters. They looked old enough to be at least college age. They might not be home. The fact that there was only one voice screaming led him to believe this. Otherwise, he was going to have a royal mess on his hands.

Upstairs, a door slammed shut.

The staircase was situated in the middle of the house. Kowalski bounded up them, and saw one source of light: through the cracks in the bathroom door. A woman leaning against the doorway, clutching the doorknob as if for support. She had stopped screaming and stared into space instead, her face ashen.

“Ma’am, I’m here to help.” Kowalski showed her his palms.

The woman’s eyes focused and she let out a sharp shriek, then slid off the door, collapsing to the carpet.

“Relax, ma’am. I’m with the police.”

He knelt down next to her.

“How did you know? I just found him. How did you know to come?”

Quick, Kowalski. Remember, you’re not wearing a uniform. Nor do you have a badge or gun.

“Plainclothes. I was driving home from a late shift when I heard screaming coming from your house. Your garage door was open; I thought you had an intruder. Is there someone in your bathroom?

“My h-husband. Ed. Oh God. Ed.”

“Is Ed okay?” Always use first names. Puts people at ease.

“No … no he’s not. …”

“What’s wrong? Does he need an ambulance?”

The woman showed him her fingers. Even in the dark hallway, Kowalski could tell they were slick with blood.

“Stay here.”

Kowalski stood up and opened the bathroom door. There were four oversized bulbs mounted above the medicine cabinet, and they bathed the room in an ultraharsh white light. Someone really liked their light in here.

But that made it all the worse. There was no hiding Ed, who was sitting on the toilet, fully clothed.

Or his blood, which was everywhere.

It was as if someone had reached inside his skull, grabbed his brain, and squeezed—hard. The blood ran down his cheeks, from his eyes. The sides of his neck. His chin. His shirt. His hands. Whatever his hands had touched.

Ed was real dead.

Kowalski reached for his cell phone.