Lozza glanced back at the house and frowned. She studied the lone lighted window upstairs in the Cresswell-Smith home.
“Are you sure?”
“Saw her arriving home just after it got dark—about half an hour ago. She looked strange.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was stumbling about near her studio and knocked over the rubbish bin. The metal lid clattered, which is what made me look out the window—thought it might be that possum back. I saw her. In her ball cap and jacket. She startled when I put the lights on and ducked around the side of the studio. I switched off my light to watch from the darkness because I thought it was odd. She went up the garden and into the house via the sliding glass door. It’s still open. You can see from my other window.”
Nosy woman.
“So she’s alone in there?”
“Far as I know. Never saw the husband come back. The truck and boat, neither.”
Lozza stood there, her gut firing signals to her brain. She’d need to cover her ass if she went onto their property uninvited.
“Are you worried she might actually be in some kind of trouble?” she called up to the neighbor. If the woman claimed fear for Ellie’s well-being, it would give Lozza more reason to enter the property through that open garage door and go around the back.
“Her husband hits her.”
Lozza’s pulse spiked. “What?”
“I’ve seen it. Through the bottom window between their kitchen and living room. I saw him strike her and try to strangle her once. And last night I heard screaming.”
“Last night? What time?”
“About seven, I think.”
After they’d returned from the beach. I should have done something—but what?
“You didn’t call triple zero—report it?”
“Not my business. Each to his own, I say.”
Lozza swore to herself. “So you think she’s in there and in danger right now?”
“Maybe. Something is definitely weird.”
“Thank you.” Lozza entered the garage and came out the side door onto a lawn in darkness. The glass sliding door of the house was indeed open. A sound reached her—a crackle of leaves, then a snap of a twig. Followed by a sudden crashing through the bushes on the vacant lot on the other side of the lawn. Her heart raced.
Carefully she crouched down and set the package at her feet. Peering intently into the shadows of the vacant lot across the lawn, she unclipped the strap on her holster, freeing up access to the Glock 22 .40-caliber semiautomatic pistol at her hip. She slid her flashlight out of her duty belt, clicked it on, and panned the bushes. She jerked with adrenaline as her beam hit two glowing eyes.
Bloody possum.
Lozza drew in a calming breath and scanned the rest of the property. At the bottom of the lawn, behind trees and beyond a small boathouse, the river moved dark and shiny, reflecting a sliver of moon. Hairs prickled up the back of her neck. This place felt wrong. Ominous. She left the package near the garage door and crossed the lawn.
She stepped onto the patio and called in through the open door, her hand near her sidearm.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
Silence oozed out of the house. Her skin crawled with a sense of something evil.
“Hello!” she yelled louder.
Silence.
Lozza entered the house, every molecule in her body primed. She panned her torch beam across the living room interior. “Anyone home? Ellie Cresswell-Smith, are you here? This is Senior Constable Laurel Bianchi of the Jarrawarra police. I’ve got a package for you.”
From outside came a sudden loud crashing in the dry bushes. Too big for a possum. She hurried out and scanned the bushes with her flashlight. A car door slammed on the other side of the vacant lot—Lozza couldn’t see it through the vegetation. An engine started. Tires spun in gravel. The car sped into the night. Her heart hammered.
Hastily she reentered the house, this time with sharpened purpose.
Using her flashlight, she found a light switch, clicked it on. Bright light flooded the interior. It was stark inside, all white and oddly sterile. Two empty wine bottles stood on the kitchen counter. One empty wineglass. Lozza crossed the living room into the kitchen area. She saw broken glass on the floor. Red streaks down the side of a cabinet.
Ellie?
She moved toward the staircase. There was a small puddle of blood on the bottom stair. Lozza shone her light up the stairwell. Streaks of what looked like blood smeared the stairwell wall.
She moved fast up the stairs, made straight toward the door where the lone light glowed.
“Ellie!” she called out as she entered the room.
Lozza stalled.
The bed was a tangle of white sheets—blood on them. An empty wine bottle lay sideways on the nightstand. A female’s clothes littered the floor near two suitcases that looked like they had exploded their contents. A trail of blood led to the bathroom. She saw a bare foot sticking out of the bathroom door. Lozza rushed forward.
Ellie lay naked on the tiles, eyes closed, unmoving, her skin a deathly blue-white color. A pool of blood congealed under her head. Her forehead was gashed open. A pill container lay on its side near her outstretched hand. Pills had scattered across the floor. A mobile phone with a cracked screen lay wedged behind the toilet base. Lozza moved fast toward Ellie. As she crouched down, she registered the words on the pill container in bold black print: CONTROLLED DRUG. HYPNODORM.
She felt for a pulse as she keyed the radio at her shoulder.
THEN
LOZZA
Lozza panned her flashlight carefully over the dry sand of the unpaved road behind the vacant lot next to the Cresswell-Smith home.
The paramedics had responded quickly. Ellie was now in the hospital and apparently still in a coma while doctors worked on her. Lozza had bagged the contraband drugs and called in the incident to her station. And while she’d had access to the premises, she’d walked slowly around the Cresswell-Smith home, taking photos of
