“Willow?” I step closer to her, reaching out to touch her arm. The moment my fingers brush her sleeve, I feel her shaking, a deep, visceral tremor that seems to originate in her bones. “Hey, Willow, talk to me. What do you mean, someone died in the bathroom?”
“Not... not just a person. Something else. Something that doesn't have words.”
Locke doesn't ask questions. His protective instincts instantly take over: in a smooth, practiced motion, his hand goes beneath his leather jacket, unholstering his sidearm. He steps in front of us, shielding us with his broad frame as his eyes sweep the dim shadows of the master bedroom.
“Stay behind me,” Locke says. “Both of you. Don't move.”
He clears the threshold of the master suite with heavy, silent steps, and I peer around him as best I can.
T
