Blood.
The word seemed completely incompatible with the room behind us.
That bathroom was immaculate.
It was the cleanest room in our entire house.
Ethan had spent five years making sure of that.
I looked at Clare.
“Blood from what?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of disposable gloves.
“Don’t go back in there.”
I stared at the gloves in her hand.
“Clare, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about something I recognized.”
Her professional calm was beginning to crack.
“There are areas in that bathroom where someone has cleaned repeatedly. Not normally. Not like someone who simply likes things spotless.”
She paused.
“Someone has been trying to remove traces of something.”
My stomach tightened.
“Are you saying Ethan is hurting someone?”
“I’m saying I don’t know what happened here yet.”
She looked toward the closed bathroom door.
