He made his way back into the living room, the plastic coverings on his feet crinkling as he walked. He still hadn’t turned his attention to the bodies beyond a cursory glance. He would, of course, but not quite yet. It was easier to remain objectively detached when he hadn’t yet seen their faces. Seeing the terror in a dead child’s eyes made logic and reasoning a much bigger ask.

The who and the why could wait. Best to focus on the how for the moment, and let the rest follow on from there.

Four people were a lot for one intruder to manage, especially when half of them were frightened kids, and the other half—presumably—were protective parents. There were a lot of unpredictable elements in that equation. A big risk for one person on their own, unless they knew exactly what they were doing.

The kids were wearing pyjamas. The woman had been wrapped in her dressing gown, although it now hung off her shoulders, revealing nightwear that erred on the side of practical, but left a little bit of leeway for the fun stuff.

It had been late, then. Under cover of darkness, probably. The kids might well have been asleep upstairs, which again implied that there had been more than one intruder. Too many moving parts for someone flying solo.

It was possible that this was the work of some lone opportunistic amateur, of course, but if it was then, Christ, they’d struck it lucky. They’d managed to get the kids downstairs, successfully secure all four members of a terrified family, kill them all, then make a clean getaway with whatever they’d managed to get their hands on.

There were no signs of struggling—no furniture moved, or pictures knocked off-kilter. Two wine glasses sat undisturbed on the coffee table, dried dregs staining the bottom. Take out the bodies and the blood, and you’d never know anything had happened here.

Logan gave the room another once-over, keeping to the edges and touching nothing.

Finally, when there was nowhere else to look, his gaze settled on the bodies on the floor.

They had been back to back, he thought. Parents and children, bunched together, their wrists bound behind them. He wondered if they’d interlocked fingers and squeezed hands. Had the adults tried to offer some silent comfort as the children sobbed behind the tape?

They were both girls, the kids. One around thirteen, maybe, the other closer to eight or nine. Both guesses, though, and possibly far off the mark. They had the same mousey blonde hair. Skinny wee things. There was no mistaking the family resemblance.