Kim’s loft was a crime scene. Maybe not literally, but Claire thought if the police had roped it off, nobody would disagree. . . . Things were tossed everywhere, broken junk was piled in the corners, clothes were tossed on every flat surface. It smelled of old Chinese food, and the at-least-month-old trash was overflowing with cartons and pizza boxes. One pizza carton lay on the floor with a couple of slices of sausage withered inside.

“Nice,” Shane said, and looked around. “Well, we know she’s not a closet neat freak.” There was paint all over the walls, too—not paintings, just paint, thrown on in sprays as if Kim had taken a few gallons and spun around in a circle, splashing it all over. It was probably still art, just not Claire’s favorite kind.

“She’s busy,” Eve said, and cleaned up the pizza box and a few other Chinese food cartons, which she jammed into a plastic trash bag. “She’s an artist.”

“She’s a slob,” Shane said. “I’m not judging, though. So, what’s the plan? We look around? Can I have dibs on the underwear drawer?”

Claire winced. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

Shane took on an angelic look. “Somebody’s got to do it.”

“Then that somebody will be me.”

Shane lost his smile and got serious. “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” It still hurt. She avoided his eyes and started rummaging through things. It wasn’t as if Kim actually had an underwear drawer—she didn’t seem bothered by leaving her bras and panties all over the place. Claire grabbed a bag and started stuffing the clothes into it, just because.

“Girls,” Michael said. “We’re here for clues, right? Not cleanup?”

“Right.” Eve took a deep breath. “I’ll check the bedroom.”

“Bathroom,” Shane volunteered.

“You’re brave. All right, you keep going in here,” Michael told Claire. “I’ll take the kitchen.”

“Good luck.” She meant it. She bet mold had formed its own civilization in the refrigerator.

That left Claire on her own in the big, trashed-out room. She had no idea where to even start looking, but when she let herself ignore the trash, strewn clothes, and general mess, she found herself focusing on the walls. One of them had a mural painted on it, creepy elongated faces and staring eyes.

Staring eyes. They glittered. For a frozen second, Claire thought there was someone behind the wall, watching her, and then she got her head together. It was just glass, reflecting; it wasn’t real eyes. But why would Kim put glass on the eyes—no, on only one eye?

Oh.