Next to her, Xavier’s head moved in a slight nod. “Cohen’s wife would tease him about not wearing his wedding ring. Rings can get caught on things and are dangerous on ops, so most SEALs don’t wear them, or they wear silicone bands. But Cohen had a better idea and got a tattoo. He told Carly he now had a ring he couldn’t take off.” Xavier’s voice was hollow. Haunted.

It was easy to understand why. His buddy wasn’t wearing his permanent wedding band anymore.

She’d managed to keep her lunch down when seeing Jeb’s open throat, but the severed finger pushed her over the edge. She turned her head, spotted a trash bin, and dove for it.

She emptied her stomach, then wanted to stagger to the couch and sit down, but for all she knew, there was an axe murderer in one of the upstairs bedrooms. She needed to hold herself together.

She wiped her mouth on the wet sleeve of her raincoat and spoke to Xavier as if she hadn’t just puked in the middle of the room like a child. “I’m sorry.” She paused and searched for more words. “This doesn’t mean he’s dead.” Although the amount of blood could argue otherwise.

“I know.”

“If he’s dead, they’d have left his body. Like they did with Jeb.”

“Maybe Jeb caught them by surprise, but they knew Cohen was here. And by leaving his finger, they’re sending me a message.”

“But what does it mean?” she asked.

“Fuck if I know.” His voice had flattened. So unlike the Xavier she’d been with in the forest.

But then, this wasn’t the sort of thing a SEAL trained for. This wasn’t combat. This was a damn house of horrors. “Should we finish searching?”

“Yes, but this place is empty. They won’t have stuck around after leaving a message like that.” He stepped closer to the table and shined the red light on the thick male finger. “They probably chose to cut off his finger because of the tattoo. That’s going to gut Carly.” His voice held more emotion now, hinting at how much he was holding back. Every movement, every gesture, and every word seemed to be leashed, a restrained version of Xavier, showing her he was too well trained to break down right now, no matter how much he wanted to.

She reached into her pack and pulled out a small zipper-top bag and offered it to him. “Photograph it, then we’ll bag it.” One way or another, Cohen would get his finger back.

He snapped a photo, shielding the flash with a hand, but still, the room brightened for an instant and it was likely anyone watching the yurt saw the flare of light. He plucked the finger from the table and dropped it in the bag, then tucked it in one of his vest pockets.