She had been old and frail and who Larkin could only presume was Harry’s mother. She lay dead in the tub, the side of her skull caved in. The blood was dry and rigor appeared to have dissipated from her limbs.

He swore and stepped out. “She’s probably been dead since Monday.”

“He’s panicking and spiraling,” Doyle said as he holstered his weapon.

Larkin nodded as he pulled shut the broken door as best as he could. He looked at Doyle and said, “The hooks.”

Doyle nodded. “I saw them. Backup should be here any minute. Let’s take a look around for the masks.” He returned to the living room.

Larkin took another breath through the bend of his elbow. The smell of death was stuck in his nose and had probably permeated his suit. He’d smell it when they’d leave, smell it in the car, smell it at home—well, no, probably not home. He shook himself. That was a problem for a later time. Larkin adjusted the grip on his SIG and returned to the bedroom to do a more thorough check for Harry’s collection.

Larkin heard a closet door open in the living room, and then a sudden scream. Like an animal, like rage, like seeing only red. It seemed to fill every corner of the apartment. The crash of bodies followed, a shout of protest, the thump and whack of two full-grown men knocking into drywall. Larkin ran into the hall in time to see Doyle heaved from the living room like he was a sack of potatoes. He crashed against the hallway wall to the right of the front door before raising both hands and grabbing onto a baseball bat that took a swing at his body. Harry Regmore stepped into view, shoving Doyle against the wall a second time with the force of the bat they both struggled to maintain control of. He heaved, and the momentum cracked the back of Doyle’s head against the wall. Doyle cried out, lost his grip, and Harry was able to yank the bat free. Spinning it around, Harry raised the knob of the bat and struck Doyle across the head. Blood spurted in an arc and Doyle was knocked to the floor.

Harry turned his attention on Larkin. He looked fanatical, incensed, no, say it—insane. He didn’t say anything. There was no villain monologue. He just spun the bat to hold properly, hollered at the top of his lungs, and charged.

Larkin saw only the bat.

It was night again. It was raining again. Thunder boomed so loud, it rattled the teeth in his skull. Boots squished in the thick, sloppy mud as that man entered their campsite.

Disgusting.

Immoral.

Hell.

Larkin had been seventeen and terrified. Because that monster had raised his bat, swung, and he’d heard his own skull crack before everything had gone black. And when he’d woken up, Patrick was dead.