Still, maybe there was a chance.

As she reached the stain, Oksana saw that it had company. Red dots led a jagged path to the den. Somebody had gotten tipsy and then sloshed his or her way to the stairs, she decided. A damp tissue wouldn’t clean this mess. She’d need a paper towel at a minimum. The mop most likely.

Oksana straightened, pressing one hand to the floor and the other to her bad knee. She followed the spots to the open den door, muttering about the importance of holding one’s liquor. If there were spills on the carpet or, worse, vomit, she would need to rent a steam cleaner and give them a quote. And she wouldn’t be able to offer any guarantees. Red wine, puke, blood, and pet piss were the four horsemen in her business. Removing such fluids from carpet or fabric furniture was nearly impossible.

As she entered the den, she immediately noticed more splashes on the suede wallpaper behind Mr. Walker’s large, wooden desk. A scotch glass sat on the top with a ring of gold liquid in the bottom. She spied the bottle in a bin beside the door, trashed despite the liquor still inside. Scotch and wine. She’d cleaned up the family’s dishes long enough to know that Mr. Walker rarely drank alone, especially not hard liquor. He’d been entertaining. First time since the shutdown, probably. No wonder someone had gotten sloppy drunk.

Oksana approached the wallpaper. The largest spot had hardened into a crust, less like wine and more like ketchup. She scratched at it. It didn’t flake off, but particles slipped beneath her nail.

Oksana stepped back, considering the gunk on her finger. She heard the wet squish before registering the sensation beneath her shoes. The sides of her gray sneakers were coated in dark, brick-colored goo. She whirled around, looking for the source of this new stain.

On the floor, behind the desk, lay a near-headless body. Oksana couldn’t immediately tell whether she was looking at the figure’s front or back. The face was nearly gone. Brain, identifiable only by its whitish color amid all the red, had dribbled and dried over the places where the eyes and nose had been. The arms were splayed out as if the victim had fallen backward. A black handgun lay in his palm.

Most people would have screamed. However, most people hadn’t learned to sleep through shelling and wake at the rumble of tanks rolling past their home. They hadn’t grabbed blankets off beds to cover bodies or scrubbed blood from cobblestone hearths.