I told her to move away, and then I took my baton from my belt and shattered one of the front windows with a quick tap. Punching out the remaining shards, I reached in, unlocked the window, and pushed it up. I squeezed through the frame into the cottage, which was cold and had the ashy smell of a log fire. My boots crunched on broken glass. There was no sound inside, and when I did a quick survey with my flashlight, I saw nothing amiss. I unlocked the front door, and then I turned on the overhead light.

Erica looked nervous about setting foot inside. “Gordon?” she called. “Are you here?”

Her husband didn’t answer.

The living space was filled with dark leather furniture and a massive fireplace that took up most of one wall. The kitchen was small, but I found half a pot of cold coffee on the counter. There were two doors on the back wall, one closed, one open. I checked the open door, with Erica following, and it led me into a sprawling room that served as Gordon Brink’s main office. File cabinets lined the rear wall, and curtains covered up a long spread of windows looking out on the forest. On the walnut desk, I found a half-smoked cigarette crushed in the ashtray and an open bottle of whiskey with an empty lowball glass beside it.

The floor was covered in a thick cream-colored carpet. Not far from the desk, I spotted reddish-brown drops dotting the shag. I bent down, rubbed one of the stains between my fingertips, and smelled a coppery odor. I looked up at Erica.

“I need to check the bedroom.”

The color had drained from her face. “Okay.”

“Maybe you should stay in the outer room.”

“No, I want to come with you.”

We returned to the living room, and I approached the closed door that led into the cottage’s master suite. Weirdly, I knocked, rather than just opening it. In the silence that followed, I pushed the door inward. Barely any light flowed from the other room, but the smell hanging in the cold air told the story.

“Erica,” I murmured, my own nerves raw. “Back up. Don’t look.”

“No, turn on the light.”

I did.

Next to me, Gordon Brink’s wife screamed. She stared at the abattoir inside and then covered her face to block it out.

I had to look. I had no choice.

Blood spattered every surface in the bedroom. The floors. The walls. The furniture. The curtains. The ceiling. In the middle of it all, tied to the king-size bed, was Gordon Brink, naked, dead, his eyes open in horror, his mouth gagged to keep him from crying out in agony. His entire body from skull to feet hung in ribbons, all his skin flayed with deep cuts made in crimson parallel lines.

Like the sweep of an animal’s claws.