The plush carpet squelched underfoot as I stepped into the living room. I glanced down, watching as the dark viscous liquid pooled around the toe of my boot and taking a steadying breath. A sharp tinny aroma assaulted my nose, overriding the heady fragrance of cedar and vanilla from the scented candle still flickering on the coffee table. Its heavy mineral tang coated the back of my tongue as I exhaled.

I lifted my foot, cringing at the slick wet smear left behind from the blood-soaked carpet. The owner's had probably chosen the luxurious wool for its soft dense pile, not for a moment thinking that the high absorbency of the fibers might one day serve as an oversized sponge, soaking up every last drop of their untimely demise.

I moved to the plastic sheeting stretched around the perimeter, lifting my chin as I surveyed the scene.

The white-on-white decor had probably been selected to create a crisp, clean space, the kind that photographed well but no one ever actually lived in. Even now, just thinking of anyone reclining on the ivory suede sofas made the muscles in my neck tense. I guess you didn't have to care about stains when you weren't the one tasked with cleaning them.

It wasn't a practical design, but I doubted the owner's had cared much for its utility. No, this space was a carefully constructed facade, every square inch of it painstakingly arranged to present what the family would never be. Innocent.

My tongue flicked over my bottom lip, my hands curling into fists as I shoved them into the pockets of my coat. While the room lacked functionality, its pristine image did present an ideal canvas for our killer's artistic carnage.

The juxtaposition of the stark white against the vibrant red was jarring to say the least. Dark slashes of deep crimson, the color so saturated in spots it was nearly black, were splattered across the flawless furniture in wide arcs. A circle of blood, its shade lightening as it radiated out, rest in the center of the room.

It was a frighteningly familiar rendition, hauntingly similar to the string of other unsolved murders littering my bulletin board back at the precinct. I rubbed a shaking hand over my eyes as a gloved hand held out a steaming to-go cup.

"Here," Marshall murmured as I wrapped my fingers around the cardboard sleeve. "Plain hot water."

I glanced at him, raising a slender brow.

He shrugged. "I noticed you prefer tea over coffee, and you usually have a bag or two of whatever type you drink with you, especially to scenes like this."

I nodded, prying off the lid as delicate white whisps rose from the surface. "Thank you."

He grunted, eyeing the slender sachet I withdrew from the interior pocket of my jacket. I could feel him staring as I added it to the cup, dark red tendrils seeping from the bag as it sank to the bottom. I quickly replaced the lid, flashing him a closed-lip smile.

"My sister drinks tea, but it's usually brown or green. Never seen red like that before," he mused, taking a sip of his black coffee with two sugars as he turned his attention back to the scene in front of us.

"Rooibos is a red tea," I supplied. "So, what do we know?"

"About as much as the others," he sighed. "No bodies, no witnesses, no cameras, but there's a fuckton of blood all over the place."

"Who called it in?" I asked, bringing the mug to my lips.

The pungent, coppery flavor bloomed on my tastebuds, and my shoulders relaxed as I took another sip, feeling more in control than I had a moment ago.

"The dog walker though we haven't found any sign of a pet," he added. "How do we even know how many victims we should be looking for here?"

"My guess is at least two, probably three," I mused.

He gave me a questioning glance. I pointed at the space, glad to see my hand was steadier than it had been a moment ago.

"The average human body has about a gallon and a half or so of blood in it. Judging from the saturation and size of this pattern, there's at least three gallons here."

"How can you tell?" he asked, staring at the red stain on the carpet.

"Did an experiment once with gallons of dyed milk and a series of rugs," I remarked. "My landlord was less than impressed, but it gave me a better understanding of liquid capacity and spread rate."

"You need a hobby," he huffed, shaking his head.

I grinned, still careful not to show any teeth as I borrowed a microfiber towel from the investigator crouched near the circle's edge. Marshall held a hand out for my cup as I bent to clean the evidence off my boot as well as I could. They'd require a good soak to get every last trace out of the treads, but that would have to wait.

I passed it back to the tech, glancing up to see Marshall looking curiously at my drink. My heart stuttered as he sniffed the tea, his nose scrunching as he passed it back to me.

"Gah, how do you drink that shit? It smells like musty dirt," he muttered as we turned and headed back toward the grand foyer.

"It's an acquired taste," I replied, stopping in front of the massive oil-painting across from the ornate front doors. "Has anyone in the family been accounted for?"

He pointed at the family portrait, their cold blue eyes staring back at us. "Supposedly Mr. Guntherie was leaving for a business trip today, but we can't seem to get ahold of him. According to her PA, Mrs. Guntherie and their oldest Gabrielle were due at a spiritual retreat in Big Sur this afternoon, but they haven't checked in and their driver is MIA. Their son, Graham, is guest lecturing at a university in London. We haven't been able to get in touch with him yet either, but it's two in the morning there, so I figure we won't hear from him for another couple of hours."

I glanced at the dark-haired, dark-eyed man standing to the left of Mr. Guntherie, a shadow to his father's seemingly luminous presence.

"What's his area of expertise?" I asked.

"Occult science and ancient cultures. Real dark arts kind of shit," Marshall answered with an uneasy shiver. "We had a case involving some voodoo-like practices a while back, before you transferred here. He was brought on as a consultant. Guy gave me the fucking creeps. Just had this cold, predatory stare like a fucking shark."

I hummed, gazing at the painting a moment longer as I took another sip. "See if you can pin down a location on the other three while we wait for Professor Guntherie to get back to us, though I don't suspect you'll hear back from Mrs. Guntherie, Gabrielle, or their driver."

"You think that's them in the living room?" he asked.

I couldn't tell him how I knew it was them. How I could smell three distinct blood types in that mess the killer had left behind, or how I knew another woman had been in the house recently, her sweet scent drifting down the stairs as I stood in the foyer staring at the family portrait. I couldn't share how I knew he'd changed his diet recently, the shift to organic, wholefoods giving his blood this entirely too tempting aroma that made my mouth water.

I took another sip of my tea, the powdered dried blood sachets only just taking the edge off my hunger as I turned on my heel and headed for the front door.

"Let me know when you get in touch with the professor," I called as I started down the front steps.

"Where will you be?" he shouted.

"Hunting down Mr. Guntherie's mistress. Call it a hunch, but I highly doubt a hedge fund manager is on a business trip over the weekend."