Page 5 of Mason

The lock finally clicks and the door creaks open, followed immediately by a gasp from Grady. “What the fuck?”

“Grady?” I nudge him, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling at his rigid stance.

But he doesn’t answer.

I step around my frozen brother, finding the luxury living room in chaos. The glass coffee table rests on its side, its shards fanning across the black marble floor. A potted plant sits overturned on the leather sectional. Family photos lay scattered, a large one of Dad bearing a bullet hole in the center of his face.

My hand falls to my 9mm, pulling the weapon free. Grady is still slack-jawed in the doorway, so I thump his chest to get him to draw his, too.

“Spencer?” I call, gripping the gun. “Spencer, it’s Grady and Mason. Are you here?”

Grady’s eyes widen and he finally looks away from the destruction to me. “What if someone is here, asshole?” he whispers. “You just let them know that there are two of us.”

Fuck.

“Better than sneaking up on him,” I defend.

He’s right, but I won’t admit it. Fear brings a lack of focus. A lack of control. And I’m terrified for the first time in years.

We inch toward the kitchen. Along with the dining room, it’s just as trashed. Vases. Pictures. The chandelier. It’s like a tornado came through, shattering everything. The rainbow of glass cracks beneath our boots, the crunch joining the slamming of my heart in my ears.

“Spencer?” I call again as we move into the hall toward the master suite.

Grady covers the rear while I lead, our pistols ready to fire and backs pressing into one another, protecting the other as always.

“Spencer Carlyle, if you’re fucking with us, you better come out now before I shoot you in the dick!” Grady yells, his voice cracking.

He isn’t fucking with us. Spencer’s home is his baby. He takes pride in every piece, mapping its furnishings like Tetris before purchase. He would never trash it intentionally.

I stare at the bedroom door for what feels like an eternity before reaching for its handle. I don’t want to open it. Every cell within me screams not to, but my hand finds the knob. I have to do this. The polished metal turns, and I nudge the door wide with my foot.

“Spencer!” I shout one last time, but there’s no response. Just the steady whirl of the fan inside and the faint smell of something I can’t place.

With a shaky breath, I step inside, and my world crashes down.

Spencer Carlyle, heir apparent to the Southern Mafia, is dead.

His face, the one we tease him for relentlessly, bears countless bullet holes, the mangled mess of tissue and bone unrecognizable as it lays nestled in the covers. I only know the body on the mattress is him because of his curls, the dark tendrils stained a deep maroon. Blood and brain matter decorate the pillow and headboard, their pungent, metallic scent thick in the air.

“Don’t look!” I throw an arm over the doorway to spare Grady from the carnage, but it’s too late.

He walks in and gets an eyeful of hell, howling as loudly as the voices in my head.

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