Page 38 of Nothing Hiding

A fire escape.

A narrow, metal stairway led, steep and ladder like, from the side of the house, all the way up to join a small balcony on the upper floor.

Climbing it would allow her to see up top. If she could keep out of sight, that might give her important clues.

Once she'd had the idea, it was too compelling to resist. This could allow her to do essential research and give them a clearer picture of what awaited them up there.

She got on the phone and called Wyatt.

"I'm going up the fire escape to check the upper floor," she said quietly.

"Copy," he replied. "I'll keep watching the front."

She glanced at Sierra, who was watching the house intently from the car, before turning and heading toward the side of the house.

The metal stairs of the fire escape creaked gently under Juliette's weight as she climbed up to the top floor. She stepped as quietly as possible, feeling a rush of expectancy as she reached the balcony. The balcony was small, just big enough for a single door and a small chair and table. On it, Juliette noticed, was a half full ashtray.

So, the artist was here, at work.

She would need to be very careful and very quiet as she took a look inside. Walking silently, she moved toward the huge glass window, knowing that this was a risk, and that looking inside might alert him if he was facing her way. It was a risk she was willing to take, though.

Keep low,she told herself.Don’t come into view at head height.Crouching down, she moved to the glass and then peered inside, edging her head into view, slowly and carefully, so that if he was looking her way, no sudden movement would attract him.

And then, Juliette gasped.

In front of her was a blood chilling sight.

The artist, his jet-black hair spiky and disordered, had his back toward her, working frantically on a model that lay prone on the table in front of him, next to a set of sharp looking knives.

But this was not just a model.

The blonde woman lay absolutely still, her outstretched arm looking sheet white in the bright morning light. Her fingers were limp and motionless. Walter Wax was painting her face, bending over her as he worked, using the same wax technique that she thought the other women had shown.

Now, her heart was hammering. She knew she had to move very fast. And she didn't want to leave this scene, not for one moment. Not when she saw that the glass was, in fact, a large sliding door, and that it was open a crack on the far side of the balcony.

That meant she could get in, now. No need for knocking and alerting him.

She messaged Wyatt again.

"Come up. I'm going in."

Taking a deep breath, keeping her gaze firmly on that set of knives, Juliette ran to the side of the glass door and wrenched it open.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Juliette burst into the upstairs studio.

"Walter Homer?" she shouted.

The man spun around, dropping his paintbrush with a clatter, a look of horror and fear on his face. He was a compact man with a shock of gray hair, piercing blue eyes, and several paint smears on his wiry arms.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he yelled. Just as Juliette had thought, his gaze darted sideways to that rack of knives.

"Leave them!" she shouted. "We're police, and you have answers to give us."

Behind her, the fire escape clanged as Wyatt pounded up the stairs and arrived in the studio.

"Hands in the air!" Wyatt shouted.

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