Remo got up but he walked over to me. He handed me a couple of printed out photos. I cocked an eyebrow when I scanned them. They showed a blood-splattered room. The bed in the center was an even worse mess. It looked as if they’d slaughtered a pig on it. But it wasn’t an animal carcass that lay sprawled on the bed. If Remo thought he could intimidate me with these images, he forgot what my last name was. I’d pummeled a biker to a bloody pulp with a hammer as a teen when we’d saved Marcella.
