The realization struck like a blade to the gut.
Hutson's mind reeled as he recalled the severed arm resting on the dining table downstairs. That arm—it looked just like Robert's.
Robert had spent years wielding daggers. The calloused marks on his hands were unmistakable. No wonder the hand had seemed so familiar.
His stomach churned. If that arm belonged to Robert… then how was he still outside, seemingly whole?
Hutson set the eerie, faceless photograph down and turned away from the severed leg by the window, making his way out of the bedroom.
The arm remained on the dining table, its pallid fingers eerily still. He barely spared it a glance as he moved past.
Pushing forward, he checked the remaining two rooms on the second floor.
In one, he found a severed hand.
In the other, a mangled leg.
And in both rooms, more photographs.
Family portraits. Individual portraits. All faceless.
There was a pattern here—a grotesque, intentional pattern.
