Slaughter Daughter by Eve Langlais
20
Panic filled me.“I need to leave before the cops find another bloody pentagram.” They’d blame me for sure.
“You run, and they’ll issue a warrant that will probably end in you being shot as they apprehend you.”
“Jeez, don’t sugarcoat it or anything.”
He pushed from the desk and got close enough to me that I could smell his aftershave. “I’m not going to coddle you because we both know you can handle it. You’re tough. But you’re also vulnerable. And stubborn. Stop arguing and listen. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll get your life back.”
“And if I don’t?” I asked.
“Then with fifteen percent of the proceeds from the book, you’ll do okay.”
I rolled my eyes. “If you’re any good.”
“Oh, I’m good.” He moved to the door of his office. “We’ve wasted enough time catering to your insecurities and abandonment issues. We should return to the others and set out some plans.”
“My abandonment issues?” It emerged a little shrill. “Listen here, Professor—”
“Ah. Ah. Ah.” He wagged a finger at me. “What’s my name?”
My gaze narrowed. “So sorry, Uncle Joe. It’s hard to remember sometimes that I have an older”—yes, I emphasized it—“family member in my life now.”
“Old?” His turn to grumble.
It felt good to return the smirk. “Let me know if we need to take a break so you can have a nap.” I flounced, not something I’d done often in my life, but when leaving someone speechless—especially a good-looking, arrogant ass of a man who deserved it—you should always have a little extra oomph in your step.
Kitchen clean-up had already been done. Jag sulked at the table, messing with his phone. Peter appeared to be missing again, probably avoiding the dishtowel Cashien wielded while Kalinda washed and handed over the non-dishwasher-safe items. Mary still fiddled on her laptop but beckoned me over.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Give me your phone.” She held out a hand.
I handed it over and asked, “What are you doing?”
“Turning on location services,” Mary explained, thumbing through the menus.
“Won’t that kill my battery?”
“Dead battery or more proof you weren’t near crime scenes. You choose,” she said, handing it back.
“Touché.”
“Speaking of crime scenes, the cops are heading to a new one.”
My dread trebled, especially since I glanced at Joseph and he mouthed, “Told you so.”
“Is it another body?”
“Yes, but that’s not all.”
“Let me guess, blood-filled pentagram. Where?”
Mary had the goods. “B building, first floor, room 103. The night guard was doing rounds and saw light coming from a crack under the door. When he opened it, he startled someone, who knocked down a candle as they fled. The guard chose to call for help with the fire rather than give chase.”
“Please. If it was Percy, then he didn’t chase because he would have probably dropped dead of a heart attack,” Jag mumbled.
“That’s rude,” Mary said hotly.
“But true,” Jag retorted. “I’ll bet the only time that man ever ran was because he heard the ice cream truck coming.”
Mary bit her lip. Cruel humor, the kind you hated to enjoy. “Anyhow, the person making the pentagram fled. The fire from the candles took out most of the evidence and burned the body.”
“Someone died?” Not another body.
She nodded. “Cops are hoping for enough DNA to figure out who it is.”
“What about the person the guard saw? Was he able to describe them?”
“Persons. And not according to the police report.” Something Mary had somehow gotten a copy of and had up on her screen. She pointed. “He says he saw movement only, no faces, no description other than they wore black robes with hoods.”
“Of course, they were wearing robes,” I muttered. Then something else struck me. “Wait, they? As in two?”
“Yeah, Percy claims there might have been two people there.”
“Might?” I couldn’t help but question.
“He never clearly saw the second person, just movement hinting that whoever it was might not have been alone.”
“Being so useless is really a spectacular feat,” Jag retorted. “He couldn’t even put out a few candles?”
“Fire is scary,” I said in the guard’s defense.
“It also destroys everything. They were covering their tracks,” was Mary’s observation.
I shook my head. “If they wanted to cover their tracks, they would have done it somewhere more discreet. This sounds like they wanted attention.”
“Buttercup’s right. They wanted to be seen. Wanted the scene to be found. Probably the same folks who murdered that douchebag, Jerome.” Jag stood, the chair legs making a skree noise as they slid across the tile.
“You shouldn’t talk shit about the dead.” Mary’s nose wrinkled.
“I will because he was a dick. And I will spit on his body when I see it later today.”
“What?” I squeaked.
“Keep up, buttercup. I am going to ogle a dead man.”
“But why? Wouldn’t it be easier to read the autopsy report?”
The professor interjected. “If they’ve made up their minds, they might not be looking for anything that doesn’t fit.”
“They’ll never let you near the body,” I protested.
Jag tilted his head to my new uncle. “Prof’s got a friend at the ME’s office who says the place will be pretty much empty from two until four because of a staff party for someone’s retirement.”
“I’ll go with you. To help.” I tried to stay cool. But inside, I was kind of excited. A dead body. What secrets did it hide?
“No. It’s not safe for you.” Jag was blunt. “You should stay here or in public places so you have an alibi.”
Live my life under a watchful lens? “What’s option two?”
“There is no other option,” the professor stated. “Given the frame job, it’s important you are not alone at any time.”
“Even when I’m sleeping?” I asked with a sarcastic lilt.
“Especially when you’re sleeping.”
I almost asked if someone planned to share my bed to make sure my alibi was ironclad, but with Jag standing there, I kept it to myself. “I don’t want my every breath and muscle twitch catalogued twenty-four-seven.”
“Only for a few days. Weeks at the most.”
Until we found who was doing this.
