Page 12

TWELVE

AMETHYST

I spend the next hour with my back to the door, looking out for phantoms. The house is quiet and still, making me wonder if calling the police was a mistake. If I can’t tell what’s imagined from what’s real, then why am I involving the cops?

The doorbell rings, making me flinch. I whirl around, look through the peephole, and grimace. Officer Vayne stands on the front step, his bulk obscuring my view of his colleague. He leans in so closely that my vision fills with the bristles of his bushy mustache.

He’s the asshole who came when I found the envelope containing the threatening note, along with the disturbing photo of me being electrocuted as a child. Instead of focusing on the threat hanging over my head, he lectured me on the dangers of associating with killers. He and his intrusive questions were part of the reason I missed Xero’s execution.

With a sigh, I open the door.

“Miss Crowley, what can I do for you today?” he asks, his eyes already narrowing.

I step aside and gesture for him to enter, but he folds his arms over his gut.

“Someone’s been sending strange texts,” I say.

His gaze drops to my phone. “Another of your online trolls? ”

“I told you yesterday that I don’t give out my number.”

With a grunt, he steps over the threshold, filling my senses with the scent of citrus. As Vayne lumbers into my living room, his colleague, a younger, clean-shaven man with a crewcut, walks in with an apologetic smile.

I follow the second police officer into the front room, where Vayne has already made himself comfortable on the sofa. The other one waits for permission, so I gesture for him to sit anywhere he likes.

After we’re all seated, I explain the strange messages and even bring down the burner phone and its SIM card. I’m relieved when they read through the texts, both on this handset and the other one, confirming that they weren’t a figment of my imagination.

“And was there anything under your pillow?” Vayne asks.

I nod. “A letter I wrote to Xero.”

“Bring it.”

I reach into my pocket and extract the envelope. “Aren’t you going to dust it for fingerprints?”

The two officers exchange glances, making me wonder if they’re taking my complaint seriously.

Vayne clears his throat. “Bridges will put it in an evidence bag and take it to the precinct.”

“Will I get it back?” I ask.

“At the end of the investigation. Take out the letter and let me see what it says.”

Heat blooms across my cheeks as I extract the note, but I keep my features even. Standing in front of him, I hold it at arm’s length.

“Closer.” He scoots forward, making the sofa groan.

I take a step toward him, but he continues to beckon.

Skin crawling, I inch a little closer. He sniffs the paper like a bloodhound, and his head snaps up to shoot me a glare.

I meet his gaze, daring him to ask about the scent in front of his colleague, but his gaze drops back to the letter.

“Dear Xero,” he says, sounding gruff.

“The content isn’t in question,” I snap. “I wrote it myself and mailed it to the penitentiary. What I need is for you to investigate why I found it under my pillow.”

Ignoring me, he continues skimming through the page. I turn to the other officer, who looks like he wants to shrug. Sometimes I hate men. When they’re not being predators, they’re berating women for their choices. It’s part of the reason I found Xero so appealing.

Everyone else fell in love with his handsome mugshot, but I was drawn in by the intelligence behind his eyes. After writing to him, I discovered he was polite, open-minded, non-judgmental, and compassionate. Most importantly, he was safely behind bars.

Vayne splutters.

“I lie awake at night, imagining you sneaking out of prison and into my bedroom. You would pull back the sheets and make love to me the whole night long. At sunrise, you would disappear like a vampire, and I would wake up, aching and satisfied from the most erotic dream?”

The other man chokes back a laugh.

“Miss Crowley, nice girls don’t write that kind of fantasy to convicted murderers,” Vayne says, shooting me a slut-shaming stare.

My eyes narrow. “Would you like to comment on how the envelope found its way from the prison to my bed?”

His cheeks turn pink. “It looks like whoever handled Xero Greaves’s personal effects has traced the letter back to you.”

“But I didn’t leave a return address.”

He falls silent.

Bridges leans forward. “We’ll make inquiries at the penitentiary and see which officer cleared Mr. Greaves’s cell.”

“Thank you,” I say with a sigh.

“And I’ll extend our patrol down your road and see if we spot someone suspicious,” Vayne adds, as though not wanting to be outdone by his colleague.

I nod.

“Is there somewhere you can stay until we complete our investigation?” Vayne asks, his gaze sweeping down the front of my hoodie. “With family, friends… another lover?”

“Maybe.” I don’t elaborate .

Mom implied I wouldn’t be welcome. Myra isn’t picking up her calls, and I haven’t had a lover since my last disastrous hookup. Mrs. Baker is asleep, and I don’t know anyone else well enough to ask to infiltrate their homes. Except Relaney.

After the police place the letter in an evidence bag, I walk them out and check the back of the car. The corpse has gone, along with its scent, but I don’t dare turn the ignition. Driving while hallucinating is just as bad as driving while drunk. I can’t take the risk.

Picking up my overnight bag, I glance at number 11. The downstairs lights are still on, which is no surprise. Nobody in that house ever seems to sleep.

There’s nowhere else for me to go. I’m stuck here until I get my prescription or a ride, so it looks like I’ve run out of choices. With a sigh, I walk over to my other neighbor and knock.

Moments later, the door opens, releasing a cloud of incense. Relaney Cymbal towers over me in a patchwork kimono, her blonde afro backlit by multicolored lava lamps. She’s in her early forties, with smooth, pale skin that stretches over an angular bone structure.

Her voice is breathy and warm, as is her touchy-feely body language. Despite this, I’ve never once seen the woman crack a smile. She peers down at me through spidery lashes and a pair of John Lennon glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

“Amethyst,” she says in that airy whisper. “How nice of you to drop by. Are you here to learn about the afterlife?”

“My electrics aren’t working,” I lie. “Is there any chance I can stay the night in your spare room?”

She grins, revealing a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “Come in, darling. You can join our séance.”

I glance over my shoulder, wondering why she seems so pleased for me to join her communion with the dead. Maybe I’m better off at home being haunted by Jake and the Grim Reaper. Before I can think through my life choices, Relaney pulls me through the threshold.

The hallway is illuminated by a cluster of lava lamps containing multicolored blobs of wax undulating within translucent liquid. My nostrils twitch with the overwhelming scent of frankincense, cannabis, and burning wicks.Shifting on my feet, I glance toward the staircase. Its wall is decorated with occult symbols, mandalas, and sacred geometry.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” I say, my voice hoarse from all the smoke. “I’m really tired. Could you show me to your spare room?”

She clasps my hand and looks me dead in the eye. “I saw you yesterday. I know what you did.”

Shit.