Page 15

ROWAN

The streetlights illuminate the vehicle turning left at the end of the street, and the van blends into the night.

Violet watches, and I watch her , convinced she’ll change her mind and sprint away.

Have we made the right decision not to pursue them?

If Grayson were here, he could’ve easily followed the van.

Another unwanted reminder to Violet that Grayson isn’t where he should be—with us.

If these men take the body to the Whitegrove estate, Cornelius has limited time to deal with the body if he plans to embalm and put Viktor in the Whitegrove mausoleum, not destroy his son’s body. Where’s their mausoleum located?

Violet took a huge risk in allowing his people to leave with Viktor, but she’s right—if Cornelius wanted to kill and destroy all evidence of his son, he could’ve done that years ago.

Taking Viktor’s body ourselves won’t achieve a lot, but this way we’ve a good chance of finding and revealing a connection between Cornelius and whatever the hell is happening.

Is there a reason Viktor remained alive all those years ago?

“Stay here and watch out in case more individuals or vans appear. Message Rowan should anybody else approach, or if you see someone leave the station via the front doors,” Violet tells Leif, pointing at his pocket. “Rowan and I will accost the individual inside.”

“Mentally, not physically, I hope,” I say.

“Whatever necessary.” Violet tugs at my sleeve. “The security cameras won’t be functioning currently, and if we move now, the person inside won’t have time to restart the security system and leave.”

Leif backs away toward our original position, and I slink through the shadows with Violet, edging around the wall, toward the rear door.

As we walk up the two steps, I point at a metal square on the left wall. “Keypad.”

Violet peers. “Anything you can do?”

“Try a few number combinations?”

“Time is of the essence Rowan.”

“Fine.” I lift a fist and hammer on the door. “We forgot something important. Whitegrove won’t be happy if we don’t retrieve it,” I shout, adopting a gruff tone.

“Well, that was loud and unsubtle.”

“Just using your usual tactics, sweet Violet.” I smirk to myself as I silence Violet, triumphant when the door swings open.

“What the hell? Keep your voice—” A middle-aged man with a paunch straining against his belted black trousers pauses, flicking a look between us. “Who are?—”

The balding guy staggers backward as Violet places a palm firmly on his chest and shoves him into the building. Glancing behind me first, and satisfied there’s nobody else around, I follow, quietly closing the door.

A light above us in the narrow hallway shines on the scene, and my eyes go immediately to the camera that blinked down on us the night Violet stole the toe. No red light.

The man slides a hand over his head, sweat already sheening his face. “You’re Violet Blackwood.”

“Recognizably so. And you are?” she replies.

“Screwed,” he mutters. “What do you want?”

I splutter. “We saw what happened and have questions.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The man edges backward along the lit hallway, and we pass the evidence room. This is all too familiar.

“Good grief.” Violet grabs the man’s arm to prevent him moving farther. “The scent of your perspiration almost outdoes the stale carpet smell. We have questions; you have answers.”

Violet doesn’t use her cajoling false sweetness she’s adopted recently, or the monotone she once used. Instead, an aura of the dangerous hybrid runs close to the surface, her voice harsh. She gives the man another shove and then indicates with her fingers that he should turn around.

“Don’t let her hurt me,” he says, his back to us as Violet ‘encourages’ him to walk forward.

“Do as I say, and you will remain intact.” The cool tone borders on icy, and even I shiver. We halt and my heart skips when we reach her destination. “Open the door.”

The morgue.

As a human town resident, the man knows recent rumors and lies. The famous Violet Blackwood dragging him into a morgue terrifies the guy into silence, and he pushes open the door with a trembling hand.

“Violet,” I whisper. “What are you doing?”

I missed the fun of the morgue last time I joined Violet inside the station at night, and I dart a look around the brightly lit, sterile space. No bodies on the slabs, thank god, but am I standing near corpses stored in the metal refrigeration unit?

The man backs up, as far away from us as he can, backside hitting a desk and knocking a pen holder to the tiled floor.

Violet stalks over, and he flinches as she knocks into the desk when walking by to face a whiteboard behind. Blue pen divides the board into rectangles with names and numbers written inside, and Violet points as she counts them.

“A busy week. Three bodies.” She turns to the man. “Any murder victims?”

Wild eyed, he shakes his head.

Violet’s lips purse as she turns to the metal cabinets containing the bodies.

“Liar. John Doe. Number three. Take a look, Rowan.”

My stomach turns over. “What?”

“Look inside number three.”

“Uh.” I swallow hard. “I don’t want to see a dead body.”

She sighs. “That’s the whole point. You won’t.”

“What’s happening?” stammers the man. “Do you know Whitegrove or not?”

“What’s your name?” she shoots back.

He hesitates, until Violet and her disturbing aura step closer. “Peter.”

“Do you work here, Peter?”

“At the police station? Yes.”

“No. Here .” Violet points a finger to the ground. “In the morgue.” Cautiously, he nods. “I’d like all paperwork and samples pertinent to the body removed tonight, and an answer to where the individuals are taking said corpse.”

“There’s no missing corpse or paperwork.”

“Did I not advise you to tell the truth?” she growls. “Three men removed a body from this building, and you were involved.”

Peter visibly swallows, not dumb enough to deny anything.

“Is the computer connected to the station’s network?” I walk to join them and point at the keyboard. “Log in.”

“I-I can’t,” he says. “I don’t know the password.”

“You work in the morgue and don’t know the password?” Violet’s voice and expression darken. “If you value your physical intactness, enter that password.”

Peter turns the keyboard to type with shaking fingers, and file icons appear onscreen. I drag the wheeled black stool to sit, clicking on each one, and studying the contents. Spreadsheets. Scanned forms.

“The computer is linked to the entire local police database. There’s no record of a murder victim in recent crimes. That can’t be right; somebody told Sawyer the police discovered one.”

“Oh?” Violet steps toward Peter. “Did you dispose of those records whilst allowing others to remove the body? Who exactly are you?”

Peter remains quiet but his face contorts as Violet’s magic crawls into his mind. He presses a hand to the side of his head, eyes squeezed closed, and lets out a gargled noise.

“Stop! I’ll tell you,” he whines, and my mouth dries at Violet’s immediate jump into magical violence. “Somebody paid me for the body and to wipe the records.”

“Who?” she demands.

“Don’t know. A guy contacted me. Told me he’d pay if I helped him,” he continues in a weak voice.

“When he told me what he wanted, I said no, but the guy sent proof he’d paid half my debts and said he’d wipe the rest.” The man grips the edge of the desk, sweat patches staining his underarms. “I didn’t ask him to pay, but he said I owe him now.

I do as the guy asks, or he’ll tell my family about the gambling problem—and ensure I lose my job.

He claims he’s influential and can make it look like I’ve stolen funds. I haven’t!”

“You sold this man a body?” I ask, both brows shooting up.

“Apparently so.” I look to where Violet stands with the open, empty metal tray, and I take a relieved breath that she chose the correct one to open. “How much do dead bodies sell for? How much debt?”

“A lot,” he mumbles. “The guy must have contacts. He said if I delete files inside the station, he can erase other records.”

Violet laughs softly. “Oh, yes, the man in question has quite a talent in making people disappear.”