Page 57 of Tested

“Bobby DelMarco…I know him, too.” Trajan backs the Range Rover out of the driveway, his expression showing a hint of fang. “Did you talk to Bobby himself?”

“I talked to an older guy, but I assumed Bobby was the one who attended school with the victims and the old guy was Bobby’s father.”

“Nah, I bet you talked to Bobby. He’s a biscione, and oh for fuck’s sake…”

“What?”

“So biscione are rare. They’re Italian, and they can take the form of a snake. They only breed every seven years, and they stay true to their race.”

“What does that mean?”

“There are no half-bisciones floating around. Their women can only conceive with a male biscione, and only once every seven years.”

“Which is why they’re so rare.”

“More or less. As a race, they seem destined to die out.”

“Sounds like.”

“So when a young biscione dies, it’s a big fucking deal.”

I shift in my seat so I can stare at him. “What?”

“So.” He bumps the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “Bobby DelMarco had a daughter who died before she turned twenty-one.”

“A daughter named Donna?”

“Not sure, but maybe.”

“Huh.” I settle back in my seat, pondering this new information. I’d been searching for something that tied the victims together, something that would give someone a motive for murder. “Wonder how Bobby DelMarco’s daughter died.”

We’re headed into East LA, to the town of Montebello. It’s maybe nine-thirty at night and traffic is heavy on theTen, which gives me plenty of time to think. My mind skips from Trajan’s comment about my investigation skills to his reminder about the daytime business manager idea to wondering why I’d assumed there had to be an event that tied all the murders together.

“I mean, there could be another bitter Janet like the one we just talked to, taking revenge against all the girls she hated in high school.”

“Maybe?” Trajan shoots me a glance, then curses because some idiot in an overlarge truck moves into our lane with no notice and barely enough space.

Things calm down, which is why I decide to throw a verbal hand-grenade. “Who do you think shot you?”

Trajan goes awfully quiet, even turning a little pale. I count to ten, hoping the fact that he’s driving will keep him from turning full vamp.He finally answers, but the words come at some cost.

“If I had to guess, I’d say Jacques.”

“I mean, the J on the card gave me a clue, but he’s had 150 years to get rid of you. Why now?”

Trajan shrugs, slow, like his shoulders are weary. “We had a difference of opinion.”

I let the intensity of my stare be my only answer, and after a minute, he keeps talking.

“I asked him if he’d sell me the house we’re living in, and when he refused me flat, I said I’d buy someplace else. He didn’t like that and well,” he shrugs again, “if I die, he inherits all my possessions. I think he just wanted to remind me of that.”

“Jesus.” I drag the word out, because there’s a tightness around his eyes that makes me wonder if he’s telling me the truth.

“Yeah. It was a strange night all the way around. For the first time ever, he complained about my deviant lifestyle.”

The tightness fades, or maybe my weird-ass alpha upbringing has me seeing trouble where there is none. I mean, I have no reason to think he might lie – other than the hole in our dining room wall, which seems like an excessive reaction for an argument over a house.

He navigates around another asshole driver, then puts his blinker on. The map app is warning us to take the next exit. We do, and it doesn’t take long to get from there to Bobby DelMarco’s house.