Page 12 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Damon

I t’s not raining—yet—but I still jog from the train station to home.

Roger texted me another photo—this time of him and a faceless woman and more of his anatomy than I needed to see—but for once, I’m mostly happy for him.

I got Ezra Morgue to go out with me, which has me in a pretty damn good mood.

I also got him to talk about what happened at the end of my shift, at least indirectly.

Do I think it’s weird that he feels the need to pray for some of the bodies in our morgue?

Yeah, a little. On the other hand, he packs lollipops and snarls more often than he smiles.

Dude is at least a little weird at baseline.

Between the secrets and the bitchy attitude, he has me hooked. Tonight was just my first move.

My apartment’s on the top floor of an old three-story walk-up on Brooklyn Ave in Seattle’s University District.

I’ve lived there with my sister since she was in law school and broke and we figured that by pooling our resources we could get something slightly nicer than either of us could afford on our own.

It’s a two-bedroom unit, the rooms are decent sized, the wood trim is original, and while we regularly get on each other’s nerves—we are siblings, after all—in general, things work out okay.

Dorinda calls out when I open the front door. “That you, bro?”

“Yeah. Just me.”

She’s curled up on the couch with a book and a glass of wine.

Since she’s a real lawyer now, she’s been adding to our secondhand Ikea with the occasional piece of real furniture, like the couch she’s lounging on.

It’s from some fancy downtown store, it’s long enough that I can stretch out full-length, and it’s firm enough that I can nap there without pissing off my back.

At some point she’s going to get tired of floating her baby brother. For now, though, I appreciate the perks.

“You’re home late.” A laugh slips out, ruining her attempt at being the stern older sister. “Did you have a date or something?”

“Uh . . . I guess.”

“You guess? Girl or boy and how broken are they?”

“Shut up.” I fall into my favorite chair, an old, oversized piece from Macy’s scratch-and-dent that needs a new slipcover. “Boy, and maybe a little. Broken, I mean.”

Slipping a bookmark into place, she sets the book aside. Her hair’s tumbling around her face from a knot on top of her head, and by the relaxation in her smile, I figure she’s on her second glass of wine. “You sure can pick ’em. What’s wrong with this one?”

I open my mouth and close it again. While I learned a helluva lot more about Ezra than I’d ever expected, it’s hard to know where to start. Instead of diving into the deep end, I ask, “How can I tell if the police are investigating a cold case?”

Dorinda’s not just a lawyer, she’s a public defender, and her gaze instantly narrows. “If you went out on a date with a murderer, I’m not sure I can help you.”

She’s joking... sort of... so I laugh it off. “Not dating a murderer. I’m just curious. Apparently we had a murderer die in our ICU.”

“Can’t be the first time that’s happened.”

I shrug. “First time that I know of that a couple of detectives showed up after getting an anonymous tip that our hit-and-run victim had killed someone.”

“Who the hell calls in that kind of tip? It’s gotta be a joke.”

And just like that, I’m deflated. Big sisters are good for that. “You’re probably right.”

“What does it matter if they’re investigating it, anyway? It’s not like they can put his cadaver in jail.”

Think of something quick, Clemens . I’m sure as shit not going to tell her it’s so I have a reason to text Ezra. “Closure for the victim’s family?” Classic true crime podcast response.

“Point to Damon.” Dorinda sips her wine, her expression thoughtful. “It’s likely some kind of hoax, but Tiffany from book club just made detective, so I’ll ask her if she’s heard anything.”

“Yeah?” I’m reinflated with enthusiasm. “When’s your next book club meeting? You should pump her for information.”

She trades her wine glass for her book, giving me a classic big-sister headshake. “Tomorrow night, and don’t get your hopes up.”

“But if anyone can get info out of her, it’s you, sis.” I stand. “Now I’ll get out of your face so you can go back to reading.”

I’m almost to do the door to my room when she says, “I see what you did there, and you will tell me why you went out with another reclamation project. I’d say Mama taught us better than that, but we both know she didn’t.”

Laughing, I push open my door. “G’night, Dorinda Jewel.”

“G’night, Damon Jeraldo.”

Okay, I might have won that battle, but the war isn’t over yet.

Dorinda’s not wrong, though. I do have a pretty shitty track record.

My last boyfriend ended things by going to jail—don’t ask—and I broke up with my last girlfriend when her relationship with fentanyl grew stronger than her feelings for me.

That’s the kind of one-two punch that keeps a guy single for a good long while.

It also explains why I asked Ezra out in the first place.

As pretty as he is, I’ve never been sold on looks.

Tonight, for a few minutes, he gave me a glimpse or two behind the porcupine quills.

There’s a man in there, a sexy man with a sense of humor and a smart mouth. And secrets. Color me intrigued.

It’s just after ten o’clock on a Friday night, too early to go to bed, too late to get any kind of workout in.

That double smash burger is arguing against anything that active anyway.

If I go back out to the living room, Dorinda will be all up in my face about the maybe-date, and I have no interest in that. I should have lied in the first place.

Rather than deal with my sister, I change into some sweats and an old tee shirt and get out my laptop.

I have a short list of websites I check out in my downtime.

The UW teacher preparation program. Two or three different professional development and aptitude assessment pages.

An AI quiz that’ll help me answer the question what do I want to be when I grow up?

I should pick a form and fill it out or choose a quiz and answer the questions. I don’t. Opening the pages makes me feel like I’m doing something concrete.

In reality, I’m running back through dinner with Ezra. Which leads to ruminations on my last break-up and the one before that. To distract myself, I find a game where I can shoot things.

Except I’m not a gamer, so it doesn’t take long before I’m distracted by an out-of-date Halloween ad. The black-and-orange vibe makes me think of the Oregon State colors, which was the team we were playing when I blew out my shoulder.

Before I can stop myself, I’m in center field, running full-out after a ball that’ll win them the game unless I catch it.

I should pull up before I reach the wall.

I don’t. I slam to a stop as the ball hits my glove, my body bouncing off the wall and onto the grass.

Yes, I manage to hang on. No, I don’t throw the ball to the cut-off man.

Couldn’t. I was flat on my back, the right side of my body pretty much numb. Fractured clavicle. Dislocated shoulder. Torn rotator cuff. When I go, I go big.

Dragging my mind back to the game on my screen, I send a volley of shots at the aliens or ninjas or whoever it is I’m fighting.

I don’t need to relive months of rehab. Didn’t matter.

My throwing arm never fully recovered. I managed to graduate, at least. Now my only connection to Major League Baseball is Roger’s texts.

Fighting back the sadness threatening to swamp me, I glue my eyes to the screen. After five years, I should have moved past that one catch, that one game. Should have, could have. Haven’t.

Friday turns into Saturday and then the weekend is over before I know it.

Time sure flies when you’re sweating it out in the gym.

On Monday, Ezra isn’t working. The only morgue tech is someone named Shanny, who says he’ll be there on Tuesday and that she will happily drink the coffee on his behalf, so I give it to her.

Tuesday morning is kind of a shitshow involving an overflow of ER patients who have to wait on gurneys in the hallway until the docs can discharge other patients to open beds.

My job is to make sure they are all safe and that no one leaves AMA—against medical advice.

It’s well after lunchtime before I can make a run to the Brew, my eyes grainy with the lack of caffeine and my blood sugar low.

Jett’s working, as usual. They have a rainbow-striped scarf holding their dreads out of their face, and they’re talking to that guy they’d introduced me to, Mitchell or Michael or—no, Micah . If Micah’s hair isn’t quite as tall as last time, his attitude still holds some bite.

I nod to Micah and smile at Jett. “The usual, plus a panini.”

“As you wish.” Jett gets to work, leaving me and Micah standing awkwardly.

“So, uh, what kind of work do you do, Micah?”

Should be a pretty benign question. Still, the guy flinches like I’ve asked how much he weighs. “I’m a consultant of sorts.”

“Cool. Like in the tech field?”

“Not exactly.”

I wait, giving him time to fill in some of the blanks. He doesn’t. Glancing around for something to bail us out of this conversational abyss, I notice a flyer pinned to the wall next to the register. “Carnival of Mysteries?” I murmur. “Who the hell schedules a carnival at this time of year.”

Micah’s chuckle sounds so natural it startles me. “It’ll be fine.”

“If it’s not rained out.”

“It won’t be.”

Before I can ask him how he’s so damned sure, he raises his paper cup in a sort of salute and says, “You should check it out.”

With that, he heads out, his worn biker boots knocking on the wood floor. I watch him until he’s through the door and out on the street, and when I turn back around, Jett’s grinning at me so hard I’m afraid they’ll sprain something. “What?” I ask, though I know what.

“He’s married, or as good as.”

Shaking my head, I take my goods to the register. “It’s not like that. I was just trying to figure out the deal with that carnival. It’s gotta be too cold and wet for an outdoor event.”

Grin broadening, Jett punches in the charges on the register. “You should invite Ezra to go with you.”

“What?” It comes out more like a squawk, and I busy myself with the card reader.

“Here.” Jett produces a smaller version of the flyer and hands it to me. “I’ve been before, and it’s totally date material.”

There are many ways I could respond, so I choose the lamest: stuffing the flyer in my sandwich bag and turning on my heel. I’m carrying the coffees I’d ordered—one for me and one for Ezra—in a tray, and I scurry out of the shop before they can say anything else.

I’ll take a certain amount of shit from Dorinda because she’s my sister, but I do not have to put up with the person who runs the coffee shop giving me love life advice.

Still, I trot right over to the morgue. The cappuccino earns me a brief smile, followed by a scowl that’s darker than a midnight thunderstorm.

We’d been fine the other night. We’d been more than fine, really.

Now that I’ve had a glimpse of what’s underneath the armor, his about-face only makes me want him more.

“Check this out.” I dig the flyer out of the bag and hand it to him. “We should go.”

He snorts a laugh. “You’re high.”

“I’m dead serious. Jett and their friend Micah said the weather should be good this weekend, and it’s out at Marymoor Park... .” My voice fades away in the face of his frozen expression.

He hands me the flyer back. No, he doesn’t hand it to me, he crumples it up and presses it against my chest. “Nope.”

I automatically cover his hand with mine, and yes, touching him at work is probably a bad idea. “Think about it, and if you change your mind—”“

“I can’t.”

“What’s stopping you?”

He rubs his face with an open palm, like he’s trying to hide a smile that’s sneaking out despite his bad attitude. “See ya later, Big D, and, uh, thanks.”

With a shrug, I put the flyer back in my sandwich bag and head for the door.

Dorinda is right. I need to find a different sort of person to crush on.

Mumbling a goodbye, I leave him with his cappuccino and his odd mood and go back to sorting people in the ER.

I take a bite or two of my panini every time I make it to the desk, and my coffee has long since gone cold before I finish it.

I’ve almost got things locked down for end of shift when my text message alarm sounds. It’s from Ezra.

Okay. Saturday night. You’re driving .

I text back, I’ll pick you up at four . Even leaving that early, it’ll be almost dark by the time we get out to Marymoor. The flyer says the Carnival will be open till eleven, so I’ll just trust that whoever’s running the place has the sense to supply plenty of lights.

And tents.

And those electric heaters used for outdoor seating in restaurants.

And that Ezra dresses warm enough.

I shake my head. There are so many ways this could go wrong.