Page 2 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Damon

S t. Luke’s. St. Nowhere, more like, though I gotta admit that very few places are as dynamic as a hospital.

Life, death, pain, laughter; I see it all. As a security guard, I get to be everywhere and talk to everyone, and while there are routines, no two days are ever alike.

The pace of change can be addictive, which is why, five years later, I’m still here.

Still here, and still wondering what the hell happens next.

Meanwhile, I have my favorites. Favorite post: front desk in the ER because you never know who’ll walk in. Favorite department: the NICU because it blows my mind that human beings can start out so small and survive.

Favorite perk: catching a glimpse of Ezra Morgue. I call him that since I don’t know his real last name. He’s got a strip of black tape covering it on his hospital ID. He’s also got this bravado thing going on, and while some guys do that to hide the emptiness inside, Ezra Morgue is different.

He’s carrying something heavy, and any time I can make him smile? Hell yes, those are good days.

Also, he smokes, and—unpopular opinion—I think guys who smoke are sexy. I know it’s supposed to be gross and all, but there’s something about that attitude, the willingness to live dangerously, to risk so much for a momentary pleasure, that does it for me.

Guess I spent so many years keeping myself in perfect condition that anyone who does the opposite is intriguing.

Speaking of Ezra Morgue, I haven’t run across him since Monday at the Brew.

It’s Friday, I’m supposed to have the weekend off—though overtime is almost always an option—and I’m taking a lap, walking through each nursing unit, making sure I’ve got any potential problems pegged.

Once I’m done, I’ll grab some coffee and do it all over again.

I could alter my route and cruise through the morgue. I won’t.

I like leaving some things to chance.

“Hey, D-Clem.” The cancer ward’s charge nurse calls me by an old nickname, one only hardcore UW baseball fans remember.

She’s short, stocky, and sharp, and while it’s a little embarrassing—D-Clem had a future in the Majors, Damon does not—there’s no way I want to get on her bad side, so I smile and nod.

“Wassup, Lindy?” We’re standing just outside the double doors to the unit. Each door has a Do Not Enter sign on it, and there’s a telephone on the wall so visitors can get buzzed in.

“Glad I caught you.” She shifts her paper coffee cup—one bearing a Brew on the Hill logo—from her right hand to her left. “Did they tell you Ms. Barillo is back?”

I pull out my phone and open the shift report on our confidential app. “Yeah, says she’s in the system as Jane Doe and she’ll be here till Thursday.”

“That’s right. Do y’all still have the picture of her ex?”

“Nah. I should remember him from last time.”

“Here.” She hands me a copy of a photocopy of a photo. The image is blurry, but it’s the guy I remember.

“I’ll know him if I see him.”

Her smirk has a hint of doubt. “Just don’t let him get anywhere near here. We’ve got enough going on.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I mock-salute her, earning an eye roll. With a swipe of her badge, the double doors swing open and I laugh her on her way.

From there, the day passes with only a little drama. A kid nods off on one of the benches in front of the hospital, which is a convenient place if you want to OD. I help get him inside, then double on the front desk with Zach, figuring we’ll both be needed when his hysterical parents show up.

No one comes, which makes me sad. We get a sick call for night shift, so I volunteer to stay late until our backup guy can get in. Mostly I volunteer so I can justify another trip to the Brew for an afternoon jolt of caffeine.

The place is quiet, the warm air carrying the scent of fresh-baked something or other.

Jett’s no longer behind the counter, though of course they’re hanging out, perched on one of the two counter stools.

There’s a guy next to him, his elbow propped on the counter, his long legs crossed at the ankle, and from the teased wave of his pompadour to the rolled cuffs on his skinny jeans, he’s rockabilly personified.

Jett glances at me past Rockabilly Dude. “Damon, I’m surprised to see you so late.”

“Hey Jett.” I stop in front of the display case, considering what they’ve got left over from the lunch rush. “I’m here until ten pm at least. We had a sick call.”

“Good of you to help out.”

“Eh.” I shrug. It’s really not that big of a deal. “They’ll cover me next time.”

Their evening shift barista, a young woman whose nametag reads Wonderbread which I doubt is what’s on her birth certificate. She hands Rockabilly Dude a cup with a fat swirl of whipped cream on top.

“Have you two met before?” Jett asks me. “Micah, this is Damon. Damon, this is Micah.”

Hmm. Rockabilly Dude’s name is Micah, and his smile is warmer than the guarded look in his eyes. He extends his hand and we shake, his grip firm but not my-dick-is-bigger hard.

“Nice meeting you,” I say.

“For sure.” His smile fades and his eyes don’t warm up.

“Wonderbaby, make Damon a tall double, right?” Jett looks at me, and I nod in agreement. A jolt of caffeine will keep me from yawning through the evening shift.

“Micah just moved here,” Jett says.

“Cool. Where are you from?”

He’s in the act of sipping his drink, which leaves a whipped cream smear on his lip. “Different places. I grew up on the Eastside and now I’m back.”

The Eastside means east of Lake Washington, shorthand for the suburbs.

I could ask him what brought him back, or we could compare notes on whether we know any of the same people since we’re both basically local.

Instead, I ask the dumbest thing ever. “How do you get your hair”—I wave at my own forehead—“so high?”

To my surprise, he winks, his smile broadening. “Magic.” He raises his cup in Jett’s direction. “Thanks, dude. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I’m still not sure what I think of him when the door swings shut on his shadow.

Amused, confused, maybe a little attracted.

He’s got that rock star vibe, at once intriguing and off-putting.

Jett’s laughing, which I figure is no more than I deserve.

I have my own experience with being The Guy, and I really don’t want that in someone I’m with.

Shaking my head, I get back to the business at hand.

“I’ll take a panini, too,” I say to Wonderbread. “The roast beef one.”

“You got it.” She goes to work, Jett checks their phone, and I go back to considering the cupcake shelf in the display case.

Between working on my feet and spending off days in the gym, I can have the occasional carb, but I try not to overdo it.

I do a quick calculation: protein shake for breakfast, semi-disgusting hospital salad and chicken breast for lunch.

No carbs except for the panini, although if I want a beer after work, I should skip the cupcake. Okay, decision made.

“How’s your sister?” Jett asks, putting their phone away.

They met Dorinda once when we came here for lunch while I was working on a Saturday, and I’m glad to leave the subject of Micah Rockabilly behind.

“She’s good. You know, working hard at saving the world, one innocent-until-proven-guilty person at a time. ”

Dorinda’s a public defender, and as far as I can tell, her work is a process of negotiation more than anything else. It might not be what she expected when she went to law school, but then dreams and reality rarely match.

Before I can fall too far down that rabbit hole, Wonderbread brings my sandwich and coffee. I tap my card on the reader, thank her, and give Jett a friendly smile.

“Thanks for coming in,” they say.

“You aren’t going to have me choose a card?” Mostly I’m asking because of how annoyed Ezra gets when Jett makes him pick one.

“Nah.” They laugh like they’re in on the joke. “But if I had to guess, I’d say you’d draw The Fool.”

“Great. Fantastic.” His grin says he wants me to ask what that means. Nah. I can google it later. Without probing any deeper into the unsolicited prophecy, I head back to the hospital.

Between meeting Micah and whatever Jett meant by his comment about The Fool, this trip to the Brew was more loaded than usual, given that I’d only wanted caffeine and food that actually tasted like something.

I’m still shaking my head when Zach pings me on the cell phone, asking for me to cover admitting while he helps a very pregnant woman to L&D.

I dive in, snatching bites of panini and drinking my latté after it gets cold.

Zach goes home at seven, and his replacement, Tolliver, has been working the night shift since about the time I was born. He wants to spend the whole shift at the ER desk, which leaves me to walk the floors.

Walk the floors and ponder what I need to do so that I don’t end up like Tolliver, a career hospital security guard.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

For me, though, this gig was supposed to be a way to pay the rent until I figure out what’s next.

After so many years of thinking my future would be in baseball, I’m having trouble committing to anything else.

My phone pings with a text from my buddy Roger.

Excellent timing, dude . He and I met as kids and played ball all the way through in high school.

Instead of college, he got drafted. Now he’s in the Majors, in the last year of his contract with the Royals.

The text is a bunch of photos of him on a beach with at least three very pretty women. I send back a one-word response:

Nice .

If things had been different, I’d be on that beach with him, and I’m honestly pretty ambivalent about seeing what might have been.

Because one bad catch turned into the last act for ol’ D-Clem.