Page 21 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)
“What’s your last name, Ezra?” McGraw interrupts him. He’s got a small notebook and pencil, and he makes a note of my name. “You both work at the hospital?” he asks Damon and then he squints like he’s having a moment. “Wait, I know you. You played ball for the Huskies.”
Damon cleared his throat. “Yup.”
McGraw grins at Dorinda. “You never told me your brother was D-Clem.”
Her answering laugh is the most sincere sound she’s made since I got there. “I guess it never came up.”
“Anyway.” Damon raises his voice enough to get everyone’s attention. “I’m a security guard at St. Luke’s, and when Ezra told me that someone had called in a tip about the murder, I thought it would be cool to dig around a little and see what I could find out about Smith.”
McGraw nods with barely an eye roll. “So maybe you came across this Cat person in your research.”
Damon chews on his lower lip for a second. “You know, I did make a post on Reddit, asking that anyone who might know the James Smith who was killed on Broadway to contact me.”
“Did you leave your address?” McGraw sounds skeptical and Dorinda stifles a “damn.”
“Of course not. I don’t know how they would have connected that post to this address, but that’s about all I got.”
McGraw makes another note and fixes me in his stare. “And where does your boyfriend come in?”
“He told me about your visit to the morgue so I called him, hoping he’d remember your name,” Damon says.
“I figured it would be better to contact you directly since you’d already been involved,” Dorinda says, backing her brother up.
Tapping his pencil on the notebook, McGraw nods my way. “And you needed to tell them my name in person?”
Yeah, I liked it better when he was pelting Damon with questions. I’m tempted to lean into the boyfriend bit and say I just dropped by or something. Damon would maybe go along with that, but—I glance her way—Dorinda would never. They’re all staring at me, which means I gotta say something.
“I had your card.” I stifle the urge to twitch or tap my foot, keeping my body quiet so they won’t see how fucking nervous I am. “And I wanted to see the picture.”
“Why?” He sounds honestly puzzled.
This is it . “Because when James Smith’s body was in the morgue, I had a... a... vision, I guess.” The praying bit is a step to far so I leave it out.
“A vision.” McGraw doesn’t make it a question. His tone is flat, like he’s got cards to play and he’ll die before he lets me see them.
“I saw James Smith strangle the woman in that photograph.” And he liked it.
Everything seems to freeze. McGraw’s staring at his notebook, Dorinda’s got her arms crossed, and I’m not sure Damon’s even breathing. It’s out there now. I can’t take it back. I also can’t imagine how this is going to end well.
“Did you know this?” McGraw breaks the spell with a question he’s directing at Dorinda.
She shrugs. “He said as much before you got here.”
“Okay.” McGraw settles back in his chair. “I want you to tell me every fucking detail you know about this crime.”
I do. It takes all of about forty-five seconds. McGraw scratches notes through the whole thing and fires off a few questions I hadn’t already thought of . Time of day? Approximate temperature? What was he wearing ?
I answer to the best of my ability. Finally, he asks for my phone number in case he has any more questions. He takes some photos of the picture and the note and produces a couple of evidence bags and a pair of gloves. He stashes both items and gives the place a final once-over.
“Are you sure that’s the only thing out of place?” he asks.
Damon and Dorinda exchange looks. “As far as we know,” she says.
“Call me if you discover anything else, and you”—he points my way—”don’t leave town. I’m going to want to talk to you again.”
Can’t think of anything I’d like better. “Sure.”
He leaves the three of us standing there staring at each other.
Dorinda’s holding a glass of wine, and Damon’s wearing his uncertainty like a bad haircut.
The only thing I’m sure of is that I need to get the fuck outa here.
They all apparently believed it when I said I’m psychic, the story I pulled outa my ass in a fit of desperation.
Fuck, I’m not sure I even believe it.
I wanna shut my brain off. Dance floor time. Not sure there’s a graceful way to exit after all of this but fuck graceful. I’m out.
I take a deliberate step toward the door. “I guess I’ll see y’all later, then.”
Damon blinks, somewhere between surprised and shocked. “I was going to offer you something to drink. Water, maybe.”
Dude, he can probably smell the Jack Daniels across the room . “Thanks anyway. I need to hit a club.”
His next blink is squarely in the realm of shocked. “You’re going where now?”
“Go dancing. It’s only midnight. You want to, uh, come?” I stumble over that last bit, already bummed. I want him to say yes when he’ll likely say no. Anticipatory rejection ftw.
“I’m not sure. . . “
“Come on, Big D.” I throw some sass at him. Not like I could possibly make things worse. “Princess is hot to go.”
Dorinda takes a sip of wine, her gaze flicking from me to her brother. It’s obvious she wants to say something, and I’m half tempted to ask her what. I don’t, because I’m tempted, not stupid.
“What club are you thinking?” Damon’s gaze holds the kind of banked-fire look that gives me a flicker of hope.
“Probably Neighbors. Close to home, you know.” Where I can shower away the funk and the stress and the fear.
“Haven’t been there in a while.” He exhales, like he’s come to a decision. “Definite maybe. Text me if you change your plans.”
“I won’t.” If for no other reason than that flicker of hope has turned into a merry little blaze. He might actually show up .
Dorinda mutters, “Y’all are crazy,” and walks out of the room. Damon watches her go, then shrugs.
“Yeah, I’ll have to shower and change and stuff.”
“Let me have my coat and I’ll leave you to it.” I pull my phone out of my pocket. “Neighbors in an hour?”
“I’ll text you. Might take longer, depending on the light rail.”
Ah yes, the definite maybe angle. Claiming my coat, I leave him to get ready—or not—and try to keep some perspective on my own hopes.