Page 24 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Damon

S o, a psychic, huh?” Dorinda’s pouring herself a cup of coffee and she’s got her bitch face on.

I’m not awake enough for whatever lecture she’s got planned. And I know she’s got one. There’s a reason she became a lawyer. “Coffee first, D.”

She thrusts the cup at me and I manage to grab it without spilling anything.

Cool. I take a sip, reminding myself to be grateful I have a roommate who’ll make coffee before I get out of bed, even if she is my older sister who has opinions about all my life choices.

I meander into the living room and collapse onto the couch.

If I’m going to hear a lecture, at least I can be comfortable.

Instead, her phone pings, and she mutters a soft, “Damn it.”

“What?”

Carrying her own coffee, she rounds the couch’s L and perches on the end. “Jacquie can’t go to the game today. She’s sick.”

Dorinda counts season tickets to the UW Husky football team as one of the perks of having a real job. I don’t bleed purple anymore but I can appreciate a good football game. “Call Tessa.” I suggest one of her hardcore football-loving friends so I don’t make my interest too obvious.

She raises her brows at me over the rim of her coffee mug. “You don’t think she’s already got tickets to a game this big?”

I shrug into my coffee, determined not to give her puppy dog eyes. “Guess I haven’t been paying attention.”

“Too busy rescuing psychic mortuary attendants.” Her tone is a flat challenge.

Don’t react . Instead, I stand and raise my coffee mug. “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll be in my room.”

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Hiding, Damon? You gotta know you can do better than Ezra the Psychic.”

“Nope.” Exhaling hard through my nose, I lose the battle with self-restraint. “You barely know the guy, and last night was definitely not the kind of situation to judge him by.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Well enough.” Time to get dressed and head for the gym. I can spend some quality time on the treadmill and sweat out my irritation while I’m there.

“Where’s he from? He has kind of an accent.”

“Bumfuck, Arkansas, and he’s a decent guy.” I hope . “I swear it.”

She’s on the couch, shaking her head at me. “There’s more to life taking care of people, little brother. You need to be with someone who’ll lift you up, not drag you down into their bullshit.”

And fuck you, too . “You should get busy finding someone to use your football ticket.”

“I was thinking you could use it.”

“I’ve got stuff.”

“You can spend the day at the gym another time, baby bro. The Huskies are only going to play UCLA once this year.”

Aw, damn. UCLA . To disguise my eagerness, I take a sip of coffee.

That game is going to be tight, and for once I could text Roger a picture of me doing something besides lifting.

“All right. If you can’t find anyone else who wants the ticket, I’ll go.

” I manage a smile that hides most of my annoyance.

Her huff says she sees it anyway. “How very noble of you to fall on that sword.”

“Thank you, big sis. You da best.”

“I was thinking, though, that you should add to your Reddit post, asking for that Cat person to message you.”

“I will, although I doubt he’ll respond. Or she will. Or whoever.”

“Just try.” Her grin is the same one from when we were kids. “Game starts at one, and Ashley and Mo will be here at about eleven thirty.”

“Hey, you didn’t tell me Mo was involved with this.” Her nonbinary friend Mo and I had gone out on one misguided date, and while we both agreed we didn’t need to do that again, things are sometimes awkward.

“Get over it, bro. I can guarantee you they have.”

Flapping my hand at her, I duck into my room. “They’re a librarian,” Dorinda calls after me. “If you ask them nicely, they might be willing to search old newspaper archives, or whatever, to find out about our mystery woman.”

Dorinda has a point. Since last night, I’m even more interested in finding out who the victim is, but beyond the Reddit post, I haven’t done shit. “All right,” I holler back. “I’ll be nice.”

Deciding I have time to go to the gym, I grab my workout gear and head for the train.

It’s arms-and-shoulders day, though I can’t do as many reps on my right as I can with my left.

Goddamn shitty rotator cuff. I spend more time on the treadmill than I do with the weights, which gives me plenty of time to play back the trip to Neighbors and the conversation with Dorinda.

I focus more on Dorinda so I don’t have to try to hide a hard-on while on the treadmill. Besides, while it’s awkward to admit, she’s not wrong. From Patty to any of my ex’s, I’m better at taking care of other people than I am myself.

There’s more to life than being somebody’s doormat.

Hell, there is more to life than being a security guard, for that matter. I can’t seem to figure out what the future should look like. That fortune teller at the Carnival said I already knew what I wanted, but I swear I don’t, beyond a vague desire to help people.

I’m a college grad with a degree in sociology, one of the three majors the team academic adviser picked for guys who intended to play ball as a career.

I coach Little League during the spring, so I know I get along with kids okay, and it wouldn’t take too much work to get my teaching certificate.

It’s a year-long program, something like that.

Sometimes I can even see myself being a PE teacher.

And sometimes I can’t.

The rest of the time, I float through my work week wondering what the hell happened to D-Clem. That guy knew where he was going and how to get there.

I shower at the gym, grab a breakfast sandwich from Café Allegro, and get home right before Mo and their friend Ashley are supposed to show up.

In honor of the occasion, I dig out a purple and gold sweatshirt.

Team colors and all. I’ll wear my heavy winter coat on top of it, so no one will see that D-Clem is embroidered on the back.

While Dorinda’s organizing her friends, I have enough time to add to my Reddit post.

If the person named Cat sees this, I have questions. DM me .

I figure it’s pretty low yield since they’ve gotta know my primary question is how the hell did you get my address? , followed by how did you get in here? I also want to know if they’ve got any more information about James Smith. Anything we can use to identify the woman in the picture.

The whole thing is sketchy as hell.

I’m chewing over ideas as Dorinda, Ashley, Mo and I walk through the University District, heading for Husky Stadium. It’s cold, for sure, and the clouds are so thin that a hint of weak sunshine penetrates them, which adds to everyone’s good mood.

We kick through the piles of leaves from the trees that line the sidewalks. Ashley’s a typical white girl; blond hair worn straight and parted in the middle and the kind of curvy body I’d appreciate if I wasn’t completely hot for a guy with messy hair and an intermittent Southern accent.

A guy who’s apparently psychic. At least. I’m not a fan of secrets, but this feels different from the ones I’ve dealt with in the past. Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Clemens .

Damn, I’m in deep.

I’m jerked out of my mental state when Mo elbows me. “Dorinda says you need a librarian. I happen to know one.”

“I’m sure you do.” We’re standing at the corner of 15 th Avenue and Pacific Street, surrounded by a stream of purple-decked fans, all headed for the stadium.

Mo’s as tall as I am and they wear their dark hair in a short bob.

Their wool Filson coat is broken in, as if they’ve been wearing it for a few years, and their leather gloves have the same patina.

“Tell me more about the project. D said something about a break-in at your place.”

I tell them our whole sordid tale, up to and including the psychic morgue tech.

That, more than anything else, catches their interest. “That’s not the kind of search I get to do every day. Do you have a date range in mind?”

“Based on the photograph we found, probably the late ’80s or early ’90s. Big hair, you know.”

“And you’re mainly interested in who she is, right?”

“Basically, yeah.”

They nod, gaze distant like they’re creating a list of search terms and strategies on the way to a football game.

For the first time, I can identify why Mo and I didn’t really hit it off.

They’re too damned competent. Ezra’s good at his job, and I’m in awe of his unexpected decorating skills, but dude needs somebody on his team.

Mo doesn’t.

“I’ll have to start narrow or it’ll get overwhelming.”

“I was afraid of that. I don’t want to take a whole bunch of your time.”

“Are you kidding? Helping a psychic discover the identity of a woman he saw in a vision beats the hell outa helping a high school teacher figure out if his student used AI to write a paper or fending off complaints about books that show actual queer people being queer.”

“That’s really cool of you to help.”

“Seriously, my pleasure.” They emphasize their words with a warm grin. “I’ll dive in as soon as I can.”

The light changes and as a mass, we all move into the street. “Thanks, Mo,” I say, unable to stifle my relief. “But hey, now it’s time for some football.”

“Go Dawgs,” they drawl. In anyone else, I’d hear sarcasm.

For Mo, it’s as good as a cheer. Ashley says something to Dorinda that involves waving her hands for emphasis.

She’s got nails like talons painted deep maroon flecked with silver, so of course I have to give her shit for wearing WSU colors to a Husky game.

That round of teasing carries us all the way into the stadium.

The game is great. The Huskies win, thirty-one to nineteen, and while it’s always a good thing to beat one of our California rivals, we beat USC a couple weeks ago, which makes this one doubly sweet. Mo and Ashley grab the light rail at the stadium, which leaves Dorinda and me walking home alone.

It’s not sunset—yet—but it’s dark enough that most of the cars we pass have their headlights on. Dorinda’s walking close to my elbow, so I drape an arm around her shoulders. Feeling mellow, I ask, “Wassup, sis?”

“I know you think you could distract me with a little football, but as your older sister, I do need to express my concern.”

Irritation zaps me. So much for mellow. “What now?”

“That guy. Ezra. You can’t be serious.”

“We already did this.” I slide my arm off her, putting a little space between us.

She’s got her hands shoved deep in her pockets and her hood pulled up so that I can’t get a good look at her face. “It’s a vibe, Damon.”

“A vibe?” And now irritation heads right to anger . “You’re joking, right?”

Grabbing my elbow, she forces me to stop—or tries to anyway. “You can’t believe his whole ‘I had a vision and needed to see the picture for myself bullshit,’ can you? He probably just wanted an excuse to come over and get into your bed.”

She’s a little behind me now and anger has me walking pretty fast. “Shit, you must have had one too many beers, sister.” She starts to protest but I talk over her.

“You know what? I don’t care if he was making shit up.

I happen to think he was telling the truth, but even if he was lying, it doesn’t really matter.

He’s hot, he’s entertaining as hell, and I. .. I like him, so you can—”

“When it comes to the people you date, you have the worst judgment ever.”

She’s full-on angry now, and I do not want to deal with that. “Thanks for the game, D,” I call over my shoulder, walking even faster. “See you later.”

As I stalk off, it occurs to me that that Cat person might have broken in again, which would leave Dorinda to deal with the situation on her own. Without slowing down, I do a reroute so I’m heading in the general direction of our apartment. If she gets there first, I’ll be right behind her.

It takes me a few blocks to snake off the anger. Once I do, I try for a little objectivity. Easier said than done. I’ve been chewing over my interest in Ezra ever since things started to heat up.

Granted, last night was weird. I’ll give Dorinda that. Strange, even, but not at the worst judgment ever level. That sounds like the kind of thing people would say about our mother, who truly did have the worst judgment ever when it came to men.

That our mother had managed to give birth to a woman who became a lawyer was close to a miracle.

Dorinda’s success was entirely due to her own intelligence and determination.

Patty Clemens cared more about whatever drug was trendy and whatever man caught her eye than she did us.

We had different fathers—pretty sure Dorinda’s was black because of her skin tone and hair—but we’re not in contact with either of them, so we basically raised each other.

Or Dorinda raised me anyway, with some help from Gramma Clemens, which is why I’m so damned pissed that she won’t even give Ezra a chance. That she won’t give me a chance.

If Ezra Morgue is a mistake, that’s my business and if Dorinda can’t deal with that, well, that’s on her.

Still, I’m glad when I let myself into the apartment and the lights are on and nothing seems to be out of place. The shower is running, so as a peace offering, I order some pizza.

Pagliacci’s cures anything.

By the time she’s out of the shower, I’ve got a bottle of red breathing on the counter and I’m streaming some mellow trip-hop through the Bluetooth speaker. She leads with an apology, and I pour her a glass.

“I’m not Patty,” I say.

She takes a sip. “I know.”

“And Ezra is my mistake to make.”

Wrinkling her nose, she pulls a face. “I know. Just—”

“Ignore you when you say you told me so.”

“Yes. That.” She raises her glass and I tap it with mine.

“Pizza will be here in about forty-five minutes.”

“You da best, baby brother.”

We drink to it and then things are okay.