Page 26 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Damon

Disgusted with both of us, I head for the stairs.

I’m marginally calmer by the time I reach the street, or at least the anger has faded to annoyance.

Which leaves room for some hurt feelings.

The ups and downs with this guy, man. The list of things I want to do with Ezra Morgue is longer than one night could handle. We’d barely scratched the surface.

If only he wasn’t kind of an asshole sometimes.

I head downhill on Thomas and my stomach growls, an echo of my disappointment. I run through the memory of our conversation, this time focusing on Ezra rather than my own reactions.

I’d arrived a few minutes before he shut off the lights, soon enough to see him sitting beside the body, his head bowed, his shoulders rigid.

Like the last time I busted him, he took something off the body and.

.. ate it. I hadn’t been sure he’d really put something in his mouth.

This time, despite the low light, I’m sure though I was too far away to see what exactly it was.

“Jesus.” What the hell was he doing? A car hits a puddle just right and I have to dodge a small wave of dirty water. It’s close to freezing, rain falling like stinging crystals, and I button my winter coat.

Ezra had come out into the hallway as pale as the ghost he talked about seeing, his eyes like two dark wounds. He looked like hell, and the way he jumped when he saw me? Damn . I thought he was going to keel over.

I’d made a comment about writing him up mainly to see what he’d say, although I’d seen enough to know he wasn’t abusing the corpse. I even believed the prayer thing. Mostly.

I go past the light rail station until I hang a right on Broadway. There’s a poké place on the same block as Dick’s, which sounds better to me than a greasy burger. I’d be lying, though, if I said I didn’t scan the line at Dick’s to see if Ezra was there.

He wasn’t.

I’m almost to the University District light rail stop, bag of poké in hand, when my phone pings.

Are you going to text me what you found out?

“What the hell?”

I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until the person sitting next to me says, “Bad news?”

“Nah. I don’t know. Maybe.” I shake my head, laughing at myself for talking to strangers on the train. She’s friendly looking, though, an older woman with long grey hair and gentle eyes.

“I hope things work out,” she says.

“Me too.” I glare at my phone, wondering how to respond. It takes me a minute to begin typing.

News story from ’89 - unidentified woman’s body found in a wooded area of Carkeek Park - 2 follow-up articles—no ID .

The stories didn’t include any physical details, either, but the victim had been the right gender in the right time frame, so maybe Mo got lucky.

They were going to try to access more info when they got to work tomorrow.

I stifle the impulse to message Detective McGraw. He’s probably ruled this one out.

Or ruled her in.

Do I honestly think Mo could do a better job than the cops? No.

But Detective McGraw and his partner have a whole caseload to work through. He’d never have the time to give this more than the bare minimum. Hell, he only came to our apartment because he knew Dorinda.

I’m in the process of promising myself I’ll send McGraw anything more Mo finds when Ezra texts me back.

What’s next?

The overhead announcement indicates we’re reaching my stop, so I say goodnight to the woman sitting next to me and leave the train.

I’ll text him back after I figure out what to say.

I honestly don’t know what’s next. I’ll wait to see if Mo comes up with anything while Ezra—well, I guess he’ll wait, too.

I send him a text that says as much and say I’ll see him at work.

My dick would like to see him sooner, but I’m doing my best to think with my big head, not my little one. I can’t decide whether or not to trust him, though it’s possible that the only reason I haven’t committed to not is plain stubbornness. Or stupidity. Or to prove Dorinda wrong.

My Monday morning alarm goes off way too early. I’d give anything to roll over and sleep for an indeterminate length of time even if my mattress is too old and soft. On autopilot, I shower, put on my last pair of clean work pants—laundry time soon—and force myself out into the cold.

The light rail is close to Tokyo-subway crowded. Even so, it doesn’t do much to distract me from wondering whether I should bring Ezra coffee and hoping Mo gets back to me soon.

The overarching question is why I care about either of those things. By the time I reach the ER security desk, all I really know is that Ezra’s going to have to reach out to me first.

Self-preservation is a thing.

I’m working with Zach today, and after we get sign-out from the night shift, we play rock-paper-scissors for who gets the ER desk and who gets to walk.

I get to walk, though it’s possible I deliberately lost so I’ll spend less time navel-gazing. I hope. I’ll get steps in, at least.

A new message in my Gmail account makes my phone ping. I’m about to take the stairs from the eighth floor to the seventh and waiting for the elevator will give me a chance to see what’s up.

It’s Mo and they’ve got nothing. They’ve managed to link the news stories they found to a name and a photograph, and the woman’s not fair-skinned and blond.

Well, damn .

They say they’ll start searching missing persons reports. I reply with a sincere thank you. They get right back to me, saying they haven’t had this much fun on a Monday in a good long time and promising they’ll be back in touch.

I thank them again and get on the elevator. Got the rest of the hospital to wander, though I feel better knowing Mo’s on the case. They’re a damned librarian, which is as close to a superhero as this world gets. If anyone can uncover our missing beauty queen, it’ll be Mo.

Finishing my lap of the hospital, I let Zach know I’m going to run to the Brew.

Caffeine is now an essential thing. When I get there, the line is borderline long, and I use the time to thaw out from my run through the freezing rain.

I also continue my ongoing debate regarding whether or not to get another cappuccino for Ezra.

Yeah, I’d promised myself I’d wait for him to reach out first. But I suck at keeping promises to myself.

The rational part of my mind keeps saying, He was lying about something, so maybe he did have another date .

The irrational part of my mind keeps dismissing that possibility.

Unless I have the rational and irrational parts reversed.

Honestly, Ezra’s enough of an asshole that he’d probably tell me if he did have another date.

It takes so long for me to reach the counter that I add a muffin to my order to bring back to the ER desk for Zach. And I order Ezra’s cappuccino, too.

It’s possible I’m an idiot.

Jett puts my drinks in a cardboard tray, the muffin in a bag between them. They then hold out their card deck. “Pick one.”

My initial eye roll is cut short by something more serious in their demeanor. They haven’t asked, they’ve told, so I take a card.

Strength.

The image shows a woman with her hands on the jaw of a lion, one of those sideways figure eight symbols over her head. “What does this mean?”

Jett’s gaze is thoughtful. “It symbolizes the command of the mind over earthly desires. Power with a side of mastery. When’s your birthday?”

“August tenth.”

“You’re a Leo, then. It’s a good card to draw.” They say it like my choice was random, although like Ezra, I half believe they fix the deck so we get whatever cards they think we need.

“It’s my lucky day, then.” I take my tray and turn to go.

“Could mean you’re about to be tested in some way,” they say. I pause, glancing over my shoulder.

“Keep your priorities in order and you’ll be fine.”

Muttering “thanks, I think,” I head for the door. Jett may mean well, but it’s Monday morning and I haven’t had any coffee. I’ll worry about my priorities later. Or now. Now is good.

The first priority that comes to mind is Ezra, and I have to think he’s already testing me. And if he is, I’m failing.

I have to let this guy go. After I bring him his coffee.

Roger would smack me upside the head, if Dorinda didn’t get there first.

With Zach sitting behind the ER security desk like some permanent installation, I have the whole day ahead of me. I leave him the muffin of truce and, cappuccino in hand, take the stairs to the morgue.

Geneva’s at the desk.

“Is Ezra around?”

She nods in the direction of the autopsy suite. “In with Dr. Chen. We’re just about to get started on a case.”

“Cool. Tell him I was here.” I hold out the coffee, and she points me to one of the desktops.

“Leave it there and I’ll make sure he says thank you.”

I laugh, despite the tightness of her lips. “What are you? His mom?”

If anything, she gets even more prissy. “As far as I can tell, that boy was raised by wolves.”

Laughing, I leave her to her sour mood. She and Ezra seem to carry most of the shifts in the morgue. Except for the night we busted him praying, they seem to get along, but today her vibe makes me think Ezra has pissed off more than just me.

The day turns into a typical Monday. A pregnant woman rolls into the ER, far enough along that she damn near delivers in the lobby.

Fortunately, the baby is only a couple days from his due date and comes out raging.

Always a good sign. My main job in that scenario is crowd control.

That and making sure the mother’s male companion hasn’t left his car somewhere illegal in his rush to get to her side.

Toward the end of the shift, Zach decides he needs a walk and leaves me in charge of the desk. I log into the computer and check my Gmail. There’s another message from Mo.

Been slow in here today , they say, and I’ve checked every resource I have access to. Whoever your blond woman was, she didn’t leave any trace of herself. Are you sure she was local?