Page 3 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Tired of picking at that particular wound, I change the subject to wondering what Jett meant by The Fool.

Riding in the elevator, I google Tarot card meanings, and at least on the surface, that particular card is about taking chances and trying new things.

Reassured that they don’t mean I’m an idiot, I chew over what they could possibly be referring to.

I’m a twenty-seven-year-old hospital security guard who lives with his sister, hasn’t had a serious girl- or boyfriend in over a year, and can’t decide on his next act. What could I possibly want to change?

Fucking Jett, man . . .

My relief arrives just before ten o’clock. I’m at the ER desk, along with Tolliver, when Jameson rolls in. My feet are sore, and it’s with some relief that I hand over the work cell phone and keys. “Tolliver can run through things with you. I’m—”

The desk phone rings, interrupting me. Tolliver answers. “Yeah? Okay. Clemens is just on his way out. I’ll have him walk you down there.”

He hangs up and grins at me. “Like you were saying, I’ll run the list with Jameson, and you can take a body down to the morgue.”

“Aw, man.” That panini was a long time ago. I’m hungry and I want a beer.

“The nurse is waiting for you in the MICU. Take my keys”—he dangles the set from his fingertip—”take the body down, then run these back by here on your way out.”

Jameson’s gone from fighting a smile to outright laughing at me.

“Sure,” I say, giving in to the inevitable. I snatch the key ring off his finger and stalk off, making it clear that I Am Not Pleased .

Jameson’s laughter follows me.

Normally I would love an excuse to go to the morgue, if only to see Ezra. He’s long gone, though. The morgue is locked after the staff goes home. Locked, and dark, and filled with an eerie quiet.

Whatever. I can manage this one last thing on my way out the door. I reach the elevator and stab the up button.

The Medical ICU, or MICU, is on the fourth floor.

I badge in through the double doors and the pretty boy at the front desk directs me to room 4462.

There, I find a nurse of about my age standing by a gurney that’s next to the bed.

The body on the gurney is covered head to toe with a blanket and I try not to spend too much picturing the physique responsible for those bumps and bulges.

“I’m Dee,” the nurse says. “Charge told me to call security for an escort.”

“Sure thing.” I extend my hand. “Damon Clemens, at your service.”

We shake. Her smile is tired but sweet. “Nice to meet you, Damon. This has been a rough one, so I’m glad for the company.”

“Absolutely.” I grab the railing on one side of the gurney and tug it toward the door.

Dee takes the other side, and together we maneuver the thing past the front desk, where Pretty Boy puts a stack of paper charts on the gurney’s foot.

Dee hits the pad to open the unit doors, and I get behind the gurney and give it a shove.

“We’ll use the utility elevators.” I point in the direction I want us to go. We don’t talk much; in fact, once on the elevator, Dee stands with her eyes closed and her head tipped back against the wall.

The elevator chimes when it hits the lowest level. Dee blinks, and I laugh. “Seven a.m. was so very long ago.”

She shakes her head. “No shit.”

Together, we roll the gurney down the hall. While there’s never a whole lot of action down here, tonight it feels creepier than normal.

“Fucking glad I got company,” Dee mutters, and I heartily agree with her.

The entrance to the morgue is through a pair of double doors.

I fumble with the keys, looking for the one with the black tag—someone in our office has a weird sense of humor—and fit it into the lock.

The lights are off, except for a single red bulb in one corner.

I start reaching for the light switch even before I get the door all the way open.

There are three switches on the wall plate and I flip them all at once. Somebody yelps and behind me, Dee lets out something close to a scream.

The morgue techs didn’t all go home. Ezra’s there, shoving a cadaver into the cooler fast enough to look guilty.

“What the fuck, man?” I ask.

He slams the cooler door and spins around to face us. His shoulders are rigid, his jaw tight. “Sorry, I just... stayed late. Got held up. Late case. You know.”

He’s babbling, his gaze stuck on the floor. What the hell is he really doing? I catch Dee’s eye. “One problem at a time,” I say, and we slide our gurney through the door. “We’ve got another body to check in.”

“Sure,” Ezra says. It’s like he’s frozen and he won’t—or can’t—make any attempt to help.

I scan the cadaver cooler bank to find a door with no patient label. There’s an empty one to the right of Ezra and I swing the door open and motion Dee to bring the other gurney closer.

Usually it’s pretty simple to transfer the body from the gurney to the drawer and close things up.

This time, it’s a little more complicated since we’re working around Ezra, who’s staring off into space.

We manage, though, and by the time we get the new guest tucked away in their frigid home, Ezra has at least managed to relax his arms. I wouldn’t really expect him to smile—he’s not that kind of guy—but at least he doesn’t look so terrified.

I hand Dee the clipboard to log in the new guest’s information while I go back to Ezra’s side.

“Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

He meets my gaze, his eyes so dark I could get lost in them. “No.” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming. “You’ll think I’m disturbed.”

I can tell you’re disturbed, dude. This whole fucking scene is disturbing . Keeping my snark to myself, I put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go. I gotta stop by the ER, and, uh, maybe you should come with me.”

He’s trembling, his skin as cold as the bodies in the cooler. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

Reluctant to argue with him, I check to see if Dee is done with the paperwork. She’s standing at the door, having apparently decided she’d had her fill of drama.

I don’t let go of Ezra. “Come with me to take Dee to the main floor, at least.”

“I’m good. Y’all can take off.”

Y’all? That touch of a Southern accent was new. “You sure?”

“Yeah, now git. I gotta finish my charting. I swear I’m fine.”

Given his pale, sunken cheekbones and the shadows behind his eyes, I in no way believe him. Short of physically picking him up and carrying him out, leaving him is my only choice. “All right, man. I’ll see you later.”

“Sure.” It’s little more than a whisper. Against my better judgment, I go.

Ezra has a secret, and I don’t like it. I briefly consider adding something to my shift report—I’m supposed to note anything unusual—but, Ezra found in morgue after hours, pale and shaky seems too vague to be necessary.

Like, it’s almost eleven o’clock at night.

Who wouldn’t act a little weird after spending the day in the morgue.

Besides, I’m more worried about him than anything else.

Shit. It would have been so much easier to go home at the regular time, have a beer, and jack off to someone in my spank bank.

Or, you know, the memory of one of Ezra’s infrequent smiles.