Page 30 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Damon

T his is it. Ezra’s body is rigid, a wild thing cornered. Whatever he’s been keeping from me is about to come out, and he really doesn’t want it to.

I don’t either. Anything he thinks is that bad can’t be good, and hell, I like the guy. I don’t want to learn some deep dark secret that makes me think less of him. I want him to trust me, to tell me things because he wants to.

Not because a trio of weirdos forces it out of him.

I scan the three of them. Micah’s curious, sure, but he’s got some sympathy in his gaze.

Brandon’s neutral, though it’s not clear if he’s keeping his cards close or if he doesn’t much care.

It’s their ringleader, Geordi, who isn’t going to let Ezra out of here without something more concrete than prayer .

It’s Micah who asks the first question, though. “It’s more than mourning the dead, though, isn’t it?”

Ezra clasps his hands on the tabletop and doesn’t answer.

“It’s gotta be, or it wouldn’t have triggered a vision,” Geordi says.

Micah taps the tabletop, and for the first time I notice he’s wearing a sturdy gold band on the ring finger of his left hand. Huh. Married . He starts muttering about family traditions of prayer, which distracts me from wondering what his wife—or husband—might be like.

Micah’s hand stills, and he gives Ezra a sharp look. “Where did you say you were from?”

Ezra raises his chin like he’s not going to answer, then spits out, “Arkansas.”

“Okay, so the South. Are you, like, a sin eater or something?”

“No.” Ezra pushes back from the table. “Gross. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But I’ve seen you eat—” I get shut down when he stabs me with a glare, then he’s on his feet and headed for the door.

“Seen him eat what?” Geordi asks.

Tossing one last glance over his shoulder—a mournful glance, one filled with heartbreak—Ezra leaves.

What the hell just happened?

“Damon?” Geordi claims my attention. “What have you seen him eat?”

I shrug, way more concerned about Ezra than I am about this idiot. “I don’t know. I’ve caught him praying over dead bodies, and both times he picked something up and ate it.”

“Has he ever said anything to you about being a sin eater?” Geordi’s questions are really starting to work my nerves.

I stand up, done with this whole scene. “I don’t even know what that is.”

“You might want to do some research,” Brandon says. He stands up, a surprising level of concern on his face, given that so far he’s been fairly distant. “And take care of your friend. He’s going to need some help dealing with this.”

“With what?” I don’t even try to sound polite.

The three of them share a glance. “When I first met Ezra at the Brew,” Micah says, “I could tell he had something extra.”

“Extra,” I scoff.

“He’s right,” Geordi says. “Your friend has some level of power, though without talking to him further, we can’t tell what that means.”

Biting back the urge to ask what the fuck he’s talking about, I try for something less rude and nod in his direction. “Sure. I’ll, uh...” Do something helpful. Maybe. Hopefully. Not that I have a clue what that might be.

“Here.” Micah holds out his phone. “Give me your contact info. Find him, talk him off whatever ledge he’s got himself on, and call me.”

I do as I’m told, pretty sure I’d rather eat bugs than talk to any of them again. I need to find Ezra, and I need to figure out what a sin eater is, and I’m not sure of the right order for those two things.

Liar . I need to find Ezra. The rest can take care of itself.

By the time I get outside, he’s gone, which doesn’t surprise me. Now, did he go home or to the closest bar? It’s a Tuesday night and too early for the dance clubs to be open. I head back to Broadway and survey the block. If I was Ezra, where would I want to get my drunk on?

Home. Gotta be. He’s not going to want to deal with people right now.

I take off at a brisk walk, hoping the trip back home will give Ezra time to calm down—assuming he’s at his place. Assuming he’ll let me in. Assuming he’ll speak to me.

That’s a lot of assumptions.

On the way, I shoot Dorinda a text with the victim’s name, along with a request that she both pass it on to McGraw and never ask me how we got it.

Immediately I got a ??? response, which I ignore.

I send the name to Mo, too, in case McGraw’s too busy with police stuff to do much with the information.

Something about Ezra’s haunted expression is familiar.

It’s the kind of look opposing pitchers get sometimes, when the batter works them to a full count and has managed to foul off their best stuff.

I’ve been that batter, dominating home plate, knowing full well I’m going to make contact with whatever the guy throws at me, and just as sure that he doesn’t know where to go next.

Ezra has been throwing me his best for the last few weeks, trying to keep me away from his truth, and somehow tonight he ran out of pitches.

Or something. Coaches always used to say baseball is like life, but this particular analogy might be a stretch. Ezra’s desperation, though, had a familiar tang.

I jaywalk across Thomas, a block or so from Ezra’s building.

It’s damn cold, I’m hungry, and I need a plan.

If he doesn’t want to talk to me, he won’t, and there isn’t a lot I’ll be able to do about it.

The building has a call-up, so I’ll buzz his room.

If he doesn’t answer, I’ll text him that I’m outside.

If he doesn’t answer that, I’ll ask him to message me when he’s ready to talk.

And if he doesn’t message me, I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do.

With that in mind, I’m not surprised when he doesn’t answer the door or respond to my text. I’m startled, though, the next day when I get a text from him.

You’re 2 good we can’t talk anymore. Blocking you. Sorry.

But startled’s not the right word. Angry? Worried? Hurt? I go through all of them while standing there with my phone in my hand.

They keep cycling over the next few days, the predominant emotion shifting randomly.

If there’s a silver lining, it’s that Thursday is Thanksgiving.

I’m off work so I can avoid the Brew. I don’t want Jett’s sympathy or to risk running into that Micah dude.

He and his friends exceeded my limit for bullshit.

Besides, my hands are full dodging Dorinda’s questions.

After making a serious dent in our traditional Thanksgiving roast beef, I do a quick Google search on the term “sin eater”, learning very little since a lot of what’s there is nonsense.

The gist of it is that Ezra apparently believes he can take on a person’s sins after they die.

Assuming “sin eater” is the correct term for what he is—or thinks he is.

The way he freaked out when the SPAM dudes said those words made it obvious they triggered him. There’s gotta be something more, though, for a guy who doesn’t believe in the prayers he says to shut down so completely in response to being linked to a crazy folk belief.

No one named Cat responds to my Reddit post, so on Friday I track down MacCready’s Pub to see if I can find them there.

It’s a shitty hole-in-the-wall with poor lighting and sticky tabletops and a crew at the bar that have probably been sitting there since the ’70s.

Cat’s not around, though they all know them, which turns out to be a her.

The bartender, who looks like he probably starred in gay porn movies back in the day, says she’s on walkabout and he’ll let her know I’m looking for her.

I tell him she can DM me on Reddit and leave it at that.

As much as I want to wait till Ezra reaches out to me, I only last until I get back to work. I haven’t heard from him at all, and for the first time, I head for the morgue without my standard cappuccino excuse. Just me and my messed-up head, stepping up to the plate.

One glance tells me Ezra’s not working. Geneva’s there, along with an older man who doesn’t bother to turn around when I come through the door. “Hi,” I say to Geneva. “I was wondering if Ezra’s around.”

For some reason, that brings her to her feet, her eyes wide with something that could be surprise or confusion. “Outside,” she says quietly, and leads me through the door into the hall. “We don’t want to get ol’ Bob spun up again.”

“Do I want to know what that means?”

“Not as bad as I want to know what you’re doing here.”

I shove my hands in my pants pockets. “Like I said, I’m looking for Ezra.”

She speaks slowly and carefully. “Z took a leave of absence.”

Now my eyes go wide. “A leave?”

“Well, he tried to quit, except Dr. Chen talked him out of it. He hasn’t been here since, I don’t know, last Monday or so.”

And don’t I just feel like an asshole. “Cool. Well, I guess, uh, if you see him, tell him I came by, or something.”

“You didn’t know anything about this, did you? And you’re, like, his only friend.” She crosses her arms, the lines in her face hardening. “He’s got a lot of apologizing to do.”

“Probably, but, uh—” My thoughts run smack into a wall of anger. “I’ll see you.”

I clear out as fast as possible without actually running.

Geneva calls after me but I’m too pissed off to do more than wave in her direction.

I hit the stairs, taking two at a time until I reach the third floor, and go all the way to the eighth at a jog.

Blocking you. Sorry . Fucking asshole. I don’t understand any of this shit; why he freaked out that night at SPAM, why he blocked me, or why he left his goddamn job.

I’m not a dick. We could have talked about his weird-ass beliefs and I wouldn’t have laughed at him.

I swear to god I would have listened, at least, and I’d have tried to understand.

Now, though, I don’t know. I grew up with someone I couldn’t rely on, and I sure as hell don’t need that in a boyfriend.

Boyfriend? Fuck me .

I’m wheezing by the time I get to the top floor and my empty stomach is curdling. So of course, my hospital phone rings at the same time as an overhead page announces a Code Grey on the third floor. Setting aside my physical and emotional turmoil, I run back down the stairs.

I’d rather deal with someone else’s trauma than figure out my own.