Page 33 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Damon

Y ou need to call McGraw.”

Dorinda’s got me cornered. I’m next to the kitchen sink, and she’s firmly planted in the space between the end of the L-shaped countertop and the fridge.

There’s no other way out.

“I know, D. I said I would and I will.”

Between her heels, her silk blouse, and her attitude, she might as well be standing before judge and jury. “Do it. Right now.”

It’s about six thirty p.m., a not-unreasonable time to call a police detective, but. “Do you see how I’m dressed?” A black cashmere crewneck over my best pair of jeans. “I’m meeting Roger in half an hour.”

“Ooh... “ She wiggles her fingers, managing to look both happy for me and mocking at the same time. “Going out with the OG.”

I move toward her. She’ll either let me out or get run over.

She yields, taking a big enough step for me to get past her. “McGraw wouldn’t care, except there was a woman by that name living in Seattle until about 1988. After that, there’s no record of her, so she could, in fact, be the woman in the photo your BFF Cat left here.”

“Not my friend.” I keep going toward my room.

We’ve gone over this, and I totally get why McGraw wants to know how we discovered the name.

Telling him a necromancer extracted it from the spirit of the murderer?

Yeah, not going there—not telling Dorinda, either—and rehashing the facts won’t change my mind.

I need to get my leather coat and then I can cut out.

If Dorinda is frustrated with me, oh well.

That’s what little brothers are for. Roger made us reservations at one of the fancy-ass downtown restaurants, and while hanging with him can be kind of a mixed bag, right now I’m grateful for the distraction.

“Text Ezra and tell him to call McGraw.”

Damn . I’d managed to avoid telling her Ezra’s disappeared. “It might be better for you to share his contact info with McGraw.”

“Why?”

“Keeps me out of it?”

“He isn’t a responsible adult? Doesn’t care about anybody but himself? Needs to ask his crystal ball before he can say anything?”

That crack about the crystal ball is close enough to the truth to make me blurt out, “I haven’t talked to him.”

Her eyes narrow. “Since when? I thought you guys were like this.” She holds up a hand, her fingers tightly crossed.

I go into my room to get my jacket, knowing full well she’ll be standing there when I come out.

It’s been a week since we went to the SPAM offices.

I’d managed to get through the holiday weekend with a series of white lies and omissions but there’s only so long I can do that with her.

Shrugging into my leather jacket, I try to think of something that doesn’t make me sound like a complete idiot.

“We had a...” I mumble, running out of words. Fuck if I know what we had. It wasn’t a fight, was it? I wasn’t fighting anyway. I was just trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

As expected, Dorinda’s still standing near the entryway, arms crossed, lips pressed together like it’s taking all of her will not to say “I told you so” before I’ve actually said anything to her. I’m going to have to go past her to get out, and I stop when I’m a couple feet away.

“Look, I said Ezra was my mistake to make, and he is. There’s stuff I can’t tell you, and stuff I won’t tell you, and you’re going to have to trust me on this one, Dorinda Jewel.”

Just like Ezra said I should trust him .

“I do, Damon. You know that.” She throws her hands in the air like she’s some kind of middle-aged housewife.

“The legal system, however, is not so forgiving. If McGraw wanted to, he could drag you and your invisible boyfriend in for questioning, which would be way more stressful than a fucking phone call.”

I step around her to get to the door. “I need to take off or I’m going to be late. I will get in touch with McGraw in the morning, all right?”

“Fuck.” She gathers her thick curls and twists them into a knot on top of her head. “Less than ideal, but... have fun tonight, I guess.”

And on that wave of enthusiasm, I make my escape. Uber will be here in five minutes. While waiting, I write Ezra a text.

The detective who’s investigating the murder wants to know how we came up with the name. Any ideas on what to tell him?

I can’t make myself hit send. Yet . I don’t delete the post, either. He blocked me, so maybe he’ll get the message via psychic energy or something.

The restaurant Roger chose is in the Belltown neighborhood.

Belltown’s hipster cred has come and gone over the last twenty or so years, at least according to a couple of the older guys at work.

It must currently be on an upswing, because the Uber driver leaves me in the middle of a block, in front of an angled door with a sign only a little bigger than the palm of my hand.

Core. The restaurant’s name is Core, which sounds to me more like a gym that specializes in Pilates and other forms of abdominal torture.

The hostess desk is only a few steps past the front door, and the two young women behind it are a matched set of chic.

Both have long, straight hair and long, artfully painted fingernails. They even smile in unison.

I tell them I’m meeting a friend who made a reservation, and when I drop Roger’s name, they both light up.

“Mr. Bolden is right over here,” one of them says. She picks up a thin sheet of parchment, presumably the menu, and waves at me to follow her.

The space manages to find a perfect balance of light and cozy.

A long banquet upholstered in tan leather runs through the center of the room, with glossy cherry wood tables spaced along it.

Each table has two spare wooden chairs with saffron cushions on their seats and a single creamy white candle.

I smell garlic and the hostess’s perfume, light and spicy, and under the low murmur of voices, classical piano comes through invisible speakers.

Curved booths, also upholstered in leather, line the perimeter, with two corner booths both larger and more enclosed than the others.

I’m not terribly surprised when the hostess leads me to one of those.

It would take a serious baseball fan to recognize him, and a real hardcore to recognize me, but the privacy is nice.

Roger stands when he sees me and says, “Dog,” before wrapping me in a hug.

Our traditional back-slapping teammate hug feels nice. “Hey, man. It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too.”

We both slide into the booth. He’s already got a cocktail; either a gin and tonic or a vodka soda, something clear with bubbles and a lime.

A very young, very fine waiter appears before I get a chance to ask Roger what he’s drinking.

“I’ll take a beer,” I say, mostly so Roger can give me shit about my lack of imagination. “Do you have an IPA on tap?”

They do, and the waiter goes off to retrieve me one. I survey the expanse of our table and ask if we’re expecting anyone else.

“Nah, dog, it’s just us tonight, unless we meet any pretty ladies.”

That makes me laugh, because Roger’s contact list is packed with pretty ladies.

His skin is dark, his smile is wide, and the gold chain around his neck is thick enough to make it clear he’s done well for himself.

“I was sorta surprised to hear from you,” I say.

“I thought you were on Maui or something.”

“I was. Maui, then Cabo San Lucas, then the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego, then two nights in San Francisco.”

“You worked your way up the West Coast.”

“And left a string of broken hearts behind.”

“I know you did.”

We both laugh. My beer comes and Roger takes advantage of the waiter’s presence to order an appetizer that’s supposed to be the specialty of the house. “Seared scallops with truffle foam. Mmm-mm, it’s gonna be good.” His grin is infectious.

We drink a toast that next year his team goes all the way. It’s one of our semi-regular traditions, and so far it hasn’t come true.

“So.” He pauses to take a sip of his cocktail before continuing. “How’s life at St. Nowhere?”

The only thing I like less than answering that question, is answer it when Roger asks.

It’s difficult-to-impossible to make working as a hospital security guard sound exciting to someone who’s playing Major League Baseball.

My go-to strategy is to keep my answer short and redirect him as quickly as possible.

“Paying the rent. How’s life as a free agent? ”

“You know. Trying not to get too set on any possibility till I see what all there is out there.”

“Makes sense.”

That prompts him to share a detailed list of the teams he’d consider and who he thinks might be considering him.

Kansas City made him an offer, but his agent thinks he can do better, and he’s still going when our waiter comes back with the scallops.

There are four of them on the plate, each a good two to three inches across, with an artful dollop of what looks like very light whipped cream in the center.

I must watch the waiter a little too closely while he’s taking our dinner order because when he leaves, Roger laughs in my face. “Wanna see when he gets off work?”

“Shut up, dude.”

Roger’s known me since we were about ten years old. He knew I was bi before we graduated from high school. “Seriously, though, are you seeing somebody?”

Rather than answer, I slide my fork under a scallop and set it on my appetizer plate, along with a bit of the foam.

I’m stalling for time and it’s not fooling either of us.

Roger’s ready and willing to sit there with his patient smile and his fat gold necklace until I confess to the real disaster in my life.

“Sort of,” I say about a second before it gets awkward. I take a taste of the stuff that looks like whipped cream and a savory bit of heaven blossoms on my tongue. “My god, that’s good.”

Roger gets his own scallop, both of us too busy eating to talk. Of course, when both the scallops and all that gorgeous foam are gone, he crosses his arms and grins at me. “You were going to tell me about the guy you’re seeing.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You talked to Dorinda, didn’t you?”

His shrug has a touch of apology.

“God damn it.” I down what’s left of my beer. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told her. He’s my mistake to make.”

“And is he?”

“What?”

“A mistake?”

Laughing, I bounce my head off the back of the leather banquet. “I don’t know. Probably?”

The waiter brings us a bottle of wine. He’s both nice to look at and has excellent timing.

Roger dives back in as soon as we’ve both got a glass of the ridiculously expensive red wine he ordered. “Look, dog, you’re talking to the guy who had three women after my nutsack at the same time. They don’t come much stupider than me.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Hey now, don’t be nasty.”

I exhale, hoping the pretty waiter would return with our food so I wouldn’t have to talk any more. No luck. No options. With an I’m-doing-this-under-protest grimace, I give Roger a heavily edited version of the Ezra story.

“Let me make sure I understand you. You meet a guy who’s hot and kinda grumpy, and you buy him a bunch of coffee. You go out a couple times, you might actually be getting along, and then things go sideways, and now he’s blocked your number.”

Thank fuck the waiter shows up with our dinner. I pause to admire my steak frites—to hell with worrying about carbs—and I’m hoping Roger’s filet mignon will distract him enough to change the subject.

“So, did I hit the high points?” he says between bites.

I give him a slow blink. “More or less.”

He chews, swallows, and washes everything down with a mouthful of wine. “What are you going to do about it?”

I drag a fry through the small puddle of artisanal ketchup on my plate. “Not sure what I can do about it. He’s made his opinion clear.”

“So fuck him and find somebody else. We’ll go out clubbing tonight. There must be someplace in this Podunk town where we can find both girl and boys, if that’s what you want.”

“Nah, man, I have to work in the morning.”

“Oh yeah, that reminds me...” He attacks the last of his filet with the same vigor he gives everything. “I hear the Dawgs might need a strength coach. I know the guy who’s hiring and you should apply.”

“Roger... dude...” I focus on what’s left of my steak to keep my annoyance in check. Do I think Roger came all the way to Seattle to tell me about a job? Not really, but—

“At some point you gotta stop trying to take care of me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“We’re grown-ups, Roger. I’ll figure it out.”

“Damon, Damon, Damon.” Roger pauses in slicing off another bite of filet mignon.

“I love you like a brother, man, and I’m only going to say this once.

Go after what you want, man. I know blowing out your rotator cuff fucked you up, but that doesn’t mean you gotta spend the rest of your life taking what comes.

You want grumpy Ezra? Find him and tell him that.

You want to do more than wander the halls of St. Nowhere—and I know you do—start applying for jobs, man. D-Clem has cred on campus, so use it.”

I lift my wineglass, fighting the impulse to dump it over Roger’s head and walk out of the place.

Instead, I take a long swallow, savoring all the flavors in the complex red.

What keeps me there—what keeps me from owing Roger money for dry cleaning anyway—is that he’s not wrong.

In fact, go after what you want isn’t all that far from what the carnival psychic told me.

Dream a little and do the things you’ve always wanted to .

“You’re not wrong.” I pour myself some more wine. “If I promise to apply for a different job, can we talk about other stuff for the rest of the night?”

His grin is filthy. “We certainly can, and in some cases, I can show you photos.”

“Great.” It’s hard to sound snarky when we’re both laughing. Being a strength coach wouldn’t be the worst thing ever, although I’m not sure I’m ready to be that close to the game. I need to find something else I can build a career around.

And for the first time in a long time, I think maybe I will.