Page 8 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Ezra

I don’t get Jett’s obsession with the Tarot. I mean, I don’t get Jett in general. They’re always a shade too friendly, and they’ll give me this look like they know more about me than I want them to. The thing that really pissed me off this time, though, was not that they gave me The Devil card.

It’s that The Devil had that dead woman’s face, blue eyeshadow and all. Had to be a mind trick. She’s going to haunt my dreams if I’m not careful.

And for fuck’s sake, I really wanted a fucking cappuccino.

Since I can’t have one—or at least can’t have one yet —I dodge raindrops and find my little nook between buildings. I’ve done my three days of penance so now I’m free to light up.

I fish this morning’s half-smoked butt out of the pack and try to pretend that a deep drag will wake me up as well as caffeine. Jk. It won’t but a guy can dream.

At least I’m out of the rain and most of the wind, so I puff away.

By Sunday I’d managed to eke out a few moments of I’m not completely freaking out.

Then this morning James Smith is still in the morgue.

The cops asked us to hold on to him until a couple of detectives examine him, and just that easy, I’m back to being a ball of nerves.

Damn well better happen today.

I take one last drag, drop the butt, and step on it to put out the cherry. When I crouch down to pick it up—can’t litter—someone’s there.

I lurch forward, coughing, terrified that I’m going to see Murder Dude. Like maybe he really is haunting me. It’s not him. It’s Damon. He’s holding a cup from Brew on the Hill in my direction. I straighten, trying to pull myself together. His smile holds a tinge of embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he says. “Jett told me where to find you.”

How the hell did Jett know? I clench my teeth until I’m able to give a nearly sincere, “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

I take the cup and he lifts his own like we’re going to toast. “I guess I’ll see you... uh... “

I don’t help him out by filling in the blanks. “Probably, yeah.”

He gives me a look like he wants to say something else, but with a little headshake, he takes off. I stand there for another couple minutes. The cappuccino is warm and fragrant, and while I should be touched by his consideration, all I really want to do is cry.

Don’t be nice to me . Shit. I need to stick to dead people.

The rest of the day is busy, especially since I keep getting interrupted by a pair of police detectives who want anything we have on Murder Du—I mean, James Smith.

I don’t even mind the interruptions, because at least we’ll be able to move the body when they’re done.

They tell me they got an anonymous tip about a crime he may have committed, and I smile and nod and try not to make my relief too obvious.

One of the detectives is especially persistent.

Black, mid-thirties, with a flat-top military haircut and a jaw just as square, he makes it clear he’ll find the victim or know the reason why.

He asks for the guy’s personal belongings and is clearly unimpressed with the small plastic bag I hand him.

“The guy was a hit-and-run,” I say. “All we have is what he wore when they picked him up.”

He hefts the bag. “Seems like it should be more than this.”

To appease him, I double-check the storage area. I’m not a total asshole and I do want to help but my good intentions come up empty.

His frustration almost makes me want to tell him what the victim looks like.

Except he’ll never believe me, and I’d out myself as the anonymous tipper.

Nah, I’m just glad they’re looking into it, though their presence confirms that my buddy James never did time for the crime, which is annoying as fuck.

Does it really matter that my act absolved a man of one of the most heinous sins you can commit?

His sins weigh on me, an ugly bulk that three days of penance didn’t entirely get rid of.

Worse, the thought that he got away with it rots in my gut like a bad tuna sandwich.

For something this big, I should probably plan on three weeks of penance instead of three days, which, hell no.

I’ll meet St. Whoever at the Pearly Gates in whatever shape I’m in when I get there.

Heaven is for the Karens and the Justins of the world. I’m just going to do whatever I can to make sure the woman he murdered gets some kind of justice.

Geneva’s got the day off. The other morgue tech, Shanny, likes to work alone, which is fine by me.

Dr. Chen is doing a post on a guy who came down from the CICU early this morning, and Shanny insists she doesn’t need my help.

That puts me at the desk, flipping through charts to try to look busy.

My cappuccino’s almost gone and if my knee were vibrating any faster, it’d pound right through this ugly linoleum floor.

Detective Determined and his partner are tricked out in hazmat suits, pawing over the body of James Smith. Am I nervous that they’ll notice his shortened pinky nails? A little. I’m not sure what good my little stash of detritus will do, but I’m glad I’ve got it.

“What time is he going to get picked up?” the detective asks. He’s got his hands on his hips, making his wide frame that much wider. If we were in a wrestling match, he’d squash me like a bug.

I stand, so at least I’m closer to his eye level. “I’ll call Renton to come get him whenever you’re done.”

“Should have gone to Harborview for autopsy,” he snaps. I choose not to respond. Not my circus.

It takes them the better part of an hour to collect samples, and for most of it, Detective Determined’s partner bitches about the waste of time. “We’ve got better things to do than chase after prank phone calls.”

I fight the urge to respond because there’s nothing I can say that’ll help. When they’re finished, I show them where to toss their protective gear and ask if there’s anything else they need.

“If anyone comes by asking about this guy, call me.” Detective Determined hands me a business card. His parting glare makes it clear he doesn’t find me particularly trustworthy. That’s okay. I don’t like him, either, and I’m not sorry to see him go.

I’m supposed to be cross-checking patient files, making sure they have all the necessary documentation. What I’m really doing is pondering the nature of sin.

Most people don’t believe in god anymore, and if there’s no god, logic would say there’s no sin. So then maybe it doesn’t matter that I sent a murderer to the afterlife with a clean conscience.

But if that’s true, then I’ve been wasting my damned time.

Have I? As far back as I can remember, Mom punished me whenever she said the devil was talking through me, which was whenever I’d say things nobody could know.

That lasted until Dad taught me how to put the devil’s gift to good use.

Somewhere along the way, though, that gift had grown into a compulsion.

I need to take on sins the way a vampire needs blood.

I shake my head at my own analogy. Vampires aren’t real . At least, I don’t think they are. Doesn’t matter, I can’t stop anyway. I’ve lived half my life with the half-formed fear that I either eat sin or go to hell.

Which might not exist.

Fuck me . It’s all so incredibly exhausting.

I get up. Time for another cigarette.

The weather’s too shitty for more than a couple puffs.

The rest of the day turns into a carousel of death; new bodies, autopsies, and funeral home pick-ups interspersed with cigarettes and caffeine.

In fact, the next couple of days roll out the same way.

The only differences are the tech I’m working with – Geneva instead of Shanny – and a couple of awkward visits from Damon.

Apparently, he’s decided we’re friends, and once a day, about the time my need for caffeine has me ready to crawl out of my skin, he brings me a cappuccino, like some kind of psychic Prince Charming.

“Uh, thanks.” It’s Friday morning and I’m clutching the day’s offered Brew cup like it’ll give me the keys to the universe. “You really don’t need to do this.”

He smiles and shoots a glance at Geneva, who can’t quite stifle a snicker. “It’s fine. I’m getting to like this place.”

“I call bullshit on that.” If nothing else, I’m a little suspicious he and Geneva are playing some kind of trick on me. “Nobody likes to hang out in the morgue.”

He raises his cup, and I automatically lift mine. “Here’s to good company,” he says, and with another of those dick-hardening smiles, he leaves.

I stand there with my jaw on the floor. He’s way too handsome—that smile alone should be against the law—and I’m waaay too much of a prick for him to think I’m good company.

“Besides,” I say, not quite aware that I’m speaking out loud, “’dude’s gotta be straight.”

“Nah.” Geneva’s lounging against her workstation, arms crossed, grin fairly evil. “He’s gay as a purse full of rainbows. Just plays it pretty straight.”

“No fucking way.”

That makes her laugh. “I got it straight from Methusala on 4 Northeast. She saw him at Neighbors one night, and whatever he did left very little doubt in her mind.”

I tease myself with the scent of coffee, then take a tiny sip. “Do I want to know why you were asking Methusala about Damon?”

She hops to her feet and punches me in the arm. “Just looking out for my little buddy. You know he used to play baseball, right? For UW?”

“What?”

“He was their center fielder until he got injured, otherwise he’d probably be playing for the Mariners right now.” She drops that little factoid and keeps talking despite my stunned expression.

I bring up a mental image of my last ex—the one who keeps texting me for a booty call—and compare him to Damon.

Ex: built like a snake, long and flexible. Smells like yesterday’s dirty clothes. Reliable as the Seattle transit system.

So, not.