Page 25 of The Sin Eater
But a carnival? Da fuck is he even thinking?
I’m going along with it, though, which makes me just as crazy as he is.
On Thursday morning, he’s later than usual. He rolls in with my coffee right before I’m ready to leave for lunch. “‘Bout time,”I say, trying to sound like I’m joking. He grins, so I must have hit the mark.
“Jesus, Z. Were you raised by wolves?” Geneva’s muttered grumble travels from her work station just fine.
“Maybe,” I shoot back. I accept the paper cup of goodness from Damon and manage a gruff, “Thanks.”
“No problem. We had a scene on the rehab floor that sucked up most of my morning.” He raises his cup and I tap it with mine. His hair is shorter than yesterday and slicked back to show off his awesome cheekbones. At no point in history were his polyester uniform shirt and trousers anything close to fashion. I stare into my coffee to keep from drooling. The ugly can’t disguise the breadth of his shoulders and his thick thighs.
My internal temperature rises and I sip my cappuccino to cover my momentary fluster.
“My sister learned something that might interest you,” he says, leaning against the counter closest to the door. “It doesn’t look like the cops are going to do much to figure out who your cadaver killed.”
Geneva spins her office chair around. “What are you talking about?”
Down, girl.“Remember when the cops got that anonymous tip about the guy who died in the ICU?” I wave her off and turn back to Damon. “I’m not surprised, though.”
He shrugs and takes another sip of coffee. “They don’t have the resources to deal with living murderers.”
“I did some digging, too. Of all the James Smiths living in Seattle, only two who were the right age, and only one who died recently.”
“That must be our guy.” Damon’s smile raises my temperature even higher.
“Figured.” My voice is a little breathy. “It’d be nice if we could come up with a timeline for where he lived and when. I justwish we had something... anything about the victim.”Besides what she looked like when she died.
Fortunately, Geneva jumps in before I can spill anything more. “What, Z, the cops won’t investigate, so you’re going to solve the crime?”
I’msotempted to say something rude, which is why it’s good Damon answered her. “Why not? Be nice if we could.”
My answering eye roll is automatic. “Or something.”
“Why?” Geneva has a knack for asking the obvious question.
I can’t saybecause she’ll haunt me if we don’t. This whole conversation is like tap-dancing through land mines, and I’m grateful when Damon saves me again. “So we can send it to a true crime podcast and live in the reflected glory.”
“Oooh.” Her mouth makes a perfect ‘O‘. “Do you ever listen to that one podcast where they talk about murder and drink wine? That’s my favorite.”
“I would never have guessed,” I say dryly. “You seemed like more of a crime junkie to me.”
She gives me a glare that’s probably supposed to make me shut up. Instead, it makes me laugh.
“To be honest”—Damon keeps us from getting any further off topic—”I’ve heard ofWine and Crime. Are there others you like?”
Within seconds, he’s got his phone out and Geneva starts rattling off a list of names I’ll never remember. I’d be jealous—okay, I am a tiny bit jealous—but I’m not much into podcasts, so I sip my coffee and distract myself by admiring the bulge in Damon’s biceps and the way his smile is sincere without being creepy.
We’re interrupted by Dr. Chen, who comes through the door with a bag from the Brew and, apparently, a bee in her bonnet. As the Head of Pathology for the hospital, she’s our boss, and when she says, “We don’t have any cases for this afternoon, so Iwant you to give everything a thorough cleaning,” Geneva and I both jump. Damon says he’ll text me and takes off, and I spend the rest of my shift inventorying sterile supplies and wondering what the hell we’re going to do at a carnival.
I have to wait until Saturday afternoon to find out. Damon picks me up in an older Toyota Prius, one that smells way too much like perfume to be a guy’s car. The graduation tassel hanging from the rearview mirror could be his, although the thread is looped around a plastic ring studded with fake diamonds. Between the ring and the smell, I poke at him a little and he admits, “My sister bought it when she was clerking for a judge on the East Side. Now that she’s working downtown, it mostly sits in our parking stall.”
I inhale, catching traces of his warm masculine scent. Penance is over, baby, and I want to bury myself deep enough to find the musk underneath the surface. “Didn’t think you were that into roses.”
“I’ll never tell.” Laughing, he takes a right on Broadway toward the freeway. We pass one poor soul who’s bent from the waist in a classic fentanyl fold, the goths and street kids walking past him without comment. I guess if he’s on his feet, he must be alive.
“I’m glad you’re dressed warm,” Damon says, pulling my attention back to the interior of the vehicle.
I raise a gloved hand. “I’m still not convinced you’re not punking me.”