Page 56 of The Sin Eater
It takes me a few blocks to snake off the anger. Once I do, I try for a little objectivity. Easier said than done. I’ve been chewing over my interest in Ezra ever since things started to heat up.
Granted, last night was weird. I’ll give Dorinda that. Strange, even, but not at theworst judgment everlevel. That sounds like the kind of thing people would say about our mother, who truly did have the worst judgment ever when it came to men.
That our mother had managed to give birth to a woman who became a lawyer was close to a miracle. Dorinda’s success was entirely due to her own intelligence and determination. Patty Clemens cared more about whatever drug was trendy and whatever man caught her eye than she did us. We had different fathers—pretty sure Dorinda’s was black because of her skin tone and hair—but we’re not in contact with either of them, so we basically raised each other.
Or Dorinda raised me anyway, with some help from Gramma Clemens, which is why I’m so damned pissed that she won’t even give Ezra a chance. That she won’t givemea chance.
IfEzra Morgue is a mistake, that’s my business andifDorinda can’t deal with that, well, that’s on her.
Still, I’m glad when I let myself into the apartment and the lights are on and nothing seems to be out of place. The shower is running, so as a peace offering, I order some pizza.
Pagliacci’s cures anything.
By the time she’s out of the shower, I’ve got a bottle of red breathing on the counter and I’m streaming some mellow trip-hop through the Bluetooth speaker. She leads with an apology, and I pour her a glass.
“I’m not Patty,” I say.
She takes a sip. “I know.”
“And Ezra is my mistake to make.”
Wrinkling her nose, she pulls a face. “I know. Just—”
“Ignore you when you say you told me so.”
“Yes. That.” She raises her glass and I tap it with mine.
“Pizza will be here in about forty-five minutes.”
“You da best, baby brother.”
We drink to it and then things are okay.
Chapter Nineteen
Ezra
Saturday turns out okay. I manage to get through the shift without fucking anything up and given that I’m operating through a cloud of confusion, survival alone is sort of impressive. I go dancing after work so I can take the edge off then leave early, edge firmly in place.
Damon doesn’t magically come through the crowd, the beat’s all wrong, and I’m home in bed before midnight.
Shanny calls in sick so I work Sunday, too. The other morgue tech is our on-call guy, Bob. He’s older than my father and there’s not much he hasn’t seen. He hasn’t probably met a sin eater before, but other than that, he’s got it covered.
Maybe he has met one. I’d ask him if I could say the fucking words.
No one’s at the Brew when I get there, except Jett—of course—who jumps down my throat before I can even get a word out.
“You didn’t take a card yesterday.”
I don’t growl at them. I want to, but I don’t. “I’ll have the usual.”
“This first.” They thrust the deck of cards at me. I have a couple of choices here. I could get rude and ignore them, I could leave and drink hospital coffee, or I could take a card. Jett’shair is still wrapped in that silver and blue scarf, with a loose knot of dreads at the nape of their neck. A braid has come free, partially hiding one eye, which makes it harder than normal to read what’s going on in their head.
I take a damn card. “The Queen of Cups? What does this even mean?”
Jett brushes the stray braid out of their face, their eyes lighting up. “Intuition, baby. Your heart knows what it wants. Listen to it.”
“Oh, for fuck’s... “ I sink my chin so my mouth is covered by the collar of my puffy coat. “Whatever, dude. I need to get back to work.”