Page 59 of The Sin Eater

Damon

Ezra Morgue might be the single most frustrating person I’ve ever met. Like, seriously. He leaves me spinning in the basement hallway, anger and disbelief competing for top dog.This ishisfucking ghost story. He’s the one bitching about being haunted by the spirit of a 1980s homecoming queen. Yet when I finally bring him an actual clue, he’s all, “Gotta run, dude. See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya.”

Disgusted with both of us, I head for the stairs.

I’m marginally calmer by the time I reach the street, or at least the anger has faded to annoyance. Which leaves room for some hurt feelings. The ups and downs with this guy, man. The list of things I want to do with Ezra Morgue is longer than one night could handle. We’d barely scratched the surface.

If only he wasn’t kind of an asshole sometimes.

I head downhill on Thomas and my stomach growls, an echo of my disappointment. I run through the memory of our conversation, this time focusing on Ezra rather than my own reactions.

I’d arrived a few minutes before he shut off the lights, soon enough to see him sitting beside the body, his head bowed, his shoulders rigid. Like the last time I busted him, he tooksomething off the body and... ate it. I hadn’t been sure he’d really put something in his mouth. This time, despite the low light, I’m sure though I was too far away to see what exactly it was.

“Jesus.”What the hell was he doing?A car hits a puddle just right and I have to dodge a small wave of dirty water. It’s close to freezing, rain falling like stinging crystals, and I button my winter coat.

Ezra had come out into the hallway as pale as the ghost he talked about seeing, his eyes like two dark wounds. He looked like hell, and the way he jumped when he saw me?Damn. I thought he was going to keel over.

I’d made a comment about writing him up mainly to see what he’d say, although I’d seen enough to know he wasn’t abusing the corpse. I even believed the prayer thing. Mostly.

I go past the light rail station until I hang a right on Broadway. There’s a poké place on the same block as Dick’s, which sounds better to me than a greasy burger. I’d be lying, though, if I said I didn’t scan the line at Dick’s to see if Ezra was there.

He wasn’t.

I’m almost to the University District light rail stop, bag of poké in hand, when my phone pings.

Are you going to text me what you found out?

“What the hell?”

I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until the person sitting next to me says, “Bad news?”

“Nah. I don’t know. Maybe.” I shake my head, laughing at myself for talking to strangers on the train. She’s friendly looking, though, an older woman with long grey hair and gentle eyes.

“I hope things work out,” she says.

“Me too.” I glare at my phone, wondering how to respond. It takes me a minute to begin typing.

News story from ’89 - unidentified woman’s body found in a wooded area of Carkeek Park - 2 follow-up articles—no ID.

The stories didn’t include any physical details, either, but the victim had been the right gender in the right time frame, so maybe Mo got lucky. They were going to try to access more info when they got to work tomorrow. I stifle the impulse to message Detective McGraw. He’s probably ruled this one out.

Or ruled her in.

Do I honestly think Mo could do a better job than the cops? No.

But Detective McGraw and his partner have a whole caseload to work through. He’d never have the time to give this more than the bare minimum. Hell, he only came to our apartment because he knew Dorinda.

I’m in the process of promising myself I’ll send McGraw anything more Mo finds when Ezra texts me back.

What’s next?

The overhead announcement indicates we’re reaching my stop, so I say goodnight to the woman sitting next to me and leave the train. I’ll text him back after I figure out what to say. I honestly don’t know what’s next. I’ll wait to see if Mo comes up with anything while Ezra—well, I guess he’ll wait, too. I send him a text that says as much and say I’ll see him at work.

My dick would like to see him sooner, but I’m doing my best to think with my big head, not my little one. I can’t decide whether or not to trust him, though it’s possible that the only reason I haven’t committed tonotis plain stubbornness. Or stupidity. Or to prove Dorinda wrong.

My Monday morning alarm goes off way too early. I’d give anything to roll over and sleep for an indeterminate length of time even if my mattress is too old and soft. On autopilot, Ishower, put on my last pair of clean work pants—laundry time soon—and force myself out into the cold.

The light rail is close to Tokyo-subway crowded. Even so, it doesn’t do much to distract me from wondering whether I should bring Ezra coffee and hoping Mo gets back to me soon.