Hi.… Whatcha doing? … Oh, really? … Say, do you think your supernatural lovers might have some available friends?
Instead she sat up, stripped, and went into the shower, turning up the water as cold as she could stand it. She was supposed to accompany another songwriter at a local coffeehouse near midnight, and at the moment she was too distracted to concentrate. As the icy water pattered against her skin, she took long, deep breaths and tried to think of nothing but music.
THE AFTERNOON GAVE way to an evening that, for Rachel, seemed to draw on forever. At this time of year, it stayed light until nearly ten o’clock, and people stayed on the streets—and in the parks—until even later. There was nothing to do but wait it out—which was more and more difficult as the darkness fell. She felt both tense and lethargic, and the desperation for contact with her spirit lovers was tempered by a sense of impending, inexorable doom.
Her cellphone rang at ten-thirty. She recognized the number and said, “Hi, Becky,” as cheerily as she could.
“Hey,” Becky said neutrally. “I hope it’s not too late to call.”
“I’m wide awake.”
“Me too.” She sighed—a sound that Rachel knew very well. “I’ve been going over the disaster in my head all day.”
“ ‘Disaster’?”
“At the park,” Becky said impatiently. “In case you didn’t know, that was a big deal for my boss, which makes it a big deal for me.”
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Have they found that guy yet?”
“No, he hasn’t popped back up. And he hasn’t made any statements to the media.”
“Maybe it was just a prank.”
“No. Garrett has a lot of enemies, and I’m sure one of them is behind it. We just have to be ready for the next offensive.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie.”
There was a pause. When Becky spoke again, her words had their normal bitterness, but the tone was somber. “I have a problem of my own too. I don’t know if you want to hear about it.”
“Of course.”
There was another pause. “I think I’m …”
The connection hissed so long that Rachel was afraid they’d been cut off. “Becky?”
“Nothing.” Becky sighed wearily. “It’s my own problem. I’ll deal with it. I’m sorry to bother you, Rachel.”
“No bother,” Rachel said, but Becky had already hung up.
She stared at the phone in her hand and considered calling her back. But their relationship didn’t work that way. They spoke when Becky wanted, and only about Becky’s problems.
And at the moment, Rachel had enough problems of her own.
CHAPTER EIGHT
D ETECTIVE LAYLA MORRISON sent the uniformed officer to the back of the apartment building to watch the patio doors. She’d seen too many suspects bolt out the back door when cops knocked on the front, and wanted to be certain this one wouldn’t escape. Mayor Ciarimataro had personally told the chief to handle this quickly, and lucky Layla got the job.
She knocked firmly—the cop knock that everyone in these low-income apartments knew all too well. “Mr. Stillwater,” she called, “it’s the police. Open up.”
It took a moment, but eventually the porch light came on and the door opened. A young man, clearly Native American, squinted out at Layla. “Yeah?” he said sleepily.
She held up her badge. “Detective Layla Morrison. Are you Kyle Stillwater?”
He looked puzzled. “Yes. Why?”
“May I come in?”
“Um …”
“I come in, or you come downtown.”
“Okay, okay. It’s just … I wasn’t expecting company.”
That proved to be an understatement. The tiny apartment was filled with pizza boxes, fast-food bags, and soda cans crushed flat and placed in paper bags. There was a TV, an old Xbox, and a few paperback copies of famous plays. On one wall hung the only decoration: an 8×10 professional glossy of Kyle Stillwater, his shirt open to show his chest and his long, shiny black hair. Across the bottom, written in bright blue ink, was the
Instead she sat up, stripped, and went into the shower, turning up the water as cold as she could stand it. She was supposed to accompany another songwriter at a local coffeehouse near midnight, and at the moment she was too distracted to concentrate. As the icy water pattered against her skin, she took long, deep breaths and tried to think of nothing but music.
THE AFTERNOON GAVE way to an evening that, for Rachel, seemed to draw on forever. At this time of year, it stayed light until nearly ten o’clock, and people stayed on the streets—and in the parks—until even later. There was nothing to do but wait it out—which was more and more difficult as the darkness fell. She felt both tense and lethargic, and the desperation for contact with her spirit lovers was tempered by a sense of impending, inexorable doom.
Her cellphone rang at ten-thirty. She recognized the number and said, “Hi, Becky,” as cheerily as she could.
“Hey,” Becky said neutrally. “I hope it’s not too late to call.”
“I’m wide awake.”
“Me too.” She sighed—a sound that Rachel knew very well. “I’ve been going over the disaster in my head all day.”
“ ‘Disaster’?”
“At the park,” Becky said impatiently. “In case you didn’t know, that was a big deal for my boss, which makes it a big deal for me.”
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Have they found that guy yet?”
“No, he hasn’t popped back up. And he hasn’t made any statements to the media.”
“Maybe it was just a prank.”
“No. Garrett has a lot of enemies, and I’m sure one of them is behind it. We just have to be ready for the next offensive.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie.”
There was a pause. When Becky spoke again, her words had their normal bitterness, but the tone was somber. “I have a problem of my own too. I don’t know if you want to hear about it.”
“Of course.”
There was another pause. “I think I’m …”
The connection hissed so long that Rachel was afraid they’d been cut off. “Becky?”
“Nothing.” Becky sighed wearily. “It’s my own problem. I’ll deal with it. I’m sorry to bother you, Rachel.”
“No bother,” Rachel said, but Becky had already hung up.
She stared at the phone in her hand and considered calling her back. But their relationship didn’t work that way. They spoke when Becky wanted, and only about Becky’s problems.
And at the moment, Rachel had enough problems of her own.
CHAPTER EIGHT
D ETECTIVE LAYLA MORRISON sent the uniformed officer to the back of the apartment building to watch the patio doors. She’d seen too many suspects bolt out the back door when cops knocked on the front, and wanted to be certain this one wouldn’t escape. Mayor Ciarimataro had personally told the chief to handle this quickly, and lucky Layla got the job.
She knocked firmly—the cop knock that everyone in these low-income apartments knew all too well. “Mr. Stillwater,” she called, “it’s the police. Open up.”
It took a moment, but eventually the porch light came on and the door opened. A young man, clearly Native American, squinted out at Layla. “Yeah?” he said sleepily.
She held up her badge. “Detective Layla Morrison. Are you Kyle Stillwater?”
He looked puzzled. “Yes. Why?”
“May I come in?”
“Um …”
“I come in, or you come downtown.”
“Okay, okay. It’s just … I wasn’t expecting company.”
That proved to be an understatement. The tiny apartment was filled with pizza boxes, fast-food bags, and soda cans crushed flat and placed in paper bags. There was a TV, an old Xbox, and a few paperback copies of famous plays. On one wall hung the only decoration: an 8×10 professional glossy of Kyle Stillwater, his shirt open to show his chest and his long, shiny black hair. Across the bottom, written in bright blue ink, was the
Similar Books
