lot. The best lead I’ve got is that the murders seem to be happening close to cemeteries.”
“I’ll wager that’s more than the police have.”
He was no doubt right. Normal people wouldn’t pick up on the proximity to cemeteries because they’d never dream it was significant. At least, not now—a few more murders with the same pattern might change that.
“It’s more than nothing,” I agreed, “but not as much as I’d hoped for.”
Anderson nodded. “And how did you and Jamaal get along?”
Okay. I’d sat down to talk to Anderson because he looked like he needed a little human contact, but that didn’t mean I wanted to have a deep, personal conversation, especially about myself. Or about Jamaal, for that matter. I remembered how Jamaal had almost lost it when those gang-bangers had challenged him, and I knew that Anderson would expect me to tell him what had happened. That didn’t mean I was about to do it.
“We’re both still alive, and no body parts are missing,” I said with a hint of a grin. Maybe if I kept it light, we’d quickly move on to another subject, and I’d stop feeling uncomfortable. “It’s an improvement.”
I decided that only a moron would ask Anderson probing questions; I then decided that sometimes I was a moron, like right now. As a bonus, it would be a handy change of subject.
“Did you and Emma have a fight?” I asked. I was pretty sure I already knew the answer, because only Emma seemed able to put that particular shade of misery on his face. Blake had once described Emma as “high-maintenance.” From what I’d seen, that was a charitable assessment.
Anderson smiled faintly. “Is it that obvious?”
I didn’t bother to answer. “Are you okay?” I asked instead.
He shrugged. “We’re going through a rough patch. It’s not the first time. And I can hardly blame her after what she’s been through.”
Thanks to Konstantin, Emma had spent the better part of ten years chained at the bottom of a pond, unable to free herself but also unable to escape through death. If that wasn’t an ordeal that would warp a person beyond recognition, I didn’t know what was.
“Give her some time,” I said, though I didn’t for a moment think time was going to fix whatever was going on between the two of them. “She’s doing a lot better now than she was when we first brought her home.”
Being a raging bitch was better than being catatonic, right?
Anderson nodded. “She’s doing better, but the scars …” His voice trailed off, and he looked haunted. “She’s always been volatile, but she’s a powder keg right now. One wrong word, and …”
Yeah, that about summed it up. But from what I’d gathered from the rest of the Liberi, that wasn’t anything new for her.
“Maybe you need to learn not to speak,” I suggested.
Anderson’s smile was faint but nice to see.
The smile disappeared moments later, when Emma bulled into the room. Her eyes scanned the kitchen—obviously looking for Anderson—but when she saw me sitting there, she did a double take, like it was a total shock that the two of them might not be alone in the room. Maybe she forgot there were eight people living in the mansion besides herself.
Emma was disgustingly beautiful, with glossy black hair that would have done a shampoo-commercial actress proud and the figure and face to go with it. She was kind of like Steph, in that she instantly brought out my inner insecurities, making me feel plain and dowdy in comparison.
The look she gave me was anything but friendly as she stalked over to the coffee pot and helped herself to a cup, her movements jerky with anger. Apparently, she was eager to resume her fight with Anderson, and I was in the way.
I wanted to get up and flee the room, but the pleading look Anderson shot me kept me rooted to my chair. I knew without being told that he was hoping my presence would curb Emma’s enthusiasm for their fight, but I also knew it wasn’t going to
“I’ll wager that’s more than the police have.”
He was no doubt right. Normal people wouldn’t pick up on the proximity to cemeteries because they’d never dream it was significant. At least, not now—a few more murders with the same pattern might change that.
“It’s more than nothing,” I agreed, “but not as much as I’d hoped for.”
Anderson nodded. “And how did you and Jamaal get along?”
Okay. I’d sat down to talk to Anderson because he looked like he needed a little human contact, but that didn’t mean I wanted to have a deep, personal conversation, especially about myself. Or about Jamaal, for that matter. I remembered how Jamaal had almost lost it when those gang-bangers had challenged him, and I knew that Anderson would expect me to tell him what had happened. That didn’t mean I was about to do it.
“We’re both still alive, and no body parts are missing,” I said with a hint of a grin. Maybe if I kept it light, we’d quickly move on to another subject, and I’d stop feeling uncomfortable. “It’s an improvement.”
I decided that only a moron would ask Anderson probing questions; I then decided that sometimes I was a moron, like right now. As a bonus, it would be a handy change of subject.
“Did you and Emma have a fight?” I asked. I was pretty sure I already knew the answer, because only Emma seemed able to put that particular shade of misery on his face. Blake had once described Emma as “high-maintenance.” From what I’d seen, that was a charitable assessment.
Anderson smiled faintly. “Is it that obvious?”
I didn’t bother to answer. “Are you okay?” I asked instead.
He shrugged. “We’re going through a rough patch. It’s not the first time. And I can hardly blame her after what she’s been through.”
Thanks to Konstantin, Emma had spent the better part of ten years chained at the bottom of a pond, unable to free herself but also unable to escape through death. If that wasn’t an ordeal that would warp a person beyond recognition, I didn’t know what was.
“Give her some time,” I said, though I didn’t for a moment think time was going to fix whatever was going on between the two of them. “She’s doing a lot better now than she was when we first brought her home.”
Being a raging bitch was better than being catatonic, right?
Anderson nodded. “She’s doing better, but the scars …” His voice trailed off, and he looked haunted. “She’s always been volatile, but she’s a powder keg right now. One wrong word, and …”
Yeah, that about summed it up. But from what I’d gathered from the rest of the Liberi, that wasn’t anything new for her.
“Maybe you need to learn not to speak,” I suggested.
Anderson’s smile was faint but nice to see.
The smile disappeared moments later, when Emma bulled into the room. Her eyes scanned the kitchen—obviously looking for Anderson—but when she saw me sitting there, she did a double take, like it was a total shock that the two of them might not be alone in the room. Maybe she forgot there were eight people living in the mansion besides herself.
Emma was disgustingly beautiful, with glossy black hair that would have done a shampoo-commercial actress proud and the figure and face to go with it. She was kind of like Steph, in that she instantly brought out my inner insecurities, making me feel plain and dowdy in comparison.
The look she gave me was anything but friendly as she stalked over to the coffee pot and helped herself to a cup, her movements jerky with anger. Apparently, she was eager to resume her fight with Anderson, and I was in the way.
I wanted to get up and flee the room, but the pleading look Anderson shot me kept me rooted to my chair. I knew without being told that he was hoping my presence would curb Emma’s enthusiasm for their fight, but I also knew it wasn’t going to
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