He reaches for my hand, and this time I don’t care how cold his fingers are. “Next weekend. Sure.” He gives me a quick squeeze and steps away. “What’s your phone number? I can text you if I find anything out about James Smith.”
A weird weight lifts off my chest. “That’d be great.” We exchange contact information, sending silly emoji texts, and he jogs down the steps into the light rail station. I stand there for longer than I should, long enough for it to start raining again. I want to hold on to this moment because for once, I’m not bitter and cynical.
For once, I’m something close to happy.
Chapter Eight
Damon
It’s not raining—yet—but I still jog from the train station to home. Roger texted me another photo—this time of him and a faceless woman and more of his anatomy than I needed to see—but for once, I’m mostly happy for him. I got Ezra Morgue to go out with me, which has me in a pretty damn good mood.
I also got him to talk about what happened at the end of my shift, at least indirectly. Do I think it’s weird that he feels the need to pray for some of the bodies in our morgue? Yeah, a little. On the other hand, he packs lollipops and snarls more often than he smiles. Dude is at least a little weird at baseline.
Between the secrets and the bitchy attitude, he has me hooked. Tonight was just my first move.
My apartment’s on the top floor of an old three-story walk-up on Brooklyn Ave in Seattle’s University District. I’ve lived there with my sister since she was in law school and broke and we figured that by pooling our resources we could get something slightly nicer than either of us could afford on our own. It’s a two-bedroom unit, the rooms are decent sized, the wood trim is original, and while we regularly get on each other’s nerves—we are siblings, after all—in general, things work out okay.
Dorinda calls out when I open the front door. “That you, bro?”
“Yeah. Just me.”
She’s curled up on the couch with a book and a glass of wine. Since she’s a real lawyer now, she’s been adding to our secondhand Ikea with the occasional piece of real furniture, like the couch she’s lounging on. It’s from some fancy downtown store, it’s long enough that I can stretch out full-length, and it’s firm enough that I can nap there without pissing off my back.
At some point she’s going to get tired of floating her baby brother. For now, though, I appreciate the perks.
“You’re home late.” A laugh slips out, ruining her attempt at being the stern older sister. “Did you have a date or something?”
“Uh . . . I guess.”
“You guess? Girl or boy and how broken are they?”
“Shut up.” I fall into my favorite chair, an old, oversized piece from Macy’s scratch-and-dent that needs a new slipcover. “Boy, and maybe a little. Broken, I mean.”
Slipping a bookmark into place, she sets the book aside. Her hair’s tumbling around her face from a knot on top of her head, and by the relaxation in her smile, I figure she’s on her second glass of wine. “You sure can pick ’em. What’s wrong with this one?”
I open my mouth and close it again. While I learned a helluva lot more about Ezra than I’d ever expected, it’s hard to know where to start. Instead of diving into the deep end, I ask, “How can I tell if the police are investigating a cold case?”
Dorinda’s not just a lawyer, she’s a public defender, and her gaze instantly narrows. “If you went out on a date with a murderer, I’m not sure I can help you.”
She’s joking... sort of... so I laugh it off. “Not dating a murderer. I’m just curious. Apparently we had a murderer die in our ICU.”
“Can’t be the first time that’s happened.”
I shrug. “First time that I know of that a couple of detectives showed up after getting an anonymous tip that our hit-and-run victim had killed someone.”
“Who the hell calls in that kind of tip? It’s gotta be a joke.”
And just like that, I’m deflated. Big sisters are good for that. “You’re probably right.”
“What does it matter if they’re investigating it, anyway? It’s not like they can put his cadaver in jail.”
Think of something quick, Clemens. I’m sure as shit not going to tell her it’s so I have a reason to text Ezra. “Closure for the victim’s family?” Classic true crime podcast response.
“Point to Damon.” Dorinda sips her wine, her expression thoughtful. “It’s likely some kind of hoax, but Tiffany from book club just made detective, so I’ll ask her if she’s heard anything.”
“Yeah?” I’m reinflated with enthusiasm. “When’s your next book club meeting? You should pump her for information.”
She trades her wine glass for her book, giving me a classic big-sister headshake. “Tomorrow night, and don’t get your hopes up.”
