Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
“Next time, try asking instead of playing charades,” she teases with a smile. “See you tonight.”
“Tonight,” I agree, pondering how to ignore this brutal hard-on that’s fixing to make me black out.
It’s hard as hell to pull away from the curb, leaving her behind.
Yeah, I’m reeling with how quickly things keep changing all around me. Despite the nonstop string of bad luck that hits this town too often, for once it feels like things might be changing for the better.
The woman I’ve always been obsessed with under my roof.
Talking like an old friend.
Sharing meals and bedtime stories with Nell.
Kissing me until I’m redder than a freshly painted barn.
Especially when she smiles at me like I never took an axe to her heart.
Yeah, fuck.
Today’s gonna be a real good day, no matter what the universe has planned.
Correction.
Today is not a good fucking day.
I smell trouble brewing the second I walk into the station.
The whole crew’s already gathered, huddled around my desk like they own it as usual, but there’s something different in the air.
This whole vibe is wrong, tension and quiet so thick it’s immediately near suffocating.
When I open the door, they all break away from their semicircle, looking up at me like they’re about to announce a death.
Frowning, I shrug off my jacket and toss it over the nearest chair.
“Report. What’s got everyone looking so miserable this morning?”
“The Jacobins again,” Micah answers grimly. “They’ve been quiet for too long. Not surprising after their boy went down being an accomplice to a serial killer. But it looks like they’re starting to make their move again.”
“What?” I frown.
“The unmarked trucks are back, for one,” Micah tells me. “No, I can’t ever get close enough to see what’s going into them without tipping the whole clan off and getting my ass nailed full of buckshot, but there’s a lot of coming and going in the middle of the night up there. Has to be the distilleries again, assuming it isn’t something worse.”
Aw, shit.
I feel like Chief Bowden should be here for this conversation.
Where the fuck is the chief, anyway?
Ever since the Arrendell bust, Bowden barely shows up for work, taking his lazy absenteeism to new heights. A hibernating bear would make a better police chief at this point.
Essentially, him being MIA leaves everything in my hands—including making big decisions above my pay grade about our resident bootleg booze makers.
“So, they’re moonshining again,” I mutter, tugging at my beard. “Goddammit. We’ve looked the other way on this for ages, but after the way they closed ranks to try to cover up for murder... Yeah, I think we’ve given them enough leeway. No telling what else they’re hiding.”
My mind snaps back to what almost happened to Delilah Graves.
The way both Ephraim and Culver Jacobin would watch her around town like they were marking her, two creepy scarecrows eyeballing her on behalf of their master.
I don’t like the parallels.
Don’t fucking like them at all.
Not when I’ve seen the same strange man watching me, and knowing he also matches the description of the guy who tried to grab Ophelia.
“Uh-oh,” Henri says. “Capitan’s got that thinkin’ look on his face.”
“Just drawing a few comparisons. The incident at the Sanderson house—there was a man who fits the description of someone I’ve seen around town. He’s not a local, not that I know of. Which means he’s either a tourist, someone from the big house, or—”
“One of the Jacobins,” Lucas interrupts, his voice dark.
The hard set of his jaw tells me his mind’s falling into the same ugly place as mine.
“Yeah. Only, the Jacobins don’t normally wander around in slacks and tailcoats,” I say.
“So, staff up at the Arrendell mansion?” Henri asks. “Where we just had a suicide?”
“Yep.” I sigh. “Funny how any time there’s a death around that damn family, weird shit starts popping off.”
“I sure as hell don’t think it’s funny,” Lucas growls. “Considering they almost killed my wife.”
“He,” I correct wearily, even if I don’t want to. “As far as we know, none of the other Arrendells had anything to do with the Ulysses situation. Same goes for the Jacobins and their bad seed.”
“Fuck, man, and I’m a six-foot green goddamn chicken,” Lucas mutters, but he lets it go.
“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t keep an eye on them,” I say. “Ophelia said that man kept telling her she’s next. That if she goes near them—one good guess who he means—she’ll die.”
The entire room goes dead quiet.
Every last one of my officers looks at me with the same grave understanding.
It’s Micah who finally breaks the silence, his pale eyes flinty.
“Sounds like we might be looking at a suicide that wasn’t a suicide at all,” he says. “Do we need to reopen the Cora Lafayette case?”
“Quietly,” I snarl. “Let’s keep our eyes open, but sweep things under the radar for now. Put your ears out. Listen around town. Ask questions whenever the opportunity comes. Take note of any strange comings and goings up at the mansion, off record, and you guys let me know ASAP if anything stinks.”