Standard Deviation of Death (The Outlier Prophecies Book 4)

by Tina Gower

  I shrug. That’s an accurate assessment. But gods, did he have to put it so bluntly?

  He flicks the death note in my grip. “And you’re dead.”

  I frown. “I’m not dead. It’s a sixty percent chance at best. And I’m…” I catch myself before I say it out loud.

  He cracks his knuckles, sucking in his lips and executes the king of all eye rolls. “That is not how Becker is going to read that note, Kate. If there’s a one percent chance he’s going to see two zeros behind it, but sixty? He’s going to flip his lid.”

  “But it’s likely”—I glance around to be sure nobody is near or skipping down the hallway at the exact moment I divulge my little personal secret—“fake. I’m fateless.”

  He grunts. “Hate to break it to you, Katie Cupcake, but that little slip of paper says otherwise.”

  I keep my voice low, inching in close to Lipski. More than anything I don’t want this news to get out. Especially now that the fateless were all over the morning news as being potentially dangerous, because the public was wrongfully led to believe fateless could change an oracle’s vision.

  True, I had used my inability to be predicted on by the oracles to get the upper hand while Becker and I were pursuing Liza Hamilton. She’d been using her own seers and abducted precognitives to make a predictions net to use against our oracles. Because I’m fateless, I was able to make a move against her plan without her knowing. There had been a few studies on the fateless, but nothing had ever indicated we could change predictions.

  Or they. Not we. I couldn’t get used to the idea that this death notice could be legit. A death oracle had touched me during my last investigation. Being touched by an oracle might lead to personal predictions. Except my death note didn’t have Rosa Germain as the predicting oracle. It had someone named Jayesh Patel. Having only worked in Accidental Death for a few months, I didn’t know all the death oracles. Jayesh wasn’t one I’d worked with or had any memory of on the roster.

  I wave my death notice like a flag. “This could be a fake. I got too close to whoever is altering predictions and this is their message to back off.”

  Lipski plants his fists on his hips. “Yeah, but their message is a homicide based death prediction.”

  Beth walks by, scanning the hallway and waiting room. She stops with a little hop and a smile when she sees me. “Oh! There you are. I’ve got your case floating around. There are a lot of people who remember you, Kate. I’m sure someone will take it.”

  “Great.” I bet they remember me.

  “You should come up and say hi.” Beth waves me toward the direction of the elevators.

  “Well, I…maybe…hmm. I should go—or you could send someone down.” I babble out each excuse, not quite sticking the landing on any of them.

  Lipski hooks his arm in mine. “She’d love to.”

  He unceremoniously drags me down the hallway to the elevators. Beth runs ahead and pushes the button. It opens instantly. I imagine it’s a large mouth with fangs ready to swallow me and digest me during a thousand years of pure torture.

  And I thought the worst that could happen today was a death notice, getting suspended from my position, and contemplating how I’m going to tell Becker about it.

  Now I’m on my way to face all my ex-coworkers. When they saw me last I’d been crying ugly tears after my boyfriend broke up with me, went back to his wife, and turned me in to Human Resources as having an inappropriate relationship with a superior.

  Which was him. My boyfriend, Kyle Dillingham was also one of my bosses. Sort of.

  He got a slap on the wrist and an eventual promotion. I spent years in Traffic Predictions hell. But I already mentioned that. I repeat things when I’m nervous.

  The elevator opens and Beth marches us through a maze of hallways, around the outskirts of Homicide’s main hub, and deposits me into the nearest waiting room. Along the way I see faces of coworkers I haven’t spoken to in years. They whisper and follow me with their gaze. Matilda, one of the office managers, glares. Her lips press together and her chin goes up like a toddler refusing the airplane spoon.

  Biggs, one of my fellow interns. We had a nice healthy competition and friendship. Until she realized I’d been sleeping with our boss. She blocked my emails and each one bounced back, flagged as spam with a warning. She crosses her arms tightly across her chest as I walk by.

  The door taps shut, but all the windows facing the cubicles alert me to the fact that everyone is openly staring at me like I’m the three-legged unicorn or the giant angus cow that can make a thousand hamburgers exhibit at the circus.

  I slink into a chair, which is much nicer than the chair in my office. Figures that Homicide would have cushier chairs for criminals in their interrogation rooms than Accidental had as standard issue. But that’s government trickle down for ya.

  “This is a very bad idea,” I say in a very small voice.

  Lipski’s eyes narrow. He glares at all my ex-coworkers and flips the blinds shut. “Don’t let them see you sweat, Cupcake.”

  Beth, probably sensing the awkwardness, twiddles her thumbs, looking at every chair, wall, and corner in the room except at me. “Well, I should go see if they’ve found anyone to take the case yet.” She pulls down the front of her blouse and wrings her hands. “They’re likely just making sure to get the best actuary in Homicide for the job.”

  She darts out of the room.

  Lipski snorts and peeks out into the main office through the blinds. “More likely they’re fighting over who gets your wishbone. What the hells did you do to these people?”

  “I slept with one of the supervising actuaries.”

  He quirks his eyebrows up in question.

  “I was going through a really destructive stage.”

  He grunts a laugh. “You’re extremely amusing. You and Becker together are fodder for your own comedy show.” He sits down and tips back in the chair, placing each of his boots with a hard thunk onto the marble conference table. No Formica for Homicide. He squints out the one window where he kept the blinds slightly open. “Aw shit.”

  The door yanks open and two hundred pounds of very pissed off, vibrating with anxiety werewolf steps through. He points a finger at Lipski. “What the fuck. You knew?”

  “I didn’t know. I just ran into her while I was here for my interview.”

  Becker shakes his head, hands holding his skull together as though it might fall apart. It’s like he’s trying to compute the excuse. “It’s fine. You can go now.”

  Lipski sits up in the chair. “Come on, Beck. You know I’m not going to leave.”

  Becker paces, shaking. “You should go.”

  Lipski gets up from his chair and quietly closes the last set of blinds. “I know about you and Kate. She just told me. Go ahead and hug your girlfriend.”

  Becker doesn’t bite off his usual go-fuck-yourself response. He just continues pacing and pulling at the neck of his police uniform like it’s strangling him. His eyes aren’t gold; they’re dull and devoid of his usual vibrant teal. In its place is a pale blue. That’s how I know it’s bad. Whatever is going on in his brain, it’s not good.

  I dig out the note from my laptop case, holding it to my stomach, wondering if it’s a smart move to show it to him or if I should try to distract him. I go for distraction. “How did you find out?”

  “I went by your office. You weren’t there. Gretchen told me.” He says each sentence as if it’s shards of glass in his throat.

  “It’s fake. You know it’s got to be. We’re getting too close. This is the only way to stop both of us from investigating further.”

  He slams his fists down on the table. “But the threat is real.”

  “He’s right, Katie,” Lipski interjects. “Even if it’s fabricated, they’re still sending a message of what they have planned for you.”

  I pin him with a look. “You’re not helping.”

  I turn back to Becker, inching forward. My fingers lightly skim his whitened kn
uckles, dipping under the hem of his sleeve to his wrist. I’d read in a book on werewolves that certain pressure points could help with emotional regulation. Not that Becker’s behavior follows any textbook in print. “Hey, this isn’t bad. It’s very near a fifty-fifty chance. These kinds of predictions are much easier to break, even if it were real. Which it’s not.”

  Beth peeks her head into the room. “I hear we got a taker. I just got a call from Finance and there’s been a tiny little stock market blip predicted. They think because of the Traffic incident earlier, but I have to leave and deal with that.” She balances her card on the window ledge. “Please call me.”

  And she bops off.

  I watch her leave with envy. “We should go. We can handle this case better ourselves.”

  Some of the fire returns in Becker’s eyes. “Agreed.” He pushes himself from the table, snatching my hand.

  Lipski stands in front of the door, arms out to stop us. “Whoa, wait a second. There are by far more resources in Homicide that we can’t tap into if we don’t have someone on the inside.”

  “That’s the problem.” Becker lowers his voice to a point I can barely hear him. Both he and Lipski have more advanced hearing, but we don’t know if anyone in the office behind us has that same ability. “The people we’re trying to find also have someone on the inside. We put this case through Homicide we’ve given them everything they want. Kate’s whereabouts. Kate’s status.” Becker taps his ear and points to the office chaos.

  Lipski’s eyes widen. “How do you know? We already bagged one. We likely got them all.” He taps his ear, then his temple.

  Some sort of communication is going on between them. During my first case with Becker we’d discovered an office manager’s assistant in Homicide that had been holding back predictions. It nearly got an oracle killed and almost brought down the predictions net.

  We’ve been working on the assumption that there are still traitors among us.

  I grip Becker’s hand tighter. “We can use this.” I motion to my death note. “We can use me to get to them.”

  Becker lowers his head, eyes squeeze shut. He knows this is the best plan we have. A little crazy, but—

  “No.” He doesn’t say it to me. Becker’s focus zeros in on Lipski. “Move. Get out of our way. We’re doing this on our own, with or without you.”

  “I’d rather it be with,” I interject.

  Lipski stands a little taller. “I won’t let you do this. Later when you’re thinking clearly, you’ll thank me for pulling you back from the ledge. Look at you. You’re scared shitless that history will repeat itself. You’re in no shape to make decisions right now.”

  He lunges at Lipski. “Fuck you.” He grabs ahold of the lapels of Hank’s coat.

  Lipski shoves Becker forward. The back of Becker’s leg catches on a swivel chair and he plops into it, sliding back until he hits the table. His face goes red, his jaw clenches, fists ready.

  My eyes widen. It’s like watching a train wreck and knowing there’s no way you can stop it. But my brain searches for the most logical solution.

  I tumble forward, blocking Becker’s ability to spring forward in counterattack. My hands on his shoulders break my fall, and Becker, unable to allow my head from cracking into the table as momentum pushes me forward, hooks his arms around me and pulls me into his lap.

  It’s enough. His grip tightens. He buries his face in my hair, taking in a deep trembling breath to calm himself. My arms wrap around his body, pulling him in close.

  I send a flat-lipped look to Lipski, who promptly turns around, giving us privacy.

  Several years ago, Becker lost his pack, and I’ve since replaced them. His pack was more than a family, more than friends. They kept him regulated and able to function. As a nearly full-blooded werewolf, he’d suffered from behavioral and emotional issues without the constant reassurances of touch from someone he trusted. Now he was facing the possibility of that loss all over again.

  Lipski runs his fingers through his hair over and over. He cracks his knuckles and shifts from one foot to the other. Hank, as Becker’s partner, had been there for the first fallout, and the look on Hank’s face now—he doesn’t think either of us is watching—tells me he isn’t as cool as he pretends. He’s just as scared for his friend. He doesn’t think Becker will make it through that same tragedy again.

  “You know,” Lipski says, “although I don’t think it’s smart, I’m willing to do this your way. It’s all about what Kate wants, and if she thinks this is the best option, I’m not going to strand you both.”

  Becker shakes his head. He looks to me for confirmation and I nod slightly to let him know it’s okay with me.

  His hugs me tight again. “No. You’re right. I’ll step back and let you take point on this.” He chokes on the last words, like it kills a little part inside him to give up that much control.

  “Then it’s settled.” I stand and brush my skirt down. I hold a hand out for Becker to grasp and he does, pulling himself up from the chair. “We see what kind of information we can get from Homicide. At worst they can’t tell us anything. We’re no better than where we started.” But my hope is that Beth has secured us with someone trustworthy, someone who wants to break this open and sniff out the leak as badly as we do. Becker will know if we can trust whoever is assigned to the case. He can scent a lie.

  And as if on cue, there’s a knock at the door. It opens at the same time as the knock, as if the person behind it knows he will be welcomed. As if he has every right to the space around him.

  There’s only one person in my life who ever took those liberties. He appears before I can even accept his presence. That he of all people would be the one to take my case, but you know, it makes sense. He’d never let anyone else have the privilege.

  “Kate,” says my ex. “My gods, I came as soon as I heard.”

  Kyle Dillingham.

  Chapter 2

  Kyle stands at the door, hand over his heart. He’s handsomer than I remember him. His black locks of hair swoop over his forehead; his lips quirk in a boyish grin. His thick dark eyebrows furrow together and frame his rich chocolate-colored eyes that seem more appropriate on a sweet puppy than a back-stabbing boyfriend.

  His facial expression changes from concern to realization. He puts his hands up as though I might attack. It must be the scowl on my face or my fingers wrapped around the can of Mace I pulled from my laptop case. It’s not that Kyle is dangerous, it’s that he’s dangerous to me. I don’t trust myself around him. His smooth tongue used to talk me into anything. Even signing my own name on my resignation.

  A sharp glance over his shoulder confirms what he expects: every eye in the office is watching. He discreetly shuts the door and clears his throat. “Now, Kate.”

  I hold up the Mace. “No. That’s not how we start this. You will march out that door and find a new actuary. You can’t take this case. It’s a conflict of interest.”

  Lipski chuckles.

  Becker carefully steps in between me and Kyle.

  I’d nearly forgotten either of them was in the room. The moment Kyle walked through that door, my chest became hollow, my heart stopped beating. My throat filled with splinters. This man had emotionally wrecked me and didn’t bother to pick up the pieces.

  Kyle ignores my request. He waves a file in the air with a grim smile. “I read your file. You’ve been busy. Not every day I see someone who’s survived after becoming a Tariaksuq’s prey.”

  “Tariaksuq?” I slowly lower the Mace can.

  “The shade.” Becker answers, interrupting Kyle’s explanation. Becker nods his chin for me to go stand beside Lipski across the room. I do.

  “An Inuit shadow.” Kyle arches a bushy eyebrow at me, ignoring the fact that Becker already answered my question, but Kyle has to get the last, more educated explanation in. “Invisible to humans? See themselves as part of one whole?” Two steps and he’s at the conference table. He slaps the file down and flips through i
t.

  Lipski snorts. “Lucky guess.”

  It’s not lucky. Kyle is kigatilik, a descendent of Inuit demons. Ones that killed shamans. He’d know the hair-slight difference between the various sects of shades. One of my last cases with Kyle had been investigating a string of murders on shamans that started out as predictions we couldn’t catch in time. The local community had finger-pointed the kigatilik, demanding he step down from the case, which Kyle took personally and it nearly ruined him. His nephew had been the prime suspect, until we found the real killer. Kyle came out stronger, like he always does.

  “So these Tariaksuq”—Becker circles the table, his gaze never leaving Kyle—“friends of yours?”

  Kyle’s shoulders tense, and he grunts. “Hardly.” There’s a moment where he continues to flip the pages, but his chest rises and falls as though he’s attempting to remain calm at the accusation. Becker wouldn’t know Kyle’s past, but as a wolf fluent in body language he’d instinctually know what buttons to push.

  Kyle looks between Lipski and Becker. “Which one of you is on the case?”

  “Right here,” Lipski says.

  Becker’s answer is nearly on top of Lipski’s. “Me.”

  Kyle narrows his eyes on me and crosses his arms, analyzing the two police officers in the room a little too closely for comfort.

  I flatten myself against the wall, wishing I could blend into the eggshell paint. “They’re partners.”

  Neither gremlin-troll nor wolf introduces himself. I sigh. “Kyle”—I gesture to Lipski—“Detective Hank Lipski. He’s working on a case that will put him in a position to be added on to your Homicide team.” Then to Becker. “Officer Ian Becker, liaison for Accidental Death. We worked the last case together. The one that got me into this mess.” I figure that giving each a reason to be in this room will help keep Kyle in the dark as to how I ended up with two officers pushing for the case.