by L E Fraser
Reece sat hunched at the desk, clad in a cable-knit sweater, a scarf, and a pair of thick woollen socks. A knitted cap covered most of his thick black hair. Wind whistled through the crevasses around the window beside him and a space heater rattled by his feet.
“How’s your day?” She squeezed by the file cabinet. If she gained an ounce of body fat, she wouldn’t be able to get to her chair.
Reece grunted. He studied his laptop with an expression of disgust and blew on his fingertips. The rogue eyetooth in his otherwise straight teeth was showing, and his blue eyes were as stormy as the winter sky.
“I have to leave in an hour for a seminar,” she said.
“What? You promised to do the background checks the insurance company needs today.” His tone matched his sour expression
“Can’t you do it?”
“No, I have a paper due.”
When Reece had made the decision to finish law school, Sam hadn’t understood the ramifications to their investigation firm or to their relationship. On the rare occasions he was home, her fiancé had his nose stuck in a textbook or glued to his computer screen. Going back to school at thirty-eight wasn’t easy, and she was trying to be supportive. It was different for her because she was younger. She had only been out of graduate school for a few years when she’d entered the psychology doctoral program.
“The seminar is important for my PhD,” she said.
He exhaled loudly. “So my studies take a backseat to yours?”
“I didn’t say that.” She slouched against her chair and tried to stretch out her legs, accidentally kicking Reece in the shin. At six foot three, he had to keep his legs straight or his knees would press against the top of the short desk.
“We need to hire help,” she said with a sigh.
He raised an eyebrow and grinned. “At breakfast, when I told you I was interviewing someone this afternoon, you said—”
“The office is too small and we won’t find anyone for what we’re willing to pay.” She put her elbows on the desk and cupped her chin in her hands.
Sam didn’t like change, didn’t trust people, and didn’t want a stranger in her personal space. But it wasn’t fair to continue to dump work on Reece, and she missed spending free time with him.
“When is the first candidate coming?” She dug into the pockets of her coat for her mittens.
“At three, and he’s the only candidate,” Reece said. “His name is Elijah Watson. I can check his references, run a background check, and hire him today.”
“What? No, I have to meet him,” she said.
He scowled at his computer. “You aren’t going to like anyone. Let me take care of it. We agreed on relevant education, a valid PI licence, and computer skills.”
“It would be good if he wasn’t a criminal.” She glanced at The Globe and Mail on the desk. “Did you read the article about police finding a University of Toronto freshman’s body posed as a statue? How did the perp position the corpse so precisely?”
“He froze it. Read the whole article instead of skimming it,” Reece muttered and typed on his keyboard.
“I doubt the dumping ground was the primary crime scene,” Sam said as she read.
“I agree. The ritualistic aspects are frightening,” Reece said.
“The killer removed the victim’s eyes and embedded black stones in the cavities. No cause of death released yet, but they say there wasn’t a mark on the body and every inch of skin was a coppery colour.” She thought about it. “Probably some sort of tanning spray.”
“Goddam it! Now the screen is blue.” Reece slammed his hand on the keyboard in frustration.
Someone knocked on the office door. “It’s open,” Sam yelled.
A young man popped his head in. The door jammed on the carpet, and he put his shoulder against it and pushed. The door slammed against the file cabinet with a crash. He stumbled, tripped over his feet, and careened into the desk. An orange plastic visitor chair toppled, and he knocked over the second one when he tried to right it. Colour flooded his face and a long, puckered scar from the side of his nose to the corner of his right eye showed white against the blush.
“I had hoped to impress you with my professional demeanour.” He took off his parka and smiled.
He was in his mid-twenties with brown hair and hazel eyes. He was about five-seven with a wiry frame. There was no reason this young man would want to impress them. But, if he did, he shouldn’t have been wearing torn jeans and a dorky long-sleeved T-shirt with Homer Simpson’s face plastered across the front.
“Help you with something?” Sam asked.
He held out his hand. “Elijah Watson. My friends call me Eli.”
The kid was two hours early. The fact he couldn’t tell time wasn’t a good start.
She shook Eli’s hand. The sleeve of his T-shirt rode up and she glimpsed cigarette burns on his inner wrist. He released her hand and tugged down the sleeve of his shirt.
Reece stood to greet him. “I thought we said three o’clock.”
“Oh.” He put on his parka with stiff, robotic motions. “I am sorry. I will wait downstairs. No worries.”
The lack of contractions in his stilted speech was strange. He didn’t have an accent, so English wasn’t the issue. When Eli walked to the door, he didn’t move his arms. There was an odd rigidity to his body, and he hadn’t made eye contact when he shook her hand. Sam took an instant dislike to him.
“Don’t be silly, sit down.” Reece circled the desk and sat on one of the visitor chairs, motioning to Eli to take the other. “When you called yesterday, you never said where you heard about the job.”
“Oh, well, we know some of the same people and somebody mentioned you might be hiring an intern.” He rummaged through a Boconi laptop bag slung across his chest and handed Reece a piece of paper. He glanced at Sam, blushed again, and grabbed a second one that he held out to her.
Ignoring the kid’s resume, she asked, “Who?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who do we know in common?”
“I graduated from Police Foundations at Fanshawe and did two years of criminology at King’s College—that is, Western University. Well, not main campus. I did not get in.” His eyes widened and his cheeks flushed. “I mean, my marks at King’s were good enough.” He shuffled his feet. “To transfer, I mean. I have advanced first aid and CPR training and completed the mandatory training for the Ontario private investigator license.”
Eli’s stilted speech was getting on her nerves, and he’d used an evasive tactic to avoid answering. Diverting a direct question with a prolonged explanation implied dishonesty. Sam was ready to send him packing.
Reece crossed his legs and motioned again at Eli to sit. “A couple of ex-OPP cops teach at Fanshawe. I bet you heard about us from Wayne Kalstein. I talked to him last week about recommending a past student.”
“Mr. Kalstein was one of my teachers.” Eli cleared his throat. “I am a cook at the artisan pizza restaurant down the street. Customers like to watch the dough being hand-stretched.”
“I love to cook,” Reece said. “But I haven’t mastered hand-stretching dough.”
Based on her partner’s cheerful expression, Reece was probably visualizing a halo of light shimmering above Eli’s spiky brown hair. There was something familiar about the kid but Sam couldn’t place him. “Have we met?”
Eli’s eyes flicked over her shoulder again. “I do not think so.”
“No, you look familiar,” she insisted.
“Uh, well, I enjoy the bakery downstairs. The cannoli filling is excellent. I sublet a basement flat in a house in Little Italy. Maybe we have run into each other.”
“So, why do you want to work for a PI firm?” Reece asked.
“Working as an investigator is a passion, but getting onto a police force is tough. And, well, I do not drive.” He blushed. “You have to have a driver’s licence to be a cop.” He rushed to add, “I have excellent computer skills.”
&nbs
p; “Did Wayne tell you we want someone to set up a database and scan our paper files? Is that something you can do?” Reece asked.
Eli dug into his bag. “I can create a contract repository that will catalogue the key points and give you an instant overview of all your legal documents.” He passed Reece a folder.
Reece perused the presentation and then passed it to Sam.
Eli’s ideas were impressive. In addition to listing information that she normally had to hunt through a physical contract to find, his mock-up had an alert feature that sent out a notification ninety days before the termination date. Handy, since approaching her clients before they realized the contract was expiring could prevent other PIs from poaching her cash cows.
“The pay isn’t good,” she said. “Minimum wage.”
“I do not care about the dollars. I want a reputable PI to give me a chance.”
Instead of ingratiating him to her, his enthusiasm struck Sam as desperate. “Why did you move to Toronto from London?”
He licked his lips and picked at a thread on his jeans. “I felt like a change.”
“Why did you drop out of university?”
“Uh, I ran out of money.” He peered at his feet.
He was lying. Maybe the university had kicked him out. She could find out.
Eli browsed in his bag again and produced another sheet of paper. “Here are my references.”
Wayne Kalstein’s name was on the list, so Eli hadn’t lied about that. Still. That scar kept drawing Sam’s eyes. She’d seen enough knife wounds in her days. But it wasn’t recent. His face had grown around it.
“A car accident,” Eli said brusquely. “Everybody stares.”
A blush warmed her cheeks. “I get it.” She held out the backs of her hands. The burn scars were puckered and brown.
“I noticed,” he said.
But I didn’t stare, like you did.
The unspoken words hung there, a silent accusation intended to deflect from his lie. When he claimed it was a car accident, he’d closed off his body and held her eyes. When people typically avoided eye contact, a moment of intense sincerity was as good as a lie detector.
Eli stared at the depressing blue screen on Reece’s computer. “Want me to fix that? From here, it looks like Windows crashed.”
“That would be great.” Given Reece’s gleeful expression, fixing the computer would seal the deal and he’d hire Eli on the spot.
Eli bent over the laptop. The tip of his tongue poked from the corner of his mouth as he worked.
“You’ve got some malware, too. Bet you’ve received emails in your spam that use your email address as the sender. I’m going to format and reinstall Windows. Don’t sweat it, though. I’ll protect all your data so you won’t lose anything.” His hand dived into his bag and he extracted a USB drive that he popped into the laptop.
Computers must be Eli’s comfort zone because he’d dropped the formal speech, Sam mused. She didn’t know what to think. Maybe Eli’s oddities were just nerves.
Reece jerked his thumb and Sam followed him into the hallway.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Too bad he can’t tell time.”
“I’ll give Wayne a call and check his references.” Reece’s eyes shone with excitement. “Wayne wouldn’t send us anyone but a top candidate.”
“Did you notice his strange body language and odd speech? He doesn’t make eye contact. And what’s with the scars?” Based on his expression, Reece considered her observations shallow. “Eli doesn’t have any experience,” she added.
“Which is why he’ll do grunt work for minimum wage,” Reece said. “He has related education and is demonstrating his computer expertise.”
“I’m picking up something weird about him,” she insisted.
Reece laughed and pulled her in for a kiss. “You pick up something weird about everyone. It’s an occupational hazard as an ex-cop.”
She frowned. “Then why aren’t you more suspicious? You were with the OPP ten years longer than I was with Toronto Police Service.”
“I’m eight years older and more emotionally mature.” He turned to the office door. “I like him and I don’t want to recruit, vet resumes, and interview. But we’ll do a major background and reference check. Satisfied?”
She wasn’t but followed him back into the cramped office.
Eli was tucking an Alienware laptop back into the Boconi shoulder bag. Both the computer and bag were out of her price range.
“Thanks for stopping in,” she said. “We’ll give you a call.”
He looked crestfallen but recovered fast. “I hope you give me a chance. I will not disappoint you.”
Reece handed him a card. “I owe you for fixing that beast.” He pointed at his laptop.
“I was happy to help.” Eli turned to Sam. “Nice to meet you.” Arms glued to his sides, he marched out of the office.
She stood at the window, which looked out over the front entrance to the building. As Eli exited, a girl with long black hair ran across the street and grabbed his arm. The young woman’s mouth moved fast and she gestured passionately with her free hand. Eli shrugged out of her grasp and crossed the street. The girl jogged after him. She turned and looked over her shoulder at the building.
As she glared up at their office window, there was no mistaking the raw hatred on her face.
CHAPTER TWO
In the Cellar
Angel
HE’S SCREAMING AGAIN. Yesterday, he thrashed against the bars of his cage, hollering senseless threats and shouting obscenities until his voice turned ragged and hoarse. Today, stark terror fills those screams. The darkness is closing in on him. He’ll break or he’ll adapt. Either way, it doesn’t matter. There’s no way out.
I tried to be a good person. Even after all the energy people expended to dehumanize me, I believed I’d find love. Now, at twenty-three, I accept the truth. There are those of us who repel people. It’s the antithesis of charm. You live in a world where people dislike you. A few pretend to be your friend until they’ve raped you of what they covet. Then their capacity for cruelty emerges. Sniping comments erode your confidence. Nasty gossip impugns your reputation. Telephone calls, emails, and text messages go unanswered. Eventually you skulk away, accepting that you’re disposable. I’ve existed under this ebony umbrella of disdain my whole life. Is it any wonder that I’ve ended up here?
I was seven when the first glimmer of understanding dawned in my conscious mind. I’d stayed after school to practice for our Christmas concert. In the schoolyard, fat white flakes of snow toppled onto the hood of my furry brown coat and stuck to my red mittens like moulting ermine fur on Saint Nick’s crimson suit. Above me, clusters of stars shone against a deep purple sky that clung to just a whisper of dying daylight.
My best friend, Lizzy, skipped into the arms of her smiling mother. She prattled on about the songs we were learning and the play we were rehearsing. When Lizzy told her mother that the teacher had awarded me the role of lead angel, I pirouetted. Her mother studied me with no expression. Not even the hint of a smile. She tucked Lizzy under her arm and marched her to their car.
Something tiny cracked in my heart as they drove away and left me alone on the empty playground outside the deserted school. That was the first time the voice whispered to me, and it said, Lizzy’s mother doesn’t like you.
I walked down the empty, winding driveway of the school to a path that ran through the woods to the street where I lived. The sheen of purple had faded from the sky. Clouds masked the starlight and the moon, making the night inky black. The wind moaned and snowflakes mutated into a swirling blizzard of sharp ice pellets. With my mittens clasped against my cheeks, I trudged along the tree-lined path as the winter wind screamed through the barren branches. My imagination conjured beasts lying in wait to drag me to their putrid lairs. Terrified, I tried to run but my feet slipped and I fell. I wept with fear and crawled on my hands and knees.
At the e
nd of the path, I stumbled to my feet and stood under the lustrous beam of a streetlight. Houses lit up the threatening night and the woodland monsters retreated into the shadows of the forest.
As I scurried by a neighbour’s home, I peeked through the open curtains of a dining room window. A family sat around a table laden with steaming dishes of food. Through the brightly lit window, a boy’s mouth moved in conversation. The father laughed and slapped his son on the shoulder. Next, the girl’s mouth moved, and the family shifted its attention to her. It was strange. The boy was older than the girl was. Why did they care what she had to say?
I pulled my eyes away, ashamed that I was spying, and became aware that the world had returned to normal. There was no blizzard, no clouds hiding the brilliance of the stars, and no ominous wind screeching through the trees. The monster was in my mind.
I continued walking home and wondered what we’d have for dinner. I was fond of baked macaroni and cheese but lasagna was my favourite. Now, I can’t eat either dish without the pasta congealing in the back of my throat until I gag.
When I arrived home, Mama yelled at me to remove my filthy boots. I tugged them off and breathed in the rich aroma of tomato sauce and baking cheese. Steam coated the kitchen window as my mother filled the sink with hot, soapy water. A radio was playing and she was humming in perfect pitch to a song she often sang with the church choir.
“I got something to tell you,” I said breathlessly.
“Tell your father, Angel, and set the table. Your sister has a project due, so you need to take her dish duty tonight.”
I raced into the living room to find my dad.
He was with my older sister. Like always. His arm was around her shoulders, and he was smiling down at her upturned face. She sat cross-legged on a velour armchair, which Mama had forbid me from sitting on because I’d dirty the fabric.
I chattered about the school pageant and the scary walk through the haunted woods. My cheeks were warm from the fading cold, and excitement made my voice high and fast.
