by Kelty Kells
“Great. Okay.” He stands. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“Sure.” I get to my feet, too, not exactly sure what I’m going to do for the next forty minutes. “Hey, uh . . . I actually have another question.”
“Shoot.”
I wince at the word, and he quickly revises.
“Sorry. Go ahead.”
“That morning that I came in to see if we could review the footage . . . you know, when I got that Faberge egg?”
“Yeah?”
“Why didn’t you just . . . tell me? I mean, if you already knew?”
He rubs the back of his neck, lips pulling into a grimace. “I . . . don’t want to advertise what I can do, you know? It’s one thing for there to be rumors, but . . . Karen, I can teleport objects.” He barely hisses the last few words, his voice dipping low. “The paper has already started gossip about us being in cahoots, stealing things. Just imagine what a field day they’d have if they found out about my ability. I . . . honestly wasn’t sure that I could trust you. Not with that.”
Good point. Still, the fact that he didn’t trust me—and still might not entirely—hurts. “I understand. The last thing I want is for Millie to find out about my abilities, too.”
“Exactly my reasoning.” A sigh, and he runs his hand through his hair. It needs a trim, I realize. It’s longer than usual, going shaggy around his ears. The length isn’t a bad look on him, though. He could probably pull off just about any style and still look great. “Besides, you wouldn’t have seen anything anyway. Nothing useful at least, even if the recording hadn’t been erased.”
“So you weren’t stalling on purpose?” I tease.
He chuckles dryly. “Nah.”
“Good to know.”
Someone knocks on the door, and before Cole can say anything, Ash opens it and peeks in. “Hey, boss. We’re getting pretty busy. Can you come jump on the register or something?”
“Sure thing.” He turns to me, offering his hand. “Thanks for coming by this morning, Karen.”
“Yeah, no problem. I’ll chat with you later.” I shake his hand, but as I’m leaving, I catch the way Ash’s eyes follow me.
Lovely.
I guess I’ll be seeing another article about Cole and me in the paper soon.
Chapter 15
Just like yesterday, today drags by. I do my best to keep as busy as possible so I won’t stare at the clock. For the most part, it helps. People come and go in waves. Most everyone has finished shopping by now, but a few stragglers are still trying to find good deals.
My feet ache by three, and I’m starting to get grouchy because I forgot to eat lunch. A text from Paul around three thirty improves my mood, though.
Yeah, sure. What case? I’ll see if I can track down the file.
Leon Vankroft’s murder. Thanks so much! We’ll be by around six.
This is perfect! I’m beyond glad that Paul is willing to help us out. He doesn’t reply, but I figure he’s probably busy. A quick text to Cole confirming the meeting time is all I manage before I have to jump back to the register.
Closing comes at long last, but for the first time in a while, Dr. Elea doesn’t duck out of the shop to head home.
“We’re all closed up!” I chime from the front, brushing my hands together after flipping the neon open sign off and locking the door. “Thanks so much for staying late today. It really helps make this time of year more manageable.”
He hums as he sifts through some of the orders on the computer. “It’s not a problem. This is my business, after all.”
My lips twitch into a frown as I head back toward the register. “Are you gonna stay longer?”
“I figured it might be a nice holiday treat if I give you the rest of the evening off. You’ve been putting in quite a bit of overtime, and I don’t mind tackling the orders for tonight.”
I hesitate. That means I won’t be able to get a second reading from the tarot cards. If he’s here, I can’t just sneak into the back and touch them. He’ll know what I’m up to in a heartbeat.
Unless . . .
Maybe there’s a way around this.
“I don’t mind staying,” I reply. “Really.” As if that last little bit is going to convince him. Ha!
“Nonsense. I understand you have things you, too, must accomplish outside work. Please, go ahead and clock out for the night.”
Maybe he notices how exhausted I’ve been all day. Even though I managed to keep busy, my eyes are barely staying open. A nap before meeting Cole sounds nice, actually . . .
How long would I get to sleep? Maybe a half hour if I go home, forty-five minutes at most if I go straight to the station? That could be just enough to tide me over until I get home.
“Thank you, Dr. Elea. I really appreciate it.”
“Go on. I’ll see you in the morning.”
After clocking out, I give him a final wave and slip out of the shop and into the freezing night air. It’s only just after five, but it’s already pitch black out. Steam rises from my lips in billowy puffs as I trudge across the icy sidewalk to my truck.
Down the street, I catch the familiar shape of Millie’s SUV and scowl at it.
Just leave me alone, already. I climb into the cab of my truck and turn the engine over, watching her as my vehicle warms up.
She doesn’t move from her spot. The headlights are out, and the interior of her SUV is dark. It’s hard to see anything clearly from this distance, but I think the engine’s off, too. No exhaust puffs out from her car, at least.
When I shift into drive and head down the street toward her, though, the headlights suddenly flare up. She zips away in the opposite direction before I can so much as roll my window down to tell her off.
Ugh.
Well, whatever. Hopefully she won’t tail me to the police station. If she does, I might file a formal complaint against her. All this stalking is getting obscene and more than a little unnerving.
Rather than going all the way home, I instead drive down to First Street and park across the street from the police station. The building is square and boring, made of brown brick. It faces the ocean and has a small lot off to the side for deputies and the sheriff to park. The last time I was here, I was being questioned about Alex’s murder. Not a great memory, unfortunately.
I keep the truck running and snuggle down for a quick nap. Any sleep I can catch will help.
I doze, listening to the hum of my engine. My eyelids grow heavy, and sleep clouds my mind.
Before I know it, someone’s rapping against my window.
I jerk awake with a snort.
Wow. I really fell asleep.
Not that I feel any more refreshed, but it’s fine.
I yawn, hiding my exhaustion behind my hand. Oh well. At least I managed to get some rest. For now, I’m awake and ready to go. I shut the engine off and step out into the cold to meet not Cole, but Paul.
“Hey,” I say through another yawn. “Oh, man. Sorry. I haven’t been sleeping well, and—”
“It’s fine. Let’s go.”
“Ah, actually, I’m waiting for Cole. I thought since this case is about his grandfather, maybe he’d want to review the files, too.”
Paul scowls. “Fine. Whatever. What time is he gonna be here?”
The question sounds more like, How long do we have to wait out in the cold?
“Six.”
He pushes the sleeve of his coat up and nods. “All right. Should be here soon, then. So, which case specifically, again?”
“The, uh, murder of Leon Vankroft. I thought I texted it to you?”
Paul huffs an unamused laugh. “Phone died. Shoulda guessed, though.”
“Are there other cases that involve Cole’s family?”
“The Vankrofts have been involved in numerous murders and disappearances over the decades.”
Oh, wow. Okay. Uncle Angus’s talk of Stefan and Leon killing people suddenly seems more real than before. “Even Cole?”
“No
, your boyfriend hasn’t done anything that I know of.”
The bite in his voice puts me on the defense immediately. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Wait a second. Oh, I get it. “Are you jealous?”
“No.” The word is curt and cold. “Just annoyed that you keep wasting my time.”
“You know, for the record, you could have said no. And you don’t have to be so mean about it.”
Paul shakes his head, his frown loosening and shoulders going slack. “No, I guess not. But I do have other stuff to do, you know. I can’t always babysit you.”
“Fair, but this is important.”
“The case you’re asking about is forty years old. How is it that important?”
Before I can answer, Cole pulls up to the curb in his shiny, silver Mazda. I wave, grinning as he cuts the engine and shuts the headlights off. I’m glad he showed. Really, I have no idea what answer I’d have given Paul. From the outside, this case doesn’t seem important at all, but to Cole and me—and, if Cole’s right about the gateway, the other residents of Mooring Cove—it’s not only important, it’s the first in a line of old cases we’ll need to tackle.
As he gets out of his car, he says, “Thanks for helping us out, Deputy Richards.”
Paul shuffles his shoulders, raising them closer to his ears to fight the sudden chilly wind blowing in from the ocean. “It’s fine. Come on. Let’s get inside.”
On TV, files are kept in neat, tidy storage rooms inside the precinct. Sometimes they’re stored in a basement, others they’re in an attic of sorts. In reality, that’s not always the case. As it turns out, the case files we want are actually kept in an outdoor storage locker behind the police station. Unfortunately, no one seems to know exactly where they are, so Paul, Cole, and I have to sift through dozens of boxes to try and find just a single one.
Yup.
Talk about a needle in a haystack.
At least this needle will be labeled.
Well, supposedly, anyway.
I’m shivering in my shoes, the ocean gale cutting through my coat like it’s not even there. My nose is frozen, and I swear my eyelashes keep sticking together. In the half hour we’ve been searching, my body temperature feels like it’s dropped to the low teens.
This is what pure Baltic really means. If I lick my lips, my saliva will freeze over almost instantly.
Look on the bright side, Karen. You’re staying active, at least!
One by one, we move boxes aside, sifting through and calling out anything that might be useful. A couple of other Vankroft cases appear, but none of them have to do with Leon’s murder. I try not to pry too much, but come on. I’m curious.
At least one case appears to be the murder of a local mountain woman, but before I can snoop any further, Paul takes the box from me.
“That’s not the right one. Keep looking.”
I pout, but he’s right. We’re here for Leon’s case, not the others.
Nearly an hour passes before Cole calls, “Hey, I found it!”
I set the box I’m holding aside and shuffle down the narrow pathway toward him. Peering over his shoulder, I see a box labeled Vankroft–MacUispeag.
Yup, that’s definitely gotta be it.
“Thank god,” I mumble. My teeth chatter as I speak. “Let’s get it inside. I’m freezing all my lady bits off.”
Cole huffs a chuckle under his breath. “Yeah, I’m ice to my core by now.”
Paul comes over and takes the box in hand. He has to be the one carrying it to and from the building, and he has to oversee us as we sift through the files and evidence inside. Hopefully, this isn’t all for nothing. Although his attitude has been annoying lately, I don’t want to be more of a bother than I already have been. The guy’s got a lot on his plate.
We step out into the open cold so Paul can close up the storage unit and lock it. As we trudge across the icy back lot, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be able to touch any of the items inside. That’ll be the fastest way to getting some answers.
“Out of curiosity,” Cole says over the gale, “where do you keep new evidence?”
Paul gives him a sidelong look that all but screams, I don’t trust you. “Inside.”
That’s all the answer we get.
I so wish Cole hadn’t asked, because now we can’t go snooping around for the cufflinks. I just have to hope that whatever’s inside this box is enough to help us figure out what happened that night. I want Leon’s spirit put to rest as soon as possible. Even if uptick in deaths in Mooring Cove isn’t related to restless, vengeful souls, I’m more than happy to try just about anything to make the murders stop.
Paul lets us in through the back and guides us down an empty hallway toward one of the many concrete observation and interrogation rooms. No doubt the whole thing will be recorded. Not that I can say I blame them, but I’m beginning to wonder if this is actually a good idea. After all, we don’t want the authorities to know about our powers. Just imagine the chaos that would cause.
The inside of the room is just like the last one I stayed in. The walls are concrete, the table wood with a spot for handcuffs to be secured to the top. Inside are a couple of metal chairs. They don’t exactly look all that comfortable, but they’re better than standing.
I take one of the chairs and Cole grabs another while Paul settles in at the head of the table, setting the box down with a thud.
“There. Go wild.”
Cole frowns. “Okay then. Thanks, Deputy Richards.”
“Whatever.”
Man, he has been just such a jerk lately.
I guess going through a divorce can really mess someone up. Normally, Paul’s cheerful and sweet. He has a good sense of humor and is typically a look-on-the-bright-side type of person, but these last few months, he’s just been really mean. I hate the person he’s become. Maybe not hate, but strongly dislike. Let’s just say I wouldn’t go out of my way to spend time with him. Not these days.
I want to ask him if we can talk, just check to see if he needs help. I want to be there for him, but I just . . . can’t. If I ask and he says no, which he probably will, I’ll take the refusal too personally. I know it deep down.
Yes, I care about him, but I just don’t know how to make things better.
Maybe I can’t.
Maybe no one can.
Cole pulls out his keys and slices through the brown packing tape wound around the lid of the box. When he pulls it off, he lets out a long, defeated sigh.
I stand to peer inside, and my heart drops. “Oh no.”
I was hoping that the box might have a bunch of evidence from the crime scene. Plaster shoe imprints, clothes, anything. Just . . . anything would have been more useful than what’s inside. Even a couple of folders of information would have been great, but all that’s inside is a single thin file folder and a baggy of bloody clothes.
“Is this everything?” I ask, pulling the baggy out. All that’s inside is a single button-down shirt. It’s white, obviously meant for a formal affair—Minnie’s wedding, of course. The white has yellowed from the years outside, and I catch a large brown stain smattered across it.
Blood.
At least I should be able to get something from this.
If I can touch it, that is.
Paul shrugs, scowling at the table. “Dunno. I’m not on the up-and-up with every case, you know.”
“Fair,” I murmur.
Still, it’s more than a little disheartening to realize we don’t have much to go off of. This is it. This is all we have, the last bit of hope of solving Leon’s murder.
I set the baggy down, wondering how I’m going to ask if I can feel the clothing without looking like an absolute lunatic.
Cole pulls the file folder out.
It’s thin. Really thin.
He flips it open and drops onto his chair. “There’s only one statement in here and the coroner’s report.”
I lean across
the table to get a better look at the statement. “That’s my uncle’s handwriting.”
“Angus was probably the only one who was cognizant afterward,” says Cole, shaking his head. “Grandpa Leon was dead, and Edmund was hospitalized.”
A good point, even if it’s not exactly helpful.
“Maybe there’s something in his statement that he forgot to tell us, or in the report,” I mumble, sinking down to my own seat.
“Just says my grandfather was shot twice, square in the chest. One bullet hit his heart, the other his lung.”
That sounds like a pretty grisly death. While he reviews the paperwork, though, maybe I can get my hands on the physical evidence. “Is . . . is there any way I can open this bag? So I can get a better look at the shirt?”
Paul leans back in his chair, kicking a booted foot over his knee and folding his arms over his broad chest. “As long as you’re wearing gloves, it should be fine.” He shoves a box of gloves across the table.
I’m not sure if he agrees because the case has long been considered solved or if it’s because he just wants to get this over with. Either way, I’m glad for the chance to maybe sneak a peek at whatever memories the shirt holds.
The only problem is that Paul’s watching me like a starving wolf eying a baby reindeer.
Cole glances between us. When we don’t jump at each other’s throats, he reads over Angus’s statement. While I take the old, plaid shirt out of the bag—with provided nitrile gloves on, of course—he asks Paul, “Aren’t there any statements from the guy who found them?”
“Who do you mean?”
“Dino Risotto. If I remember right, he’s the one who came across them that night. Helped Angus get Edmund to the hospital and took the police back to the scene, right?”
Paul rubs his jaw and leans in closer to sift through the file alongside Cole.
So, it’s just me he’s frustrated with, then.
Guess I probably should have seen that coming. Considering our past and how often I’ve been bothering him lately, I get it. From his perspective, maybe it seems like I’m trying to intrude on his life. Of course, I’m not. Anything but that. I want to respect his privacy as much as the town’s rumor mill will let me.
