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“Come now, you know he doesn’t have to carry out the murder himself. A man like Lucian Blackthorne can’t afford the blood on his hands, with the kind of past he has. Perhaps the only thing the man can’t afford.”
“You’re suggesting he had her killed?”
“She was meeting regularly with me. They knew it. The question is, why wouldn’t he have had her killed sooner?”
“And now I risk the same fate.”
“Give me what I’m looking for, and you’ll never hear from me again. I swear it.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Have you seen, or met, any of the members of Schadenfreude?”
According to Giulia, the men who were present at the masquerade were members, though I didn’t see any of their faces behind the masks. Except for Mayor Boyd.
“Only one. But I don’t even know if he’s a member. He might be i
“Who?”
“Mayor Boyd.”
Lips curved upward, he snorts. “Amelia’s father. The scandalous Mayor Boyd who had an affair with a seventeen year old girl. Trust me when I say he’s not i
“Yes.”
“And do you know in what capacity Lucian serves this group? Have you ever seen one of his slaves, or noticed any unusual activity? Anyone coming to the manor who, perhaps, didn’t leave?”
“Slaves?”
“Yes. This group is known for sexual slavery and sadism.”
“I … know he’s helped Giulia. A maid who works for them.”
“I’m aware of Giulia. Any others?”
“No.” I don’t bother to tell him about Franco, because that would open the box to more digging, and I don’t need a drug dealer seeking me out for having ratted him out.
“I’m afraid I need one more piece of information before I hand this off to you.”
“What’s that?”
“Would your aunt happen to have a yearbook handy? From, say, your mother’s sophomore year?”
“Yeah. I guess. My grandparents had some old stuff stored away. Why? They have copies of yearbooks at the library.”
“I know. That particular year is missing.”
With a huff, I glance around the bar one more time. “Sure, I can look in the storage stuff in the attic.”
“Would you like me to drive you there?”
Makaio would probably go ballistic, if he saw the two of us leaving the bar and getting into his car.
“No, it’s not that far. I’ll run home, and I can be back here before dark.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind offering a ride.”
If Nell’s fate was sealed by having been caught hanging around a private investigator, I sure as hell don’t want to be caught hanging around said investigator.
“No, I won’t be long. Can I ask what you’re looking for?”
“Any pictures your mother is in.”
I frown at that, my suspicions slowly creeping back in. “What does she have to do with your investigation?”
“She doesn’t have anything to do with Schadenfreude, so far as I know. But she does have something to do with what’s in this envelope,” he says, holding it up again like a dangling carrot to a starving rabbit.
“Okay. I’ll be back.” I slide out of the booth and am greeted by the look of confusion on Aunt Midge’s face, as I pass the bar toward the back entrance, so Makaio won’t see me leave. “Gotta grab something from home real quick.”
“Like home-home? Or castle home?”
“Home-home.”
“Why you going out the back door?”
“Cutting through the alley.”
“You’re walking home?”
“Yeah. It’ll just take a few minutes.”
“Hey, Mac, any chance you can give Isa a ride to the house and back?”
Before he can answer, I shake my head. “He’s been drinking. Look, I don’t get out much these days. It’ll be nice to walk. Haven’t jogged in almost two months. I need the fresh, sea air. Kinda stuffy in a castle, you know?”
Arms crossed, she sighs. “Be back before dark, okay? That girl may have just overdosed, but that crap makes me paranoid as all get out.”
She has no idea. “I promise.”
It takes a half hour to walk from uptown to my neighborhood. The early morning strolls along the boardwalk, with the warm salty air, is something I’ve missed since taking the job at Blackthorne. Dead body aside, Tempest is a relatively safe island, overall. Murders happen, but rarely, and when they do, it’s all over the place, which results in more eyes watching.
Probably should’ve told Aunt Midge what I’m doing, seeing as I hate lying to the woman, but she’s like an endless vacuum of worry. Besides, I need the time to process everything. Between Giulia and Mr. Goodman, my head is spi
You don’t trust Lucian?
He has asked me for things. To cut him.
Tell me what you know about Lucian Blackthorne. A man like Lucian Blackthorne can’t afford the blood on his hands with the kind of past he has.
I want to believe that these are all as much rumor as everything else on this island, and that I shouldn’t trust any of it any more than I trusted the idea that he kept a refrigerator of human blood, but my head is swimming in lies and facts that flit past like quick mi
Crossing the neighbor’s front yard, I finally arrive home, and jog up the stairs to the front door. Locked.
She finally started locking up? Only took the death threat of a drug dealer.
I fish for the key I stuffed in my pocket earlier, and push inside to find the house still and dark. As much as I try to shake it off, there will always be a small part of me that feels uneasy without a knife in my pocket.
When I came to live with Aunt Midge, she insisted that I leave the knife at home, because a fifth grader carrying around a pocketknife at school is a no-no. We compromised, and I began sleeping with it under my pillow. Aunt Midge didn’t particularly like the idea, but that’s the thing about growing up as a kid from the streets--people treated me a little differently. I got to eat lunch in the library, while my classmates played at recess. I got out of gym in middle school because I didn’t want to change in front of the other girls, and of course, my counselor assumed something had happened to me to make me that way, so he excused me from the elective. In high school, nobody gave me a hard time, when I skipped the occasional class to sleep in, or read at the park, because I had decent grades, and at least I wasn’t plotting to shoot up the place.
I’ve always been, and felt, different thanks to my mother, who gifted me with ten years of constantly having to defend myself against whatever predicament she got us into. It doesn’t go away, either. The instincts. The edginess. I feel it even now, padding through the empty house toward the attic. Like something might jump out at me any second.
Tugging the hook on the attic door, I yank it down and slide out the ladder. I can’t remember the last time I ventured up here. Years ago, it was a place where I hid away with books to read, undisturbed.
The small, cramped space smells like damp wood and mothballs, and my muscles twitch at the possibility that I might stumble upon a small critter up here.
I tug the chain, and a naked bulb casts a dull light over the room. Most of the stuff in here belongs to my grandparents. Old dresses and costume jewelry, tucked away in wooden crates and bins. I head toward the back, where Aunt Midge’s old trophies for softball are set out on a shelf above a stack of cardboard boxes. I pull the first one down and rifle through pictures, and posters of bands from the eighties sporting ratted-out hair and endless spandex.