Blood of the Demon

I glanced over the numbers. Pretty much the same that she would have received in a divorce. I doubted that she’d faked the documents. It was far too easy for me to check—and I would—and she wasn’t that stupid.

But there were plenty of other possible motives for murder besides greed. “Can you tell me more about the 911 calls?”

She looked at me, green eyes bright in the sunlight that streamed in through the high window. “We had arguments sometimes—when he wanted me to do something or go somewhere, and I’d made other plans or that sort of thing. He told me that it was my job to be with him and look good, 24/7. And … he got jealous too. He wanted me to be beautiful and charming, but he also didn’t want me to pay too much attention to other men. Even his close friends.” She sighed. “Davis would occasionally get physical. I got scared the first time.” She shook her head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been smacked before, but I just didn’t expect it from him. It wasn’t even hard. My pride was bruised more than anything. Anyway, I locked myself in the bedroom and called the cops.” She brushed her hair back from her shoulders, an expression that might have been embarrassment coloring her features. “They came, took statements, told him to leave for the night.” She gave me a rueful smile. “He came back the next day with an armload of presents.”

“That’s a pretty standard pattern for an abuser,” I said evenly.

“Oh, I know,” she said, with an unapologetic shrug. “And if he’d been slapping me around on a daily basis, I’d have been out of there in just my underwear, if necessary. I’m a mercenary, but, as I told you, I’m not stupid. In the five years we were together, he slapped me only twice.” The look she gave me was challenging. “That’s hardly a standard pattern for an abuser.”

It was two more slaps than I would ever put up with. “So why did you leave him?” I countered.

There it was again—the pain and fear. Her gaze flicked around the room, refusing to light anywhere. She swallowed and smoothed her hands over her dress again, then sat back down on the couch and clasped her hands together in her lap. She took a breath to settle herself and looked up at me, a smile that was clearly artificial sculpted onto her face by sheer will. “I found out he was cheating on me.”

With the mystery blonde? Or was there someone else? “That’s the only reason?” I said, then realized how it sounded.

Elena lifted a perfect eyebrow. “That’s not enough?”

It certainly was for someone like me, but would she really be willing to leave the lifestyle because her husband had screwed around? It didn’t ring true. “Sorry. So you found out he was cheating on you and you filed for divorce?”

Her nod was stiff, and an expression of regret crossed her face. She didn’t want to leave him. I’d have bet money on it. So why did she? There was still fear. It showed in the way her hand clenched on the arm of the couch, the jiggle of her foot, and I didn’t think it was just nerves at being questioned by the police.

“Can you tell me who he was having an affair with?” Maybe someone with more reason to want him dead?

I saw her knuckles go white briefly, then she gave a stilted shake of her head. “I … never knew her name. I only knew about her.”

Bullshit. Why divorce him and leave that cushy nest without solid proof? “I find that hard to believe,” I said instead, leaning forward slightly.

Her makeup stood out in harsh contrast to her skin as she paled, but she shook her head again. “I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. I just got out.”

Again, bullshit. Elena Sharp did not strike me as the kind of woman who would leave her nice luxurious nest without even trying to fight off a usurper. I narrowed my eyes. “Why did you really leave your husband, Mrs. Sharp?”

She gave a deep exhalation, as if trying to appear exasperated. “Look, does it matter anymore? He’s dead, and I’m a widow instead of a divorcée.”

“It matters a great deal, Mrs. Sharp,” I said, hardening my voice. “Your husband was murdered. You understand that, right? If he was involved with someone else, then you need to tell me everything you know.”

Her hands trembled. “I can’t tell you!”

Now it was I can’t tell instead of I don’t know. I stood and gave her my best tough-bitch-cop look. “You can tell me. Do you think this is all going to go away? That the police will get tired of looking into your husband’s murder? If you think you need protection, I can arrange it, but you have to be honest with me!”

“It’s not like that … I mean—”

“Then tell me!” I demanded. “Tell me why you left your husband. Tell me who he was screwing around with. The only person who’s going to take a fall here is you!”

She shook her head, eyes wide. “No. I’ve lost too much already. I won’t go to jail for … for something I didn’t do!”

I sat down and gentled my voice. “Then be honest with me. It’s the only way out of this.”

She looked at me, green eyes on mine. Then she closed them and took a deep breath. Yes, I thought with a touch of triumph. She’s ready to spill …

“I think I need to speak to my lawyer.”

Fuck.

She opened her eyes and looked at me steadily. She’s not stupid. And she’s stronger than she gives herself credit for. Fuck.

I closed my notebook and stood. “Mrs. Sharp, thank you for talking to me,” I said formally. “If you can think of anything that might help in the investigation of your husband’s murder, please call me.” I handed her my business card.

She stood as well. “I didn’t kill my husband, Detective,” she said, taking the card from me. “And I didn’t pay to have him killed either.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” I assured her. “Have a good afternoon, Mrs. Sharp. I’m sure I’ll be in touch again.”

I left the apartment and returned to my car. I cranked the engine, then rolled the windows down and turned the AC on full blast to push the overheated air out, drumming my fingers absently on the steering wheel as I waited for the air to cool from roasting to tepid. She’d enjoyed that lifestyle, the money. Why leave it without a fight? Was she being blackmailed? Threatened? And what about Sharp’s essence? Was she somehow responsible for that?

I drove away from the apartment complex, returning to Beaulac with more questions than when I’d left.

By the time I made it back, it was late enough that I didn’t feel a need to go to the office. I stopped and bought a new coffeemaker, then swung by my aunt’s house. I had enough of her person, but now I needed some items that were personal to her—something that would resonate with emotional ties to this plane. I parked in Tessa’s driveway and ran up the steps to the front door. Her favorite teacup, and her hairbrush. And maybe that scarf that I—

I stopped with my hand a millimeter from the doorknob, thoughts derailed by the faint prickling sensation in the wards that I’d placed after Kehlirik had removed the others. I slowly pulled my hand back, heart begi

I turned and looked out over her yard. Mowed. Trimmed. Weeded. I could almost explain that away—especially now that the wards were mostly disabled. I wasn’t strong enough to have aversions that would keep someone out of the yard. Okay, so someone was taking care of her lawn. Not a reason for huge worry. But someone’s also visiting her in the neuro center …