The Curse of Tenth Grave

“Yeah.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d seen a shadow pass, so I looked up to see his blurred image slide across the glass on the picture behind her desk. It would ruin the moment, though why anything about me would surprise her at this point, I had no clue.

I jumped up to grab my jacket. “First, find out all you can about our murder victim, Emery Adams.”

“Right.”

“And then figure out who my husband is paying child support to.”

“On it.”

“And then—”

“Go,” she said, still studying the photo. When the door opened, she looked up at my ramshackle of an uncle.

I dived in for the first hug, making him horridly uncomfortable. Which was exactly why I did it. He patted my back and then almost, almost hugged me back, his tall, only slightly overweight frame the epitome of male etiquette. Men didn’t hug. It was against their code of manly conduct unless they were in the throes of frat party. Or an even manlier event. Like touch football. Or backyard grilling. It was okay to hug in American guydom as long as one or both of the participants had grilling tongs in hand.

They also didn’t hasten to their wives to plant big wet ones on them, which was exactly what Ubie did.

I would have waited until they came up for air, but there were only so many hours in the day. I decided to risk it. “I forgot to ask, Cook. Who’s Valerie?”

She flipped me off. She literally gave me the naughty finger while she molested my uncle. I was so proud. Even prouder than she was that time she got food poisoning and lost seven pounds in two days. But I took that as my cue to slip out. There was only so much PDA I could handle when a relative was involved. Especially one who manhandled my BFF in his spare time.

I stepped out to what had become a dreary, misty gray day. My very favorite kind. Clouds had rolled in from the northeast and were hovering low over the Sandias, spilling over the peak, making the entire mountain look like a witch’s cauldron. One would think that image alone would lift my spirits. Or the fact that the entire mountain was covered in sparkling white snow would at least garner a smile, but I had a lot on my mind. I was afraid. So very, very afraid. It curled around me and slipped into my lungs, making it impossible to breathe.

I stopped halfway to Misery, my cherry red Jeep Wrangler. Why was I afraid? I’d been afraid before, but not like this. Not like deathly afraid.

Yet fear swirled like a fog around me. I took inventory. Looked myself over. Patted my pockets and my jacket and my girls. Nope, not me. So, if it wasn’t my fear nigh paralyzing me, whose was it?

I glanced around. There weren’t many people in the alley. Many businesses on this part of Central had a back entrance, and with the college right across the street, the area got quite a bit of traffic despite the alley status, but there were only a couple of students cutting through the alley on their way to campus.

I started walking, trying to home in on the source, fighting the urge to sniff like I was searching my kitchen for an odd odor. It happened.

When I rounded a Dumpster, I spotted it. Or her. A young homeless girl, actually, and most likely a runaway. Her fear hit me full on, and concern lifted the hairs on the back of my neck.

The girl sat cross-legged, her black sneakers as tattered as the dingy once-pink blanket wrapped over her shoulders. She had pixielike dark hair, spiked but in more of a bed head kind of way, and pale youthful skin. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen. Fifteen at the most. She was fiddling with the lid to a yogurt cup with granola. A plastic spoon sat next to her along with a cup of juice. Her fingers were shaking, and she couldn’t get the wrap off.

“Can I help?” I asked, softening my voice as much as I could.

Her head jerked up, anyway. Her gaze, wild with surprise and fear, paused on me for only a second before it darted around, wondering if I were with anyone. God only knew what she’d gone through, being a very young, very pretty teen. And God only knew what, or more likely who, sent her to live on the streets. What had pushed her to such a rash decision.

Satisfied we were alone, her gaze raked over me, but mine had drifted back to the snack in her hands.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, suddenly more curious about her food than her circumstances. If she’d panhandled, she probably wouldn’t have bought anything quite that healthy. Most kids lived for chips and pizza, and that had come from Boyd’s Mini Mart on the opposite corner of our building.

She had no intention of answering me, but her eyes answered for her. She glanced ever so quickly toward Boyd’s, and I had to tamp down a spike of anger.

“Mr. Boyd? Did Mr. Boyd give that to you?”

Her brows slid together, and I almost scoffed aloud.

“I bet he said you could stay in his storeroom, too. You know, if you ever need a place to sleep? To get out of the cold for a while?”

She volunteered nothing, but I felt recognition flood through her. She had the wherewithal to know she’d been had and the intelligence to look sheepish.

“Dude’s a perv, hon, through and through.” I stepped closer, and she stiffened again. Probably due to the edge in my voice. “Stay away from him,” I ordered, because that’s what a homeless kid on the run needed. More adults ordering her around. Telling her what to do. Trying to run her life. Or, more to the point, taking advantage of her.

She rose slowly, and I realized I’d gone too far. I was going to lose her.

I held up both hands, showing my palms. “Wait—”

But she rabbited. Bolted down the alley, leaving her belongings and her breakfast behind.

Good job, Davidson.

I watched as she knocked over a trash can, rounded a corner, then headed toward Central before I gathered up her belongings and stashed them behind the Dumpster. She’d be back. And our encounter wasn’t a total loss. I’d caught her … scent, for lack of a better phrase. Her emotional fingerprint. Her frequency. I could feel her. If she didn’t come back, I could use that to find her. I was a bloodhound. Through and through.

6

I can never remember if I’m the good sister or the evil one.

—T-SHIRT

I stepped over to Misery. She now had her own carport, another upgrade thanks to Mr. Farrow. It was funny how much I’d enjoyed seeing her again when we got back. All red and shiny and ready to do my bidding. I’d had another object that fit that description perfectly back in college, but it vibrated. And fit in my pocket. And its name was most definitely not Misery. It was rather appropriately named Han Solo.