The Curse of Tenth Grave

“There are three things wrong with your theory.”

She pulled away after all. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. Adults never do.”

“First,” I said, reaching out to bring her back to me, “remember the whole superpower thing? I know you’re not lying.”

I didn’t mention the fact that I could only sense when someone knew they were lying. If she believed she was cursed, right or wrong, she wouldn’t be lying.

“Second,” I said, letting go of her hand but staying close, “you’ve never met me. You have no idea what I am capable of.” Hell, I didn’t know myself, so I was fairly certain she didn’t. “I have a way of finding out how to solve the most impossible of problems. Even the ones that nobody believes they can do anything about.”

For the first time since she sat down, hope shone on her pretty face.

“And third,” I said, lifting her chin until her gaze met mine again, “whoever thinks they can put curses on kids and get away with it has never met me, either.”

She swallowed hard and asked, “You really think you can stop it?”

“I will do everything in my power to stop it, and I have a lot of power.”

She smiled and sat back in her chair, her future suddenly not as dire as she’d previously thought.

“I mean, I can’t fly or anything. Or stop a bullet. Though I did stop a knife once. With my leg. I still have the scars if you wanna see.”

That finally got another giggle out of her. Soft and hoarse, much too raspy. I really wanted her checked out by a doctor, but I wasn’t sure how to go about it without drawing unwanted attention. Surely, there were alerts out all over the state.

And no way could I leave her to fend for herself. Nor could I take her to the station. They’d send her back to the home before the ink dried on my arrest papers because then I’d have to kidnap her. Not an option.

Until I had time to look into her story, she was not going back to Harbor House, which sounded like the setting for a horror movie. Why was it all the evil places in horror movies had such promising, uplifting names?

But all this raised the question of where to put her. With the case we already had and everything going on with Cookie and Amber and the ex, I didn’t want to burden Cook any more than was absolutely necessary. A runaway could not be good for the stress levels, no matter how sweet.

Then it hit me, and a slow smile spread across my face. “Will you trust me?” I asked her.

“I already do. That’s dumb, huh? I don’t even know you.”

“Not dumb at all. I just want you to stay with a friend of mine. She’s a bit quirky and keeps odd hours.”

“I like quirky,” she said, putting on a brave face but jumping at the chance to get off the streets. I should have known. She was scared and alone.

“Perfect,” I said, already going over my to-do list where Heather was concerned. “But first, what do you say we split one of their infamous sweet rolls?”

Her face brightened, and she nodded enthusiastically. Girl had good taste.

* * *

I had a plethora of people to interview on the Emery Adams case, and I had the perfect solution to keeping Heather both off the streets and safe. Ish. Hoping my solution would agree, I found her, a.k.a. my tattoo artist friend Pari, sleeping—which would explain why she hadn’t answered my texts, or phone calls, or her door when I pounded for ten minutes. Luckily, I knew where she hid the key.

After leaving Heather downstairs in Pari’s office with computer, a soda, and a half-eaten bag of chocolate chip cookies I found on a desk, I made my way upstairs, hoping Pari had gone to bed batching it. There were just some things I didn’t need to see.

Her apartment sat above the tattoo parlor she had on Central. I opened the door slowly, really slowly, to get the full effect of how badly the hinges needed to be oiled. Just below the headboard sat a patch of thick brown hair, so either her unruly locks would need a thorough brushing when she got up, or she’d gotten a cat.

I tiptoed to her side and turned on a lamp. It was a bit early for her. She kept late hours, sometimes working until two or three in the morning. But I needed to get Heather taken care of quickly and quietly.

“What the fuck?” she screeched when she realized I was standing over her. Staring. Wondering how best to rouse her. “Turn off the fucking light!”

She buried her head deeper in the covers as I reached over and turned off the lamp, knowing it would do no good. Pari’d had a near-death when she was a kid. She’d seen apparitions ever since. Not really people like I could see, but mists and fogs where a departed might be.

But with me, she got the full effect.

“I swear to God, if you don’t turn out that—”

I think it hit her who I was. Probably because I’d started to giggle.

She threw the covers off and bolted straight up. “Chuck!” she yelled before covering her eyes and falling back. “Oh, my god. Find my sunglasses. The industrial-strength ones.”

Like I knew which of her sunglasses were industrial strength.

She snapped and pointed to her nightstand. “Purse. Side pocket. Hurry before my retinas disappear completely.”

With another laugh, I fished out her glasses and put them in her outstretched hand.

She slid them on and then bolted upright again. “Chuck! Where the hell you been?”

“What do you mean?”

Her hair was flat on one side and Texas big on the other. “You’ve been gone for, like, a year.”

“Really?” I said, perplexed.

Scrambling up for a hug, she grabbed hold of me and pulled me onto the bed with her.

“This is kind of sudden,” I said, giggling again, “but okay.”

“Holy hell, I missed your face.”

“You can’t actually see my face. You told me it’s just a bright white blur even with your shades on.”

“Then I missed your blur. How long have you been back?”

“A week.”

She settled beside me, snuggling closer against my side.

“And while I love the whole reunion thing,” I added, “like, I’m totally into it, for reals, but you sleep in the nude.”

“That I do,” she said, her “pretty if not a little road-worn” face morphing into a full-on smirk. “That I do.”

She wrestled her way off the bed and found a robe while I struggled to sit up.