“The hell you are.”
“I am! I’ve already put in a call to Aubrey, and he’s certain that a spiritoscope was up for auction a few years ago. He’s going—”
“Why are you at the home of a murdered woman?” Calvin interrupted, slamming his palm against the wall near my head.
I flinched. “Stop yelling at me and I’ll tell you.”
“I haven’t even begun to yell,” Calvin warned, his voice practically dragging on pavement.
“You’re not being fair.”
“I’mnot being fair?” he asked, astonished. “Which of us is the fucking cop, Sebastian?”
And just likethat—I got mad.
It was like I was back in elementary school, back on the playground, back to defending myself against bullies who were bigger than me, stronger than me, telling me what I could and couldn’t do because I was different. I’d been carrying that emotional baggage all my life: the anxiety, the humiliation, the sense that I was too strange to really belong anywhere, and the first time Calvin told me he loved me—that had been the first time in thirty-three years I’d ever really believed those words. Calvin had been the first man to look at me—really look—at the quick wit, smart mouth, grumpy disposition, disheveled appearance, and think,Yeah, I can still love a guy like that. I want to love a guy like that.
Calvin made me feel like every day was a winning lotto ticket. He made me feel so smart and so handsome and so… good. I liked that. Ilikedliking who I was. And despite some of the turmoil we’d been through together—not only the murder mysteries, but the highs and lows of a couple trying to navigate a healthy coexistence—we’d always managed to come out on top. Better men than who we’d been before.
This wasn’t relationship growing pains. Feeling as if I were choking on negative, buried emotions, trying not to cry, and trying to defend myself against a bully—my husband—this was betrayal and nothing more.
So actually, I wasn’t mad. I was pissed.
“This morning’s edition ofThe Citycovered the Sandra Habel story. She was a self-described medium, murdered by who they’ve also dubbed the Ouija Killer,” I explained. “Considering how extremely specific both that homicide and the appearance of the spiritoscope is, I read the article and deduced the incidents were related. I found Midtown Mediums by searching through Sandra’s Yelp reviews—that’s public information, by the way, and I found Marie Yang’s address by checking the Whitepages—more public information.
“You might not want me involved with this case, and so are restricting my access to nothing but half a dozen photographs, and whether you’re expecting me to pull a miracle out of my ass or hoping I’ll get bored is irrelevant. Your boss hired me. That spiritoscope is the key factor in your case, and being a historian isn’t just about book smarts—you’re only getting half of the story if I tell youwhatit is andwhyit is. History is also about street smarts, and in order to find out who owned the spiritoscope, to narrow your list of suspects to a few people, or even one, sometimes that means making calls. Sometimes that means a trip to Inwood when the interviewed witness from the newspaper article isn’t answering her phone. But I sure asfuckdidn’t intentionally plan to find myself in the middle of a crime scene.”
Calvin’s eyes were dark, like a storm on the ocean. He was clenching his jaw—the muscles in his face and neck were taut with stress and upset. “Are you done?”
“No,” I said, horrified to hear the wet and choked tightness in my own voice. “You don’t have to like that Ferguson hired me, but you need to respect it’s my choice.”
“You are not safe,” he countered, punctuating each word like I were hard of hearing. “That reporter, Sinclair, has been tailing you for God only knows how long. For fuck’s sake, he watched us go to the precinct in the middle of the night—”
“Then smack him with a restraining order.”
“He disclosed information about you.”
“That same fucking information is on the Emporium’s website!” I shouted.
Calvin drilled his finger into my chest as he said, “Nearly fifty percent of arsonists return to the scene to watch their work unfold. That’s how so many get caught. The opposite concept can be said about an organized killer. They watch the news, read the papers, not only to enjoy the attention their crime has garnered, but to stay ahead of law enforcement. We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet—but with Yang’s death, it’s certainly not looking like a one-off. Do you get it now? If this… thismaniacis watching, they now know who you are. They know what you mean tome.”
“You don’t—”
“Do you think I was born yesterday?” Calvin snapped. “That I’m still walking the beat? I’ve been doing this for nearly a decade. If I say you’re not safe, I mean exactly that.”
I shoved his hand away a second time. “You’re doing it again. You’re trying to lock me up in a bunker. You can’t protect me from living, Calvin!”
“Sebastian—”
“Stop it! When you’re done being a bully and want to face the fact that I’m a professional, that I’m good at what I do, feel free to come find me and ask about the second spiritoscope left upstairs with Marie’s body. I’d be interested to know about the knife that was used to kill Sandra too—considering what was used on Marie appeared to be a sterling silver hone. Maybe both weapons are from the same maker and time period. Maybe even from the same flatware collection. Wouldn’t that be useful information to have at your fucking disposal?”
I shoved Calvin out of the way, stalked through the vestibule, and stormed out the front door. The sun had almost completely washed out the afternoon, leaving me with only an impression of the city, like an artist had abandoned an unfinished charcoal sketch. I was really crying at that point too, so I was forced to stop walking a dozen feet away, take my sunglasses off, and wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand.
“Mr. Snow?”
I shoved my sunglasses on and raised my head in time for Radcliff to come into focus as he hopped a storm drain and crossed the sidewalk. “Christ…,” I muttered under my breath. “What?”
He faltered a step but didn’t stop until he was standing in front of me. “A-are you crying?”
