“And the cavalry was for a dead woman.”
“I know that now,” he nearly growled.
“How did you know Sandra Habel?” I asked.
“I didn’t.”
“That’s bullshit. You told me you went to yesterday’s press conference because her murder had sounded strange, like past murders Detective Winter has investigated. And I think you’d initially been angling for a story on Detective Radcliff too. Am I right?”
Sinclair didn’t answer, but he looked like a kid caught doodling their masterpiece on the walls of the family living room.
“But in order to know Radcliff was the first on the case, you had to have known Sandra—knew that she’d been killed.”
“No. It’s not like that at all. I already told the cops I didn’t know any of the victims!” Sinclair scrubbed his face with both hands before saying, “I have a friend who writes forThe City. He interviewed Marie Yang at the scene Tuesday morning.”
“He come up with the moniker, Ouija Killer?”
Sinclair shrugged one shoulder. “Murderers with nicknames sell, what can I say? Anyway, Radcliff was there, and my friend recognized him from a gay bar. He knew I’d been trying to write a piece on someone on the force all year, so he called me up and told me to get to Hell’s Kitchen ASAP—said there was a creepy, fucked-up murder and a gay detective on lead. I thought, now there’s a damn story, but I couldn’t pin Radcliff down to get a word in.”
“So you followed him until Wednesday night when we all got summoned to the precinct?”
“Right…. I’d been thinking, there must have been a break in the case. And then Detective Winter shows up a few minutes later. He’s easy to spot—he was lead on four totally outrageous cases a year or two back, and a poster child for diversity. I was already considering how incredible this story would be withbothof them being interviewed—then I recognized you.”
“How flattering,” I said dryly.
“You’rethe story, Mr. Snow. A cop solving the case is a cop doing their job. In the grand scheme of things, that’s not very interesting. But you? Your reputation, your return to crime-solving, another Victorian-themed mystery, and at the behest of your detective husband? Come on.”
“I should sell movie rights.”
“You should let me write this story,” Sinclair corrected.
“No.”
“People deserve to know about you.”
“I don’twantpeople to know about me. I was never about murder and mystery and mayhem. It … sort of happened without warning. I don’t regret my involvement, because it led me to meeting the love of my life, but sleuthing and crime-solving isn’t what makes meme. Who I am is an art historian. Who I am is a lover of curious gizmos and gadgets. I’m not a morning person, I have a caffeine addiction, I have body-image issues, and I don’t like people, despite owning a retail business. I’m best friends with my ex-boyfriend, the thought of outliving my father makes me cry, and I love my husband. Getting involved in past investigations was admittedly due to an itch I have trouble not scratching, but it’s because I have a huge ego and a lot of self-deprecating tendencies and it’s given me a complex over the years. But I’m just as boring and fucked-up as everybody else on this planet. Maybe if your intentions were nobler, I’d consider it, but I don’t believe they are. So leave me alone. Leave my husband alone. And I’d suggest you keep a low profile until this whole thing is over, because the cops don’t entirely believe that you’ve never had business with any of the victims.”
My hands were shaking, and my breath kept seeming to catch in my throat, but I smiled before turning and walking away, because that’d felt so fucking good and I wanted Sinclair toknow it.
“No way. Seb will freak out,” Max was saying as I unlocked the front door to the Emporium and let myself and Dillon inside.
After leaving Sinclair to choke on his own tongue, I’d dashed to the shop to get there before nine o’clock. Which I guess was kind of pointless, because Max had managed the store in my absence while I’d been dragged on vacations and a honeymoon in the recent past, and so he had been given his own security code and knew to prep for opening hours if he beat me there.
Currently, however, the morning routine didn’t appear to be underway. Max stood to my left on the showroom floor, where the bookshelves were, arguing with Beth Harrison, my business neighbor and the owner of Good Books. It was an affordable used bookstore nowhere near where Book Row had once existed, although she managed well enough and dabbled in selling rare editions from time to time for extra income. Although, those editions were usually bought from me, and at a gouged and discounted price, because I struggled saying no to an old lady who wore cat-themed clothing 365 days a year.
“I’m taking the book,” Beth threatened.
“It’s two thousand dollars!”
“That’s nothing compared to some of the stuff in here.”
“It’s Lewis Carroll, Beth. I assure you, Seb will blow a gasket.”
“You cannot haveThe Game of Logicfor free,” I said, shutting the door.
Beth startled and turned to face me. She had on a short-sleeve button-down with a repeating cat pattern, tucked into a wide belt and swing-style skirt featuring a cat decal instead of the traditional poodle. “Oh, Sebby. Good morning.”
“No,” I reiterated.
