Page 50 of The Diamond in the Rough

“Sylvia, would you mind joining us in person?” he asked the room. It might have sounded like he was speaking casually to the air, but I knew he’d pushed magic behind the words, summoning the Victorian ghost.

She appeared, taking form so that Maza could see her, as well. He swallowed, clearly nervous, but didn’t gasp or act otherwise alarmed.

“How might I be of assistance?”she asked.

Ward let out a long breath. “Detective Maza has asked us to speak to a hit-and-run victim,” Ward said, glancing between me and Sylvia. “His name is Odell Jones.”

We both looked back at him.

“Rayn, I was hoping you would get a picture of the scene for us.”

“Me?” I squeaked.

“Hart may have suggested to Detective Maza that hebring something belonging to the victim for you to touch.” He didn’t sound happy about it.

I didn’t ask why, although I wondered what the point of me touching it would be, since the victim could just tell Ward what had happened to him. And, sure, people could lie, living or dead, but Ward knew when the dead ones did and could force them to tell the truth. I had no idea what I could contribute in this particular case.

To judge from Ward’s and Sylvia’s frowns, neither did they.

“Not from the victim,” Maza said softly, and then it made sense.

He wanted to know something about the killer.

Ward’s frown had deepened with confusion.

“You have something from the killer?”Sylvia was the one who figured it out first, and Ward blew out a breath.

Maza nodded. “In theory,” he replied, setting a couple evidence baggies on the table. I could vaguely make out bits of plastic and metal, as well as a cigarette butt. “We know the vehicle particulates were from whatever struck our victim, but we’re hoping that we can ID the cigarette as belonging to the killer to be able to get trace DNA off it.”

“And you want me to confirm that, because if it was the killer’s, then I’ll get some sense of their motivation.”

“That’s the hope,” Maza replied.

I couldn’t see Ward’s mouth behind his mask, but I could imagine the way he pressed his lips together when he didn’t like something, but also knew that it was inevitable or necessary.

“What would you like first?” Ward asked Maza.

He let out a breath, looking between me and Ward. “Let’s go with this,” he said, pulling out the cigarette butt. “Probably less complicated than a victim interview.”

Neither one of us said anything—I simply reached out a hand, palm up.

“You’ll need to give it to him,” Ward said softly. “Or the baggie might trigger a memory by itself.”

“Oh, okay.” He opened the baggie, forming the plastic into a little spout before pouring the butt into the palm of my hand.

Adrenaline surged through him,pushing the gas pedal closer to the floor, almost as though it had a mind of its own. As though the leg and the foot attached to it pressing the pedal down didn’t belong to him. Like it belonged to a higher power.

He liked that idea.

That he was doing the work of a higher authority.

A God who wanted to rid the world of the corruption that was these fucking Nids. Inhuman monsters.

He’d listened to the word of God. Been a church-going, God-fearing Christian his whole life. Had faith. In God, in Jesus, in humanity. And he’d never gotten sick from this magical corruption. Not once. Even though as soon as he’d realized what it was, he’d stopped wearing a mask. Stopped hiding his face from the judgment of God.

God had chosen him. Had been merciful to the righteous. Kept him safe.

He wasn’t going to turn into a monster. Not him.