Page 6 of Housesitter

Of course, with her, you could ask and still not get. She said that was an object lesson.

This time, his bartering didn’t get him far. The stipend was for a set period, even if the forensic team got here early, and a handful of parking tickets wiped for him. It would do.

It pissed off Warwick too, which was a bonus in itself.

Kel signed the forms that Doncaster produced and agreed to pick up the car by the end of the day.

It was a shame, he mused as he scrawled the date on the bottom line. Madden had a nice car.

A 1969 Firebird. Black cherry paintwork. The same one Madden’s grandfather used to drive. There was a picture somewhere back at the house with Kel’s grandmother on the hood of it, in her ‘80s best. It had been a nice car back then; now, it was a really nice one.

The only thing Kel’s family had to hand down was a stolen police car from the ‘90s that had been rusting in a barn ever since. Because what else were they going to do with it?

And whose fault was that, he wondered sourly. Other than their own.

He handed the forms back over and—he’d swear—idly asked, “What’s going to happen to the car?”

The question made Warwick give him a suspicious look. Doncaster didn’t notice as he licked his thumb to flick through the paperwork.

“That depends,” he said. “Usually it’s up to the next of kin, but we’re having no luck tracking them down. Might just end up with the bank. You forgot to initial here.”

He handed the sheet back, spot marked with his thumb. Kel took it with an absent ‘sorry’ and quickly corrected the oversight. He gave it back with an easy grin.

“Just need to set the tow truck up,” he said easily. “I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

Doncaster looked mildly confused by the assurance. He was the chief of police. His dad had been a judge. His mom spent the sort of money that meant one high tea with her friends—for a loose, committee-attendee definition of friends—could keep the town’s coffee shop afloat for another six months. People might let him down, but they showed up to do it.

“Good for you,” he said and turned to head back to his car.

Warwick was less trusting. She gave Kel a hard look.

“We can claw back the stipend,” she warned him. “And I’ll make sure they do if you try anything.”

Kel flipped the pen he’d taken from Doncaster in his fingers.

“Don’t know what you mean, Warwick,” he said blithely. “I’ll give my cousin your regards, though.”

She flushed, two hard, hot blots of colour on her cheeks, and gave him the finger before she turned to storm after Doncaster. Kel waited until they were gone and then chewed idly on the top of the pen.

Huh.

As useful information went, he thought that might blow even Jodie’s weekly gripe opera out of the water.

Chapter Three

Hell House Client Brief: We still have a milkman. Don't ask. Don't drink the milk.

Shepherd woke up from a sound sleep to a slow chill that crawled through his chest and the faint, unmistakable smell of rotting meat. He yawned wide enough to crack his jaw and scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he glanced over at the nightstand.

“Shit!” he blurted out in surprise. The old-fashioned clock radio looked back at him: nearly nine o’clock. “Fuck, I’m late.”

He threw the sheets back and scrambled out of bed. The morning air was cold on his skin as he pulled his clothes on. At least it didn’t take him long to pick them out. If nothing else, the cult had taught him the utility of uniformity. He owned three pairs of cargo shorts and a week’s worth of T-shirts, but anyone without his wardrobe actually in their hands would be hard-pressed to prove it.

As he combed his fingers through his hair, he glanced over at the bed. Shithead wasn’t in her usual position on the pillows. Shepherd paused for a second in surprise and then remembered the muffled thud that had accompanied the flap of bedclothes being thrown about.

He checked through the bed and then got down on his hands and knees to look under it. Shithead couldn’t look back at him—her eyelids were weighted to close automatically—but he could feel the seething malice.

“Look,” he said as he reached under to grab her by the head. “I’m sorry, but you know an oppressive, unfriendly presence that observes me while I’m helpless is very soothing. If you want to watch me sleep, you need to let me know so I can set an alarm. Otherwise my night terrors don’t wake me up, and now we’re both going to be off-schedule all day.”