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dinner at The Pirates’ House had been a quiet, uninteresting affair. Even a room full of spirits hadn’t been enough to rouse her from her thoughts.
But after that, Jason had wanted to walk to get ice cream and eat it in Warren Square. The ease of their relationship from work had disappeared. Finding something to talk about had been excruciating. Cassie had overcompensated by going into detail about what she’d been cataloging at the museum, even though she’d promised herself she’d leave work behind for the night.
They had to have more in common than just that, right?
But she couldn’t be sure. She barely remembered what he’d spoken about at the restaurant, and their conversation in the square was a blur of anxiety and confusion. By the end of the night, she’d tripped over her own feet, and he tried to catch her at the same time she flung out her arms to stay balanced. That’s when she’d accidentally sucker punched him in the face. He’d said he was fine, and she hadn’t given him a bruise, but she was so embarrassed that she asked him to take her home. She didn’t even look at him as she said goodbye and got out of his car. She bolted to her house and a large glass of wine.
Then she spent the last several weeks trying not to be in the same room with him. Magdalena thought she was being stupid—and she was right—but Cassie didn’t know what else to do. Although she’d rather crawl into a hole and die than see him again, she did still like Jason. A lot. He was kind and funny and smart and insightful. He had the self-assurance she was still trying to find in herself, but he also understood anxiety and fear and how much the world could suck sometimes.
She looked back at her phone but couldn’t find any words that would explain her feelings. Was it worth going on a second date to see if it could be worse than the first? She appreciated Jason’s optimism, but she didn’t share the sentiment. Maybe it was better to salvage the friendship than try to pursue anything romantic.
She could at least handle that, right?
Cassie tossed her phone onto the nightstand and crawled under her covers. That was a question better reserved for daylight hours. For now, she’d try to get at least a couple more hours of sleep. If she could achieve that, she might gain a modicum of energy for the day to come.
10
David sat in the situation room and stared at Cassie’s message for the third or fourth time that day. Like most conversations he had with her, he didn’t know what to make of it. The ghost she saw was obviously connected to the case, but until they found the ghost’s physical body, they had no usable evidence. A chill passed through his body that had nothing to do with the fact that someone had recently cranked up the AC by a few degrees.
And this other entity, the “angry oven”? David still didn’t understand what Cassie did or how it worked, but this wasn’t a good sign. If another spirit kept the victim from communicating, then the case was as big and complicated as he had feared.
David leaned back in his chair and looked around the room. It had transformed since the last time Cassie had been in there. Boxes and papers were still strewn about the table in an organized chaos. A board at the front of the room held pictures of the known victims, including Robert Shapiro, along with a map showing where the police had discovered them.
The table held personal effects, additional evidence, and paperwork, grouped according to each victim. The detectives had gathered copious amounts of evidence, yet still didn’t have enough to solve the case.
Technology had come a long way since the nineties, and it would be interesting to see if revisiting the case in the modern era would drum up anything new. Then again, technology went only so far when the bodies were decayed and the evidence damaged.
But every time David felt like the mystery was insurmountable, he remembered Cassie’s advice to start with Shapiro. Their new body was the reentry point. It was another inch of thread leading them in the right direction.
A sharp knock sounded on the other side of the door, and instead of waiting for an answer, a man pushed his way inside. He was big—at least a head taller than David—and older and rounder, too. He wore a handlebar mustache and a scowl.
Huck Crawford was part of the old guard. He was ten years David’s senior, but hadn’t moved up the ladder as quickly. The two of them were never friendly, but sometimes the job had to get done, with or without being friends. Crawford enjoyed the power he wielded more than the work required to get the power.
“Let’s make this quick, Klein. I’ve got about thirty-two things to get done today.”
“The faster the better.” David had learned over the years that keeping his cool and sticking to the point was the best way to deal with people like Crawford. “You heard about the case I’m working on? Murder victim by the name of Robert Shapiro?”
Crawford hovered in the doorway, like he couldn’t wait to leave. “’Bout the only thing people are talkin’ about around here.”
“And how it connects back to that case we worked on in the nineties?”
“The one with all the addicts who were strangled to death. Yeah, I remember. Got a point you’re gonna get to anytime soon?”
“What do you remember of the case?” David’s tone was still even, but he could feel his blood pressure rising. “Any details that jump out?”
Crawford pointed to the mess of papers on the table. “The records are gonna remember better than I can.”
“Humor me?”
Crawford blew out a breath and finally let the door swing shut behind him. The office chair squeaked as he sat down. “Was a long time ago.”
“These cases stick with you, especially your first ones.”
“Eh, it was your first big one. My second or third by that time.” Crawford sounded somewhat wistful. Haughty. “Still, those bodies washing up on the shore weren’t fun to deal with. Had everyone in a panic. Word got out real quick that it was a serial killer.”
“I remember hearing that word everywhere back then.”
“Wasn’t new terminology but wasn’t as common as it is now.”
