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“I mean—”
“So I’m guessing they’re trying to keep you busy, because otherwise you’ll just be a glorified chauffeur, right?”
Goddamn. Sometimes my badger friend was fucking annoying.
Because I was pretty sure Elliot was right.
This time I was the one who sighed. “Fuck.”
“You think I’m right.”
“I know you are. Fuck.”
I didn’t want to be everybody’s pity case. Pity job, pity fuck. Ugh.
“Have you tried finding your own cases?” Elliot asked me.
“What?”
“You’re relying on Beyond the Veil to bring you work, right?”
“Yeah? Cuz that’s where I work?”
“So go find something to do. Bring your own work in. That’s what the one lady does, right?”
“Beck?”
“Sure. I don’t have your coworkers’ names memorized.”
It was true. Beck brought in most of her own clients. For that matter, so did Ward and Doc.
Not that I had a client base like they did… But nobody started off in the business with a base. I remembered when Ward took his first RPD case—with me. He’d been green as fuck, and not just because he was inexperienced. He’d barfed at least four times at that scene.
But I’d called him in to it because he’d called me first—a medium who had asked to speak to someone in homicide so he could offer his services. And it had paid off. He also had regulars who had been using him for years—like the wacky knitters who came in and used our reception area once a month for a séance that involved a lot of giggling and cookies that got left in our kitchen for the next day.
I wasn’t really sure where to start, but Elliot had a point. If I didn’t want to settle for whatever walked in the door, I could find my own damn cases.
Just as soon as we figured out what the fuck was up with the dead dog and its seashell under the raspberries in Hampton. Because now that Taavi had pointed out the whelk thing, I wanted to get a closer look at the knife, the shell, and get the breed of dog IDed.
“Okay, you might have a point,” I said to Elliot.
“I usually do,” he replied.
“Asshole.”
“Takes one, Val.”
“Doesn’t solve my dating problem, though,” I replied.
“You did that to yourself,” was Elliot’s very unhelpful remark.
“That really makes me feel better, El.”
“Get your shit together, Val,” he said again. “Put your head on straight and get over whatever weird thing you have about your looks. Then call him back and be prepared to grovel.”
I sighed. “Okay.” I wasn’t looking forward to any of that. Maybe the only-remotely-possible bit that came after the groveling, but none of the rest of it. But I also knew that Elliot was probably right. It wasn’t on Taavi to deal with my shit. I needed to deal with my own shit.
“Val?”
