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My jaw dropped. “You don’t believe me.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Butler, but in my line of work, there are rarely coincidences when it comes to crime. It seems kind of odd that in less than twenty-four hours you’ve been present for two massacres. Some would even say suspicious.”
“That’s insane. I had nothing to do with the bus murders or Mrs. Fitzgerald.” I held up my hands. “And look. No blood. Check under my fingernails.”
“Thanks for offering. I’ll send a tech down to gather samples.”
“I’m innocent,” I repeated.
“Then you have nothing to worry about.”
“This is bullshit,” I groused.
“This is a criminal investigation, and I would be remiss if I didn’t explore all the possibilities. And that includes you. An officer will be down shortly to collect a proper statement and samples. Evening, Ms. Butler.”
More like early fucking morning. By the time I let some chick in blue swab, scrape, and pluck some hairs, I was gritty-eyed but too wired to sleep. Some might have wondered why I agreed to give them any DNA. Easy. I was innocent and had nothing to hide.
Once I had my apartment to myself, I stood with my hands on my hips, glaring at my bed. A bed once more showing a bloody stain that wasn’t really there. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered. I wasn’t drunk, nor had I taken any drugs that would make me hallucinate. So explain what I saw. When I swiped the wet spot, my finger came away clean, and the fabric didn’t feel damp.
Weird as fuck.
I tore my sheet from the mattress and dragged it to my kitchen with its bright pot lights. The sheet showed no sign of blood, but I scrubbed it anyhow and threw it in with my dirty laundry that needed to go to the basement where they kept the machines. My mattress displayed a huge bloody spot that refused to fade no matter how hard I went at it with soap and stain removers, so I flipped it. The stain reappeared on the other side, making me growl.
“Fuck off.” I spread a clean sheet over top and guess what? It turned blotchy red too.
At that point, I gave up and slept the last two hours until dawn on my couch.
Or tried to.
My mind whirred with everything that had happened. And not just to poor Mrs. Fitzgerald. I thought of Cain and his crazy-ass story about demons and shit.
Cain, a killer. With a knife in his pocket. Who’d left my place and gone… where?
I stared at the detective’s card, which I’d dug out of the recycling box. Should I call and tell him about the demon reaper who’d visited me? Because, hello, I wasn’t the only person at both scenes of the crime. Why should I be the only suspect?
I would have called if my phone weren’t a dead hunk of junk —I’d tried charging it, cursing it, pleading, but it remained inert. Bloody hell. Giving the detective another suspect would have to wait until I got to the shop. Only by the time I’d made it to work, I’d changed my mind. Blame the commute, where I saw not one but three demons.
And the scariest part? They looked right at me and grinned.
6
I raced out of the subway as if I had smirking demons hot on my ass. They weren’t, as it turned out, and said ass complained in spasms about the exertion I forced upon it. Exercise didn’t used to be a part of my vocabulary, but perhaps that should change if I was going to be racing away from danger on a daily basis.
At the top of the subway stairs, huffing and puffing, my heart pounding and protesting, I glanced down to see no ugly bastards followed. Good news. Bad news? No more subway for me. I’d only taken it because I’d missed my bus and didn’t want to wait. However, if the demons had infiltrated the tunnels, then fuck it, I’d be bussing from now on and walking a lot more.
I trudged the few blocks to my work. The street was open again for business, the bus massacre mess cleaned, and yet that didn’t stop the looky-loos from showing up. They clustered on the sidewalk and pointed to the clean spot on the pavement, posing with it, chittering excitedly for their videos. None of them showed any fear, or respect for that matter. People had died, but their only concern appeared to be about increasing their social credit.
Gross. And why I’d ditched the whole online culture years ago. I’d gone from being obsessed with videos and rage-bait articles to losing myself in a book. Much more calming. Turned out all the screams of “ the world is ending” and “the—insert political party—are going to take away all your rights and murder you!” were just hyperbole. I had to wonder how much the pharmaceutical companies would lose if people ditched the internet and reduced their anxiety without the aid of drugs.
My boss eyed me as I walked in. He made a face. “Ew, why are you so sweaty?”
“Didn’t want to be late,” I mumbled, heading for the back room.
“Since when?” he countered.
I didn’t deign to reply. Admitting I’d run from demons was not exactly the kind of thing to keep a girl employed. Enzo might like me, but he ran a business, and an employee he deemed flaky might just get fired.
Given his comment about my glistening skin, I hit the tiny bathroom and splashed water on my flushed face. In the mirror, I noted my bloodshot eyes and the dark moons cradling them. I looked like shit. Felt it too. Probably should have called in sick, but the thought of staying home with my mattress and its ghost blood proved untenable.
