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Despite the dire circumstances and the horrid story the blood splatter told, I smiled, and Thomas did the same. Perhaps we were both as devilish as the performers of the Moonlight Carnival. “I’ll play the part of the victim,” I said. “You’re a much-better murderer.”
“True.” He opened the door and stepped outside. “I haven’t been caught yet.”
“Heathen.” I rolled my eyes, but shut the door after him, waiting. A moment later he knocked and I pushed all distracting thoughts aside. It wasn’t hard to imagine how Miss Crenshaw felt as a soft knock came at her private chambers. Had the effects of the poison already begun? Did she stumble to the door, hoping to find help?
Heart racing as quick as a mouse, I cracked the door. Had she been expecting her visitor or was it a surprise caller? That would likely remain a mystery.
Thomas stood with his top hat tilted forward, casting his sharp features in shadow. Even though I knew it was him, a shudder crept along my spine. He lifted his head, but I couldn’t make out his eyes. This part of the promenade was exceptionally dark even with the moon near full capacity.
“Listen,” I whispered.
Waves lapped at the hull, the noise rhythmic and dulling. Steam churned and hissed from one of the nearby funnels. White noise. It might have assisted with covering up the muffled sounds of a struggle, should anyone have been awake in neighboring cabins.
“I imagine she must have known her attacker,” he said, running his hands along the doorframe. “There are no scratches or marks outside the door to prove it’s been pried open.”
“I agree. Or she might have been too sick to refuse any assistance.”
I opened the door wider, granting him entry. Once he’d stepped back inside, I remained close, studying the blood splatter. There were only a few inches between us and I could feel the heat of his body. I wondered if Miss Crenshaw had felt the same way before she’d been attacked. Did she stand as close to her murderer? Did she feel the warmth of him before he’d struck that fatal blow?
“There’s no sign of a struggle in here, either,” I continued, “so the attack must have happened shortly after she’d let the person in.”
Thomas nodded. “Her ring was still on her finger, so it wasn’t a theft. And if I recall correctly, though it was only a brief inspection, there weren’t any defensive wounds on her hands. Aside from the cuts she made while clenching them. Why might that be?”
I thought on it a moment, staring directly at Thomas’s chest as an idea unfurled in my mind. “Because, as you said, he struck her almost as quickly as she’d invited him in. If she was ill, her reflexes wouldn’t have been quick enough to react.”
For once I knew what Thomas experienced while he transported himself during our forensic cases. Instead of being prey, I became predator. My own darkness glittered like the eyes of a starving mutt at a feast, and I didn’t try to stop or control its every ravenous whim.
It was both glorious and terrifying, knowing how the mind of a murderer worked, what it desired, and how it felt to hold someone’s life in your hands. Sure and steady as my scalpel, I had the power to choose how to end it all with a swift flick of my blade. How to end him.
Power was as heady and intoxicating a feeling as the champagne Thomas and I had drunk together at the Christmas ball a fortnight ago. One teeny movement and I decided his fate. Thomas’s destiny was no longer written in the stars or by any god the heavens might possess; it was my judgment to make.
I was neither merciful nor kind.
I was justice and my blade was cold and swift.
I clutched that persona, forcing it to lend knowledge I could use to our benefit. I grabbed Thomas and swung him around, making him the victim and me the murderer now.
“I’m sorry, Cresswell,” I whispered, “but this is going to hurt.”
Before he could protest, I jabbed him twice in the chest in rapid succession. I didn’t feel as sorry as I’d pictured—more worrisome was the hollow joy spreading like darkness through my core. I was a gifted forensic student, but I was an even-more-talented murderess. All I needed to do was surrender to that undulating dark, get swept up and away in its vicious pull.
As I’d imagined, his hands automatically shot up to his wound. I held my pretend knife at the ready, watching him press his hands to his chest where I imagined a bruise was forming. In a matter of thirty seconds I’d incapacitated him. If Miss Crenshaw had been struck with a knife, she’d be easy to handle from there. I couldn’t recall any stab wounds, but then again, her postmortem was inconclusive because of how badly she’d been burned. Which might be another reason, aside from theatrics, that her corpse had been set ablaze.
Unblinking, I noted every detail as Thomas staggered back. He did not raise his hands to ward off my attack because he was too busy trying to stop the flow of blood. Miss Crenshaw’s lack of defensive wounds thus far were the same.
I lifted my fist and Thomas pivoted away, avoiding the next strike. If he were truly bleeding, it would have sprayed in an arc across the door. Exactly like the evidence left there.
“That’s it… I’ve figured it out!” I nearly jumped in place. Thomas rubbed his chest, eyes fastened to my improvised weapon. I stopped making a fist and tenderly reached over and held a hand to his heart, biting my lip at his grimace. “I truly am sorry for striking you. I got a bit carried away in the moment. Does it hurt?”
“Not much. You may feel free to put your hands on me anytime you please.” He winked, then winced. “Though I’d prefer the touch to be a bit more gentle in the future.”
“Noted.” I led him back toward the bed, where he flopped down. “While it doesn’t lessen the bruise, I do believe I figured out how the blood splatter was caused. The arc and slight smear are indicative of a chest wound. She would have spun slowly, maybe she even fell against the wall a moment after clutching her chest—from there I’m not sure what. But the blood pattern would arc as she turned, then smear if she stumbled against the wall, that much I know for certain. It’s exactly what you did. It’s not too much to assume Miss Crenshaw was struck with a knife.”
Thomas offered me the sort of appraising look that set my blood aflame. There was no greater feeling than being admired for my brain. “Which means there is no doubt that whoever committed this act meant to dispatch her. She’d been targeted, but why?”
“I wonder if it’s—look.” I picked up a playing card that had fallen between the nightstand and bed, holding it up. “Six of Diamonds.”
He took the card and flipped it over, carefully inspecting each inch of it. He handed it to me, frowning. “Perhaps the cards are literal calling cards.”
