growl, deep and guttural, thundered from his chest, and I blinked to awareness — so weak, I could barely stand. Was someone in the room with us? Something?
I couldn’t see what lurked beyond Reyes’s wide shoulders, but I could feel tension solidify every muscle in his body. Whatever lingered near, it was very real and very dangerous.
Then he turned back to me, wrapped his free hand around my waist, and pulled me against him, his mahogany eyes glowing as they searched mine, begging for understanding. “If I wake up,” he said, his voice an agonized whisper, “they’ll find me.”
“What? Who?” I asked, alarm seizing my heart.
“If they find me,” he continued, his gaze lingering on my mouth, “they find you.”
Then he was gone.
About three seconds later, I hit the floor.
When fighting clowns, always go for the juggler.
Had I been asleep for the last twenty-seven years? Were there beings and entities I’d never seen? Beings so dangerous and savage that only something supernatural could fight them?
I sat in the conference room with Uncle Bob, unable to fully focus after last night. Garrett was there, too, as well as the DA, the lead detective on the Price task force, the lawyers, and a very fidgety Angel. We were finalizing the plans for the evening. It was tricky making plans when not everyone in the room was in the loop, but Uncle Bob sold it. I knew he would.
Garrett and Angel had been surprisingly quiet. Garrett, I could understand. He was against the whole thing. But Angel had a prime opportunity to flirt with a hot, departed lawyer in a miniskirt, and he didn’t take it. In fact, he hardly looked at her. I couldn’t imagine what ate at him. Was it Reyes? Did he know I had fantasies about him that bordered on criminal?
After the detective and the DA left, Uncle Bob turned to me. “Okay, what’s the real plan?”
Back to reality. A weak grin slid across my face. “I go in with my ridiculous video and fabricated evidence and get Price to confess everything.”
“You can do that?”
“I can do that.”
“Damn,” he said, impressed already, “you really are a whisperer.”
Garrett shifted in his seat but refused to say anything.
“What if we can’t find him?” Barber asked in reference to their search for Father Federico. “What if the task force doesn’t know about all of Price’s holdings? Maybe they’re keeping him somewhere else?”
“Or they’ve already killed him,” Sussman said.
“That’s always a possibility,” I said, “but Price is Catholic, through and through. I just think he’d have a hard time offing an ordained priest.”
“So, Barber and I are searching his holdings,” Elizabeth said, “while Sussman and Angel assist you?”
“That’s the plan.”
“What’s the plan?” Uncle Bob asked. I summarized our ideas, and he gave us a thumbs-up. Good thing, ’cause we really didn’t have a Plan B.
“Angel,” I said as everyone was taking off, “are you going to spill, or do I have to resort to the torture techniques I learned last year during Mardi Gras?”
He smiled and added a bounce to his step for my benefit. “I’m good, boss. I can do this with my eyes closed.”
“Only ’cause you can see through your lids.”
“True,” he said with a shrug.
I checked my phone. Cookie’d left me a message. “You just seem so sad,” I said, dialing voice mail. “Like someone stole your favorite nine millimeter.”
“I’m not sad.” He started down the hall, then turned back. “Least not when I look at you.”
Aw. That was sweet. He was totally up to something; I just couldn’t put my finger on what it might be.
“Guess what? Guess what?” Cookie chimed happily into the phone. “I got her name. I called that cell mate of Reyes’s, that Amador Sanchez, and threatened to have him picked up on a parole violation if he didn’t spill. I got her name and address. She’s—” The voice mail beeped; then another message started. “Sorry. Damn phones. She’s still in Albuquerque. Her name is Kim Millar, and she’s still here.”
My knees weakened beneath my weight. I grabbed a pen and paper off a uniform’s desk as I walked past, earning a hostile glare for my efforts, and wrote down the address.
“He didn’t have a number, but he said she works from home, so she should be there when you get this.”
I could have kissed that woman.
“I know. You could kiss me. Just find Reyes’s sister, and we’ll make out later.”
With a mad chuckle, I jumped into Misery and headed downtown. The anticipation growing inside me had my heart and stomach switching places. I glanced at my watch. Twenty-four hours. We had twenty-four hours to stop this.
The ride gave me time to contemplate what Reyes had said the night before. What did he mean when he said they would find him? Who would find him? Was he being hunted? I chose not to think about what Reyes had been growling at. Clearly there were things out there that even I couldn’t see. Which brought up an important conundrum: What was the point of my being a grim reaper if I couldn’t see everything out there? Shouldn’t I be kept in the know? Seriously, how could I be expected to do my job?
After pulling up to a gated apartment complex, I padded across the walk to the door of 1B and knocked. A woman about my age answered with a towel in her hands, as if she’d been drying dishes.
Stepping forward with my own hand outstretched, I said, “Hi, Ms. Millar, I’m Charlotte Davidson.”
She took it warily, her paper-thin fingers cold to the touch. With dark auburn hair and light green eyes, she looked nothing at all like Reyes. A tad Irish and then some.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“I’m a private investigator.” I fumbled for a card and handed it to her. “May I speak with you?”
After studying the card a long moment, she opened the door wider and gestured me inside. When I stepped into the sunlit room, I scanned the area for photos of Reyes. There were no pictures at all, of Reyes or otherwise.
“You’re a private investigator?” she asked, leading me to a seat. “What can I do for you?”
She sat across from me in the front room. The morning sun filtered in through gauze curtains and bathed it in warmth. Though her furnishings were sparse, they were clean and in perfect shape.
Wondering if she had a touch of OCD, I cleared my throat and contemplated how to begin. This was harder than I’d thought it would be. How did you tell someone her brother was about to die? I decided to save that part for later.
“I’m here about Reyes,” I began.
But before I could elaborate, she said, “Excuse me?”
I blinked. Had she not heard me? “I’m here about your brother,” I repeated.
Because I had mad skill at reading people, I could tell instantly she was lying when she said, “I’m sorry. I have no idea who you’re talking about. I don’t have a brother.”
Wow. Why would she lie? My mind started running scenario after scenario, trying to solve this newest mystery. But I didn’t have time to play games. Even one so intriguing. I decided to fight fire with fire and lie right back.
“Reyes told me you’d say that,” I said, a pleased smile on my face. “He gave me the password so you’d know it was okay to talk to me.”
Her brows slid together. “What password?” She leaned forward. “Did he tell you about me?”
That was too easy. I almost felt guilty. “No,” I said in regret, “he didn’t. But you just did.”
Anger flared in her Irish eyes, but it wasn’t directed at me. She was mad at herself. The concave angle to her shoulders, the disappointment thinning her lips and pinching her brows told me everything I needed to know. Reyes wasn’t the only one in the family who’d been abused.
“Please don’t be angry with yourself,” I said, still not feeling guilty so much as empathetic. “I do this stuff for
