Through the thin walls he could hear the sound of the sink running in the downstairs bathroom, and knew that Joyce must be almost finished up after her shower.
Speaking of blind spots . . .
Izzie had been giving Patrick a hard time for days about being oblivious to the fact that the city medical examiner was obviously interested in him—and that he was clearly interested in her, too. Patrick had objected, and insisted all along that she was imagining things. Then the night before, in the small hours of the night, he had found himself huddling for warmth under a dusty quilt with Joyce, and it turned out that what was between them was more than just a mild infatuation.
Patrick hadn’t devoted much attention to maintaining a social life the last few years, much less romance. Ever since he transferred from Homicide to Vice he’d been keeping different hours, with more time spent on late night stake outs or undercover operations. What little free time he had left over was usually taken up with volunteering at his old middle school, where he taught the neighborhood kids the Te’Maroan traditions that he had learned from the older islanders when he was young. Seeing the kids play a game of konare or learning the movements involved in Te’Maroan stick fighting always made Patrick feel like he was passing on something special that had been entrusted to him. There were times when he wondered what it would be like to have a serious relationship and kids of his own, but things just never seemed to come together for him. He’d dated in the past, but in the end the work always got in the way.
But now? In the midst of all of this strangeness, to find that he might have a chance with a woman as smart, funny, and beautiful as Joyce Nguyen?
Of course, that was assuming that they both survived the mess that they found themselves in.
Patrick cracked open the last of the eggs and poured it into the hot skillet. It had been a while since he cooked for so many people, and in fact most of the meals that he made were single servings. But when he was little, his mother would cook enough for a small army over this same stove, as aunts and uncles, cousins and siblings from all over the neighborhood crammed into the house for Sunday dinners. His great-uncle Alf had spent the last few years of his life living upstairs, until he died suddenly of a heart attack on the street when Patrick was just twelve years old.
Patrick always felt a little guilty that after the old man had died he’d quickly come to dismiss everything Uncle Alf had taught him as silly superstitions. By the time he was in high school, Patrick had decided that the real world didn’t work that way,and that the old folks were just fooling themselves.
But now, after the last few days that he and Izzie had spent investigating the connection between Ink and the Fuller murders, Patrick had no choice but to accept that there was some truth to those old beliefs, after all.
At the moment, it appeared that Patrick and his friends were the only ones in a position to recognize the Preternatural forces that seemed to be engulfing Recondito.
“Something smells good.”
Patrick turned to see Joyce standing in the open doorway, leaning on her cane. She was wearing one of Patrick’s old t-shirts and a pair of sweat pants, having asked if she could run her own clothes through the washer and drier before putting them back on. Her hair, normally worn in a precisely sculpted asymmetrical undercut, was combed back straight from her forehead and tucked behind her ears.
“Hey, you,” Patrick said, as Joyce walked across the floor toward him, her cane tonking on the hardwood underfoot.
“Well, my boots are ruined.” She frowned, shaking her head ruefully. “I loved those damned things, too.”
Patrick grimaced in sympathy. When they had been forced to wade across the rising waters to reach Ivory Point the night before, Joyce’s boots with their elaborate buckles and straps had been a necessary sacrifice.
“It’s okay, though,” Joyce added with a sly grin. “It’s the perfect excuse to waste a bunch of money on a brand-new pair that I’ll love even more.”
“Breakfast is almost ready.” Patrick slid an omelet from the skillet onto a plate, and nodded toward the coffee pot. “There’s coffee if you want some.”
Joyce headed for the counter, pulling her phone out of the pocket of her sweatpants and checking her messages. “Got an update from security at the Hall of Justice, about the bodies missing from the morgue. They’re reporting it as a break in.”
“So they think that someone broke in and stole the bodies?” Patrick arched an eyebrow.
“That’s an easier explanation than what really happened, isn’t it?” Joyce picked up the mug on the counter and read the words printed on it before glancing sidelong at Patrick. “How many men can afford you, huh?”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Just pour the coffee and help me get these plates to the table, okay?”
CHAPTER THREE
They ate in silence, and for a long while the only sound in the room was the clatter of knives and forks on plates as they made short work of the meal that Patrick had prepared. Izzie sat on one side of the table with Daphne, while Joyce sat across from them, next to Patrick, making it feel like some kind of surreal double date, but since they’d started eating no one had really spoken. It was as if they all welcomed the chance to take a break, however small, from the overwhelming strangeness that they were facing. Or maybe, Izzie thought, none of them knew exactly what to say.
When they were all on their second cups of coffee, it was Daphne who finally broke the silence.
“Okay, look,” she said, dropping her fork so that it clattered onto her empty plate, “I’m just
