He scrunched up his face, as if scanning his memory. “Probably nearly a decade now.”
“So you know these people well? Anyone you think capable of murder? Anyone who’d want Geoffrey dead?” I crossed my ankles.
Maverick glowered at me. “You never know what a person’s capable of….”
I looked away. Right…. Not to be menacing or anything.
I jumped when three quick raps sounded at the door. Maverick gripped the arms of his chair and moved to stand, but Peter waved him off and opened the door.
Two officers stood on either side of a thin young man. The lady officer spoke. “We found this guy working in the basement. Says his name is Quentin Richards and he’s the archivist here?” She shot the trembling guy an arch look.
The other officer sniffed. “Thought you’d want a word with him.”
Peter nodded. “Thank you.”
The two cops pushed Quentin forward, and Peter gestured for him to enter. The guy startled as Peter followed him into the security closet and the door swung shut behind him.
Quentin looked up over the top of his glasses, his thin shoulders hunched forward. “What—what’s going on?”
Maverick grunted. “PR kid’s been killed.”
“What?!” Quentin’s eyes rolled back, and Peter lurched forward to catch him before he collapsed to the floor.
CURSED
I fanned Quentin with a file folder, while Daisy, Maverick, and Peter formed a semicircle in front of him. The thin young man pressed a hand to his chest and shot me a grateful look. “Thanks. I think I’m alright now.”
I shot Peter a doubtful look but tossed the folder onto the desk. The guy had fainted when he’d heard the news about Geoffrey’s death. Had they been close?
Peter cocked his head. “Can you tell us a little about yourself and what you do here?”
He nodded. “I’m Quentin Richards.” He had an odd voice, as though he were speaking around marbles. “I work in the archives—the basement. I research objects and catalog them.” He sniffled. “I help Kalia, the curator, with setting up displays and creating descriptions for the little plaques.”
Peter raised a brow. “You work in the basement alone?”
He nodded.
I grimaced. “You don’t get… lonely down there?” I wanted to say creeped out.
He shook his head, his shaggy hair bouncing. “No! I rather enjoy the solitude.”
I pressed my lips tight together. Of course you do.
“Do you know of any reason someone might want to harm Geoffrey?”
Quentin paled and looked like he might faint again. I lurched forward, but he waved me off. His chest heaved. “No.” He shook his head vehemently. “No—but I know why he’s dead. It was the curse!”
Daisy, who sat between Peter and I, whined, her tail swishing along the floor. I’m getting a muddled reading.
I eyed the kid. He seemed pretty genuinely distraught to me.
“The curse?” Peter frowned. “You mean, one of the objects in the new collection? You believe he died because of a cursed object?”
Quentin’s nostrils flared and his face turned bright red. He gulped and nodded as tears tracked down his cheeks.
Maverick snapped his fingers. “I heard a rumor he looked into that mirror.” He clicked his tongue. “He shouldn’t have done that.”
“Mirror?”
Maverick leaned close to Peter. “Supposed to steal your soul if you gaze into it. They’ve kept that thing covered since it entered the museum—but rumor has it the PR kid looked into it.” He dragged a finger across his throat.
Quentin dropped his head into his hands and sobbed, hunched over. I shot Peter a concerned look.
“He’s really distraught.”
Peter heaved a sigh. “We’ll be asking you some more questions, Mr. Richards.” His throat bobbed. “Later, though. After you collect yourself.”
He turned to Maverick. “We’ll also need to speak to the director and this Mrs. Abernathy you mentioned.”
The guard nodded. “I imagine they’ll be in for their normal shifts around 5:00 p.m. tonight.”
I bit my lip as Quentin continued to sob. Peter had been right to suspect I’d have an interest in this case (beyond my typical morbid interest in murder cases). Once Quentin stopped sobbing, I’d like to ask him everything he knew about curses. Maybe, just maybe, there was a slim chance he held the key to breaking mine.
A faint crackling static noise filled the air, and Peter reached into his pocket, then popped a gumball-sized device into his ear. “Flint here.”
He listened, a little crease between his brows, and nodded a couple times. His eyes flitted to me. “Jolene, too?”
A little shock of dread shot through my chest. Me? Mentioned in official police business? This didn’t sound good.
Daisy lifted her nose and sniffed the air. She growled at me. You smell like stress.
There was no way to retort in the cramped space without Quentin or Maverick questioning my sanity.
Peter nodded. “Right. Sure thing, Inspector.” He plucked the device out of his ear and stuffed it in his pocket. “Looks like we’ve been called up to the station.” He shot me a small grin. “All of us, apparently.”
My stomach clenched. “Did they say why?”
He shook his head. “No, but Bon sounded—odd.”
That wasn’t good.
“He wants us up there ASAP.” He turned to Maverick. “We’ll be back to interview the other employees this evening.”
I followed Peter and Daisy out with a cold sweat forming under my arms. Why would Bon, who typically couldn’t even remember who I was, want me up at the station? Had they discovered the truth about me? Was I about to be outed as a shifter?
POLICE BUSINESS
Peter, Daisy, and I stepped inside the double doors of the police station and froze.
“Snakes.” I let out a low whistle as I took in the chaos that raged around us.
The cacophony of voices, footsteps, rustling papers, shouted orders, and slamming doors made me wince. Peter ducked his tall frame as a stack of papers magically whirled by, narrowly missing his head.
We exchanged wide-eyed looks, then hurried up to Edna, the office manager, who sat behind the tall front desk. Could all this be the result of finding out that they’d hired a shifter as
