Page 19 of Sinful Sorrow

“But you’re in big school now!” He strides across the kitchen, ignoring his perverted brother, and plops the girl on the counter. He has to peel her arms from around his neck, folding limbs back and tickling her when she tries to grab on again. Then he turns his back to her and snatches a to-go coffee cup. “You must be eleven by now, Moo. Because you’re in high school.”

“I’m in kindergarten,” she giggles. And when she watches him drop a spoon full of cocoa into the cup, then milk, before putting the whole thing in the microwave, she remains seated. Sensible. Smart. Because the payoff is coming. “I’m still only four, Uncle Arch. You’re being silly.”

“I swear we went to your birthday not that long ago.” He waits for the microwave to do its thing. Meanwhile, redundant, Fletch closes the apartment door and meanders my way.

“Doctor Delicious. You’re looking fresh.”

“She just got out of the shower,” Cato announces. “It’s been a stimulating morning for the married folks.”

Archer pins his brother with an irritated glare while he tears open a bag of marshmallows. The pairing—anger, and fluffy gelatin pieces—contrast each other to the point of ridiculousness. But then the microwave dings and Mia’s excitement turns into a vibration that almost has her sliding off the counter.

“It was my birthday,” she says, completely oblivious to the Malone tension. “In April!”

“Yeah. That’s what I said.” Archer grabs the warm cocoa and drops the marshmallows inside. Then he places the lid on top and offers his gift. “You turned eleven. In April. Stop playing around, Moo. Everyone knows you’re a big girl now.”

“I am a big girl.” She accepts her coffee, like a grownup with her to-go cup. And preens behind the lip, blowing to cool it down, though every adult in the room knows the contents won’t burn her. Then she smirks. “I am in big school now. But I’m still in kindergarten. You’re being crazy.”

“Crazy.” He rolls his eyes. “She’s just out here calling me names, and no one has my back?”

“She gets to call it as she sees it,” Fletch counters. “I promised her breakfast, too. Cooked by the kid.” He meets Cato’s surprised eyes. “Since clearly, he’s got energy to spare and enthusiasm to be annoying.”

“Great idea!” Archer grabs Mia’s hips and sets her back on her feet. Then he selects a bag of pancake mix from the cabinet and thumps it to his brother’s chest, white powder puffing from the packaging. “Pancakes, Malone. And close your mouth unless we’re asking you a question.”

“The disrespect I have to endure in this home.” He moves to the stove and drops a pan on top to get started. “Don’t you people understand who the hell I am?”

The answer is: Felix Malone’s—the don’s—brother.

But in reality, he gets a chuckle from Archer and a sweet offer from Mia as she slides a little step-stool closer and climbs up to help. “You’re Cato Malone,” she answers, since no one else does. “Future NBA superstar.”

According to Cato himself.

“Yes I am, McStinkerson.” He peers over his shoulder. “Yes. I am.”

“So let’s talk Naomi Wallace.” Fletch taps my shoulder with his and wanders to the couch. Cato’s bed is already tidied up, blankets folded and pillows stowed away in favor of regular cushions and a TV remote. “Doctor Delicious? I was promised breakfast and a report from the chief medical examiner.”

I roll my eyes and start toward the coffee table; while in the kitchen, butter melts in a pan. “My part in all this is pretty simple. Two s-t,” I speak each letter to keep Moo in the dark. Which, ironically, is a short-term plan, considering she’s in school now, “a-b wounds. First entered her kidney, though the b-l-a-d-e hadn’t sunk all the way to the hilt. He was rushing. Not really into it.”

“Which makes sense, of course.” Archer moves across to stand behind me. “He was just a kid, playing dress up. He didn’t intend to hurt anyone.”

“Second wound was deeper. Like he was using the first to measure the distance between him and her. Second was more enthusiastic. Though I’d bet, when you watch the security video, both strikes would have happened in a single second. Not long enough for his brain to register the damage of the first. B-l-o-o-d wouldn’t have been gushing from the first, in the second it took to swing again. Eventually, she—them all, really—were covered in it. But that first moment was fast. Minimal mess. Second strike caught her heart. Severed the left lateral ventricle and ended her life. Had she been on an operating table there and then, they might’ve saved her. But she wasn’t, and the additional blood volume inside her body simply made the situation worse. Her veins were pumping faster. Harder. The additional volume could not compensate for the fact her heart was rendered useless.”

“How long from second strike till d-e-a-t-h?” Fletch wonders. “Approximately?”

“Two minutes before she was unconscious,” I guestimate. “If that. Three, before systems shut down. Fortunately, passing wouldn’t have been painful for her. She was unconscious before it was all over.”

“Small mercies,” Archer rumbles. “Anything else you can tell us?”

“I’m here!” Aubree bursts through the apartment door. Blonde hair, pink highlights, purple boots, and a puffer jacket big enough to make her look rounder than she is tall. “Am I late?” She looks at a staring Cato and Mia and grins when she notices their work. “Not too late for food! Yes!”

“She was s-e-x-ually active,” I continue, as though my colleague’s intrusion never happened. “Approximately twelve hours prior to d-e-a-t-h.”

At that, Fletch’s brow pops high on his forehead. “She was?”

“I mean, she wasn’t a kid anymore.” I shrug and pay little attention to Aubs when she crosses the apartment and joins the grownups, plopping her butt on the couch beside Fletch’s and smirking when he offers a fist to bump. “She was eighteen,” I continue. “In a long term, committed relationship. She was pregnant, which implies they have a history of intimacy. It was consensual,” I add. “No signs of distress. His spermatozoa were present during our autopsy.”

“Which makes sense,” Aubs says. “Not like they need condoms at this point.”

“Right.” I cast a quick look past my friends to make sure Mia’s not listening. Since condom probably isn’t a word we want her to know yet. Then I bring my focus back to Fletch. “Fetus was measuring approximately six inches long and weighed a hundred and fifty grams. Just a third of a pound,” I sigh. “Tiny. She was female and would have likely been tall like her father: the length of her femur was slightly above average compared to others with the same gestation. She would have passed a minute or two after her mother.”

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