Page 3 of Sinful Sorrow

“At work?” Predictably, she bristles. “No thanks.” She wears black pants and sensible shoes, which makes trudging across the soggy grass exponentially easier as we head toward the front door. “A haunted house? It’s not even Halloween yet.”

“Halloween goes on for the whole month for those who decorate and charge kids through the nose to be scared for an hour. It’s a cash cow that does well and supplements an entire middle-class family’s Christmas budget.”

“What would you know about budgets?” She pauses at the bottom of six steps and presents me with a look that says she isn’t pleased. “Mr. I-own-a-private-jet, a-house-in-the-hills, a-superyacht, and a-bank-balance-that-makes-more-interest-per-year-than-both-of-our-salaries-combined. Budgets don’t really apply to men like you.”

I choke out a soft laugh, muffling it with my hand because another officer waits at the top of the stairs. Then I widen my eyes at the woman who sometimes struggles to shut her fucking mouth about delicate topics. “We own those things, Minnnnka. Both of us. And you spoke your vows on two separate occasions. Seems to me you’re stuck and staying.”

“Only for as long as you’re alive.” She smirks and starts up the steps. “If you die, I get everything and you’re no longer an issue for me.”

I shoot a look toward the cop and chuckle. “She doesn’t mean that. She’s kidding. Don’t arrest her.”

“Am I kidding?” She glances over her shoulder. “Do you really believe that?”

“Not for a fucking second.” I hurry up the stairs and reach the front door a step before her. Then, pushing the heavy wood inward, I reveal what is supposed to be a truly spooky home, but it’s lit up with spotlights and crime scene techs. The fake spiderwebs, terrifying in the dark, are just… messy in the light. The fog machine, scary when turned on, is just a square box by my feet as we enter. The gargoyle statue, plastic and flawed in the light, and the cauldron of steaming soup, merely a trick made lame when the lights are on.

The magic exists only in our minds and in the dark. Because once the sun is out again, or in our case, spotlights set up, none of the fear exists.

“You couldn’t pay me enough to trash my house and live like this for a month.” Minka reaches into the pocket of her ratty, too-thin coat, and pulls out a pair of disposable booties. She bends and gifts me with a grin when I grab her elbow to help her balance, then she places the throwaway fabric over her shoes to shield the floor and preserve our evidence. “To fill my home with all this dusty crap, live amongst the fake spiders and cackling witch statues.” She shakes her head and sets her covered foot back on the floor. “The first thing that makes noise while I’m trying to sleep is going on the lawn for the garbage trucks the next day.”

“Some people enjoy this.” I straighten my spine and attempt to look past all the noise. The mess. The clutter. And when I hear a familiar voice, my ears prick. “I think our crime scene is a little further in.”

“If you try to scare me, I’m gonna hurt you next time you turn your back.” She catches my eyes to make sure I’m listening. “Respectfully, Detective. Don’t even try it.”

Smirking, I follow her into the house and take care not to touch the props. “I wouldn’t dare, babe. Living matters to me. And your threats are rarely empty.”

“The bedrock to a strong, long-lasting marriage.” She pokes her head around corners and nibbles on her bottom lip as we explore. It’s not so hard to find our way, really, considering the homeowners have created a path that intentionally leads kids in a certain direction. “Doctor Emeri? Speak.”

“Polo.” Doctor Aubree Emeri’s voice weaves throughout the home. “You’re supposed to say Marco. Not speak.”

“Why?”

She hesitates for a minute. “Why what?”

“Why say Marco? Who is Marco? And why would I call his name? I’m a married woman.”

“Are you serious?” The telltale click-click-click of photographs being taken echoes throughout the home. “Marco isn’t a person. It’s a game.”

“Well,” Fletch inserts helpfully. I don’t see him yet, but I’d know his voice anywhere, anytime. “Marco Polo was a real person. A merchant, actually, who lived like, seven-hundred-ish years ago.”

“So you want me to call a dead man’s name?” Minka drawls. “Why the hell would I say another man’s name, especially when he’s already dead?”

“No, you just…” Aubree pops out from around a corner and rolls her eyes. “It’s a game, Mayet. You call Marco, I respond with Polo. It’s a thing kids do to… Ya know what?” She turns on her heels and strides back to her body. “Whatever. Forget it. I forgot you don’t understand references unless they revolve around dead bodies, murder methods, and Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood.”

Sly, Minka peeks over her shoulder and winks, dragging me into her game of, ‘Let’s screw with Aubs’, then she turns back and digs a hand back into her pocket to take out a recorder. Switching it on, she sets the device on the top edge of a mirror, safely tucked away, but close enough to document a scene. “Chief Medical Examiner, Minka Mayet. Accompanied by Doctor Aubree Emeri, Detective Charlie Fletcher?—”

“Present,” Fletch announces playfully.

“And Detective Archer Malone. It’s Friday, October thirteenth.”

“Which is the spookiest day of them all.” Aubree fakes a shiver. But when her boss purses her lips at the second interruption to her formal recording, she turns her ass around and continues to photograph her scene.

“First impressions: we have a woman. Late teens, early twenties. Approximately five feet, seven inches tall. My best guess is she weighs in around the hundred-and-twenty to hundred-and-thirty-pound range. Sandy brown hair, approximately shoulder length. She’s wearing makeup.” Minka moves closer to the body and crouches on strong legs. “It’s minimal, though. Natural. Lip gloss. Mascara. Perhaps a light cover of foundation, but not much more. I’m inclined to consider her in her teens. Not her twenties. College age.”

“Hit the nail on the head.” Fletch stands back, watching the doctors assess their scene before it’s our turn to do the same. “College freshman. She turned eighteen in May of this year. She attended this spooky house with her same-aged boyfriend, best friend, and best friend’s boyfriend. They’re all freshmen.”

“Only eighteen.” Minka releases a soft sigh and accepts the pair of gloves offered when Aubree lowers her camera. Sliding the latex on, she carefully presses her fingers to the vic’s throat and searches for a pulse. Though the blood smeared on the carpet, and the girl’s open, but dead eyes, are probably clue enough that she’s not breathing. “Have we formally estimated time of death?”

“Not yet,” Fletch answers. “We got here only a minute before you. But her death was not unattended, and calls went out to 9-1-1 within minutes of it happening.”

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