Page 62 of Blood Moon

John had barely made it out the door without suffocating. He’d stormed from her house ready to murder Tom Barker for having said they should celebrate Billy’s suicide. If it hadn’t been for Mitch, literally wrestling with him to hold him back and shaking him until he’d calmed down, he might have acted on the impulse.

That was the night his life had begun to unravel.

It was also the night he had assumed the indifference immediately evident to Beth. That night, as Mitch had driven him away from Gracie Oliver’s house, he’d put his emotions in deep freeze and had donned a fuck-you attitude as impenetrable as a suit of armor. He wore it still to prevent him from ever again feeling too deeply, personally, hurtfully, destructively.

He now stirred himself out of the reverie and made himself focus on the business at hand by reading over the names Beth had added to their list of people to contact. “Who’s Victor Wallace?”

She had returned to the kitchen to continue preparing dinner. “Just before I left New York, I came across an online article he’d written. He teaches sociology at a community college in Orleans parish, but his syllabus includes extra credit lectures on the occult, fantasy, goth. Like that. I thought I might contact him to see if he had anything to say about the superstitions relating to blood moons.”

Another name she’d added had caught his eye. It was that of the deputy sheriff who’d discovered Billy hanging from the water pipe in his jail cell. “Isabel Sanchez,” he read aloud.

“Do you know her?”

“Yes. She was traumatized by what happened on her watch. Blamed herself for letting it happen. She got counseling, but couldn’t cope with the guilt over it and ultimately resigned from the SO.”

“She declined our request to give an interview for the show, but I thought I would add her, see what you thought.”

Without even having to ponder it, he said, “I think we should leave her alone.”

He checked his inbox for the dozenth time. None of the emails he was hoping for had come in. He got up and went into the kitchen, where Beth was adjusting the flame beneath the skillet on the ancient propane-fueled stove.

Her ponytail had slipped and hung lopsidedly against her nape. The incandescent bulb in the fixture overhead made her eyes shine like polished topaz in a jeweler’s case. Her lower lip caught that shine, too. The light also cast half-moon shadows of her breasts onto her midriff.

“Everything to your liking?”

He jerked his eyes up to hers. “Huh?”

She used the tip of the butcher knife to point out the ingredients she’d chopped and separated into mounds. “See anything you don’t like?”

Huskily, he replied, “No. I like it all.”

Chapter 17

Afew minutes later they were seated across from each other at the dining table. As John picked up his fork, she said, “It’s not your grandma’s gumbo.”

He took a bite of the omelet and nodded with appreciation. “It’s good.” He reached for the bottle of Tabasco in the center of the table and sprinkled his omelet liberally. “No offense.”

“None taken,” she said, laughing. “In Louisiana, isn’t it considered one of the five basic food groups?”

He took another few bites, told Mutt he knew better than to beg, and ordered him to go lie down. As Mutt slunk away, he said to Beth, “It really is tasty. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a cook.”

“I can cook an omelet and make a passable spaghetti Bolognese. Cooking for one isn’t very motivating.”

“You don’t have anyone to cook for?”

“Not currently.”

“Divorce?”

“I’ve never been married. Only one of what I would call a relationship.”

“How serious?”

“We lived together for a while. Ashortwhile.”

“What happened?”

She pushed a bite of omelet around her plate, picking up stray chunks of tomato and bell pepper. “Soon after he moved in, we discovered we had some irreconcilable differences.”

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