Page 13 of Brother's Keeper

Glancing over at Ripley, I asked, “What are you gonna do next? Stay in hiding? Find a way to get out of town?”

He scuffed his tennis shoe against the dock. “I can’t leave. Not with Maggie. She doesn’t…” He paused. “Belong to me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He turned to face me, folding his arms across his chest. “You realize Maggie is a zombie and Vinton is a necromancer?”

I nodded.

“Did you never think about the connection there?” he asked.

After the ordeal with the cameo necklace smuggled into prison to convince Ripley to rejoin our ranks, I had given no further thought to the situation. Ripley and Maggie fit together like two parts of the same machine, working in tandem. They were always together and seemed happy that way. But hadn’t Ripley told me she was dead and better off for it? Of course, I’d lied and told him my brother was dead, too. We were both protecting the people we cared about, then and now.

I looked at the houseboat where light shone through the curtainless windows.

Ripley sighed. “Vinton made her. He saved her after I…” A flicker of pain pinched his eyes, and his nose scrunched. He shook his head. “That was a long time ago,” he concluded. “But she can’t leave him. Doesn’t want to. If I went away, I would have to leave her behind. I can’t do that.”

Speaking of the undead girl seemed to lure her into the open. The houseboat’s door swung wide, and Donovan rushed out, tailed by Maggie beaming a sharp-toothed smile.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Fitch!” my brother shouted from the deck. “I thought she was breaking in to eat my brain!”

“It’s not breaking in if the door’s unlocked!” I called back to him.

Ripley’s chuckle drew Donovan’s attention. He shifted from indignation to surprise as his gaze settled on us. “Oh sorry, Rip. I didn’t mean it.”

I took another drag from my cigarette, then pulled my car keys from my pocket and gave them a jingle.

“I’m gonna get dinner,” I told Ripley. “You want to ride along? We can talk more. Let those two hold down the fort.” I nodded toward Donovan and Maggie standing on the deck.

“I suppose I could stand for a bit more conversation,” Ripley mused. “It’s quiet these days with just Maggie and me.”

I nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

Ripley pushed away from the dock railing and followed my lead, abandoning the boat and the people on board.

Donovan’s voice chased us. “Fitch, where are you going?”

How many times was he going to ask me that?

“Out!” I replied.

“Wait!” he shouted back. “Don’t leave me with her! I mean…” He let out a frustrated groan while Ripley and I laughed. “Sorry, Rip!”

As it happened, Grimmmight have warned Isha about our upcoming visit because when Holland and I showed up at the Blooming Orchid the next day, ten minutes after noon, the madam opened the door to greet us.

“Investigators.” Isha’s kohl-lined eyes softened with her smile. “What a pleasant surprise.”

My concern about this call was not entirely selfless. My relationship with the whore madam had been tenuous after she gave Donovan his Hex mark without so much as a whisper of warning to me. Since then, we’d fought more than once, and she offered apologies I had refused. They were more excuses than anything, pinning blame on me for misunderstanding the difference between business and pleasure. I understood it perfectly well.

Needless to say, Isha Kapoor wasn’t the only one who could come out of a police interrogationcovered in dirt. She knew everything about me, including that I’d abducted one of her regulars two weeks ago and never brought him back.

“We’re following up on a possible missing person that may have been seen near your establishment.” Holland flashed her badge. “I understand he was a customer here.”

Isha remained in the entry, holding the door against her hip. Her long black hair hung past her shoulders and framed her persistently pleasant expression. “A tattoo enthusiast?” she asked. “I know several of those.” Her gaze swept over me. It wasn’t as contemptuous as it could have been, which gave me hope.

I’d kept mum about my familiarity with the Blooming Orchid. It was hardly the only tattoo parlor in town, so I could have gone elsewhere to get my work done, but I was surprised Holland hadn’t asked if I frequented this place. Perhaps she’d gotten used to seeing me in long sleeves and suit jackets that obscured a decade’s worth of ink.

Standing on the stoop, Holland crossed her arms. “Theotherkind of customer, Miss Kapoor.”

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