Page 17 of Looking Grimm

The projector television was on, a rare sight, and Nash reposed at a table in front of it. His hand curled around a drink that looked largely alcoholic and wholly untouched.

Stalled in the doorway, I debated snagging a bottle from behind the counter and sneaking back upstairs. I headed that way but stopped when Nash swiveled toward me and asked, “You wanna play darts?”

He looked worn through, and I couldn’t bear to see it.But I couldn’t leave him alone with it, either. I nodded.

He gave a little smile and rose, then walked over to the wall-mounted board and plucked out the darts stuck in it.

I opened my hand and mentally called a few toward me. They flew backward through the air and into my waiting palm. The fletching of one grazed the side of Nash’s face and caused him to give me a bemused look.

“You really are feeling more yourself,” he said. “Showoff.”

I smirked. “Plenty more where that came from.”

After watching me throw looping trick shots and land back-to-back bullseyes for three games straight, he was singing a different tune.

“It’s no fun when you cheat,” he grumbled.

Another dart lifted off from my fingers, spiraling lazily to sink in the triple 20 ring. “If I don’t cheat, I lose,” I replied. “That’s no fun, either.”

“Tell me about it.” Rather than take his turn, Nash looked down at the pair of darts he held. Shadows darkened his face.

I shifted closer to him, fighting the urge to squeeze into the space against his chest. We barely touched anymore and hadn’t had sex in weeks, but sometimes I woke in the night to him holding me. It was the only time I felt at peace these days.

But he deserved to be given comfort, not only to have it taken from him. I scuffed my shoe against the polished wood floor and muttered, “I’m sorry about Pippa.”

“I’d rather not talk about it.” He threw a dart that hit the single bull for twenty-five points, not that we were keeping score.

“I feel like I’m ruining your life.” The thought that had plagued me for days finally found voice. It was too honest, and I wanted to take it back, but Nash didn’t bat an eye.

“You’re not,” he replied.

The television had changed over to the midday news. The volume was low, and I didn’t bother trying to discern what the anchor said in his monotone drone. Something must have caught Nash’s interest, though, because his toffee brown eyes stretched wide as they fixed on the projector screen.

He looked so alarmed that I had to see for myself. I immediately wished I hadn’t.

The camera showed the stark, white edifice of the Capitol building. Zooming rapidly in, it focused on where a crumpled body lay on the front steps. Nash bolted past me to the table where he’d been sitting and scooped up the discarded remote, cranking up the volume.

INVESTIGATOR SLAIN, the crawler spelled out. My attention darted between the words and the image of the female investigator’s oddly contorted figure. Black lines smeared across her forehead.

As the camera continued to close in, the mark became clear. F. Farrow had been scrawled in permanent marker below her hairline. It even looked like my handwriting. Nash must have thought so, too, because he stabbed a finger at the screen and turned an accusatory glare on me.

“Is this why you’ve been acting different?” he demanded.

I staggered backward. “I didn’t do that.” But I couldn’t quit staring at it. Grimm got my message and responded, but not how I expected.

WhathadI expected?

Nash clutched the remote in a tight fist. “So, youaren’tkilling again?”

I ran my tongue across my lips. It would have been simple enough to lie, but instead, I repeated dumbly, “I didn’t do that.”

Nash closed in, maximizing his five-inch height advantage to loom over me. His bearded cheeks flushed. “Who’s it for this time? That Briggs guy?” He didn’t wait for my answer to carry on in a mutter, “I knew I shouldn’t have let him in here. What did he ask you to do?”

“He didn’t ask me to do anything!” I waved my hands dismissively. “I asked him…” My brain churned to generate an excuse that wouldn’t drag Nash into my mess or give him a reason to think less of me, though that may have been impossible at this point.

I settled at last to say, “It’s complicated.”

“It always is.”

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