Page 150 of Price of Angels

“I know the one.”

“I’ve got nothing,” Fielding said with a defeated exhale. “It’s a murder, so it’ll stay open indefinitely, and it’s too fresh to get kicked into cold cases yet – but I’m about ready to pull the man power back. We’ve turned up nothing but dead ends, and it’s taking up my peoples’ time.” He made a regretful face. “The poor thing’s family’s a mess. I hate it, but…”

“If you’ve got nothing, you’ve got nothing,” Ghost finished, feeling cheeky in his bright, helpful tone. It felt good, being the one giving the other guy hell, after having been on the receiving end with Shaman. He amended his earlier sentiment: he was glad for this talk…so long as it didn’t lead anywhere.

Fielding nodded, and his eyes flipped up, dark and tortured, his mouth twisted at a wry angle. “I wanted to see, before I pulled my uniforms off, if you knew anything I ought to know. If you’d heard anything, in the underground grapevine.”

“You’re not saying we killed her.”

“No,” Fielding said immediately. “No, not that.” Nice to know they weren’t completely vilified. Fielding’s gaze sharpened. “Just if you knew who did.”

Ghost considered. Michael had told him it had been one of Holly’s three tormentors. The husband, he’d said. The one with the big ears, mistaking the other waitress for Holly, strangling her to death when he realized his mistake and panicked, thinking she’d report him to the police. “Well,” Ghost said slowly. “If I did know anything, I’d say it’d be safe to assume that your killer isn’t gonna be bothering any more waitresses.”

Fielding stiffened. “You know him, then.”

“Can’t say that I do.” Ghost walked away from him, ambling toward the clubhouse.

“Ghost,” Fielding said behind him. “Ken!”

He threw a wave over his shoulder. “Afternoon, sergeant. I think you know the way out.”

Twenty-Seven

Knoxville had never looked so beautiful as it slid past the windows of the Chevelle. The melting snow had left everything wet, and beneath the sharp strike of the sun, every smooth surface looked sugar-glazed, shiny like fresh doughnuts. Holly didn’t see every parked car and shadowed doorway as a hiding place for a demon. She wasn’t waiting for one of three specters to appear before her, smiling and rope-bearing.

All of that was gone, done, dead. They were dead.

She had tried, during the past week, to find some scrap of remorse or revolt at the knowledge of their murders, but she couldn’t. When she closed her eyes, and envisioned their blood in the snow, remembered Dewey’s last gasp of breath, she was flooded with peace.

She didn’t have to run anymore. She could live.

She could love.

She rolled her head against the seat and glanced over at Michael, silent and thoughtful behind the wheel. He had such dark circles beneath his eyes; he’d slept terribly at the hospital, and without the benefit of painkillers, the way she’d slipped out of consciousness each night.

“You need a nice long nap,” she said, reaching to brush her fingertips against the disheveled hair at the side of his head.

“Hmm,” was all he said.

They drove past the bar, and Holly winced. “I’m fired, by the way. I finally called Jeff back, and he was very nice, but he said he had to let me go. He and Matt sent a big basket of muffins to the hospital.”

“Is that who those were from?”

“Yeah. Also” – deeper wince; this was the worst part – “you’re sort of banned from Bell Bar.”

He glanced over at her, a quick sharp look. The first time he’d done so since they’d gotten in the car an hour ago. “I am?”

“You ran through the bar with a knife in your hand. Yeah, you’re banned.”

He frowned and faced the road again.

Holly nibbled at the inside of her cheek. “Is everything alright?”

“Fine.”

No, it wasn’t. Something was bothering him, which in turn was bothering her. Now was the time when they should have been happy. Now they were free.

She didn’t realize they were headed for her place until he was turning onto the street and the Victorian mansion loomed into view. “The loft,” she said, startled.

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