Page 10 of Promise of Destruction
I may not want to leave the house, but that doesn’t mean I want to be alone in it, either. I’d be content to sit down on the lawn, hugging my knees to my chest and looking up at the stars, trying to figure out which one is the lost love of my life.
But Jimmy won’t leave until he sees me enter safely into the house, so I climb the steps, walking past the stray cat that has made a home under my porch swing but runs away every time she sees me, and let myself into the house.
I flip on a light and turn to look out the window to wave him off, but Jimmy has already gone.
seven
Declan
SorenPalmer’shouseisquaint… the sort of place you’d expect to see a stay-at-home mom with a husband in banking who takes business trips to cheat on her with his assistant.
The house across the street from it has a ‘for sale’ sign in the lawn, so I back into the driveway and cut the lights, watching as the windows in her home slowly illuminate while she moves from room to room. There’s a small garage on the side of the house, and no car in the driveway.
Maybe I’m dead-on about the husband who takes business trips to cheat on her. Or maybe she’s single… a woman who lives alone in a big, old house.
It’s not the smartest decision I’ve ever heard of. Crime is on the rise in the city, and it’s been bleeding out into the suburbs of neighboring towns. Plenty of homes have been broken into this past year, a few of which ended in rape and murder. The news stations all report on the gruesome murders, dubbing the perpetrator as the Covington Butcher, but it seems no one has any inkling who the killer is.
No, living alone isn’t the brightest idea in a place like this, but itwouldbe convenient for me. I scroll through the screen on my dash that shows me a list of contacts, landing on Collins’ name. It rings for less than ten seconds before his voice fills my car.
“Mr. Evers?”
I ignore the fact that he called memister.
“I want a little more information about this Palmer person I had you look up earlier. I know it was purchased by a trust, but is there any name on the deed to the house?”
“Let me see.” I hear the scrape of a chair against the ground, quickly followed by clacking on a keyboard. He mutters something to himself, clicks a few things on the mouse, and then clears his throat. “Soren Palmer actually isn’t listed on the deed at all.”
“Oh?” I squint as a figure steps into the kitchen, and a moment later she goes to the sink and fills a glass with tap water. Instead of drinking it, though, she stands there for a moment, staring blankly out the window as I’m sure the water flows over the sides.
I don’t know if she sees my car parked in the driveway of an abandoned home, or if she’s staring into space. Even if shedidnotice the car, she wouldn’t be able to see me sitting in it. The windows are tinted too dark and there’s no light in the house I’m parked in front of to offer her any details about the make or model of my car.
“The name listed on the deed is familiar, though I’m not sure where I’ve heard it.”
“What is it?” I prompt, watching her lift the glass to her lips and take a long sip.
“Vincent D’Anerio?” He pauses, testing the name in the air. “Do you recognize it?”
“D’Anerio?” I suck a breath through my teeth. “Valyria D’Anerio was the sister of Tony Bucci.”
“You think there’s any relation to Vincent?”
“I’d bet money on it.” Especially since Tony came rushing to little Soren’s aid when I ran into her at the bar.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel while Collins does some more clicking around in the background.
“Oh.” Surprise colors his tone as he draws my attention back to him. “Valyria D’Anerio is dead.”
“Yep.” I offer him nothing else. As smart as he is, Collins is sometimes a certifiable idiot. I guess he missed that I spoke of her in the past tense.
“She had a son, though. There’s your Vincent.” He pauses before tapping out something else on his keyboard. “Shit. He’s dead, too.”
Thatis news to me.
Valyria wasn’t very old herself when she died, and her death wasn’t what I’d call ‘natural’. I hadn’t known she even had any children.
“How old was he?” I demand. “How did he die?”
“I’m pulling it up right… now.” He makes a small noise of appreciation. “Died at twenty-six. Manner of death… homicide.”
