Page 9 of Salem's Fall
Damien shifts next to me and holds my stare, as if challenging. “It’s not like I knew Vivienne was going to die that night.”
“But… but you were going to be married?” I ask, unable to control the judgmental tone in my voice. I can’t help it. I don’t like cheaters.
“James—” Quinn says my name with a warning.
“It’s okay. Nothing to worry about.” Mark grins reassuringly at Damien. “We see cheating all the time. Our job isn’t to make judgments,” he says, trying to soften things, the sneaky weasel.
“I wasnotcheating.” Damien flinches. It’s the first time I see him show any real emotion. “Infidelity is unbecoming.”
Quinn’s brow furrows. “But then what?—”
“Vivienne and I had already called it quits,” Damien says. “She was planning to move out that weekend.”
“And this woman at the party. What’s her name so we can question her?” Quinn asks.
Damien shrugs. “I can’t recall. It was a party. These things happen.”
My stomach turns at Damien’s lack of shame, his casual dismissal of whatever beautiful woman he’d spent the night with. How could he not remember hername? Is he that detached from reality? The more I learn about the cold man sitting beside me, the more I wonder what he’s really capable of. I start to get the feeling he actually could be guilty of murder.
Maybe even worse things…
Mark, though, seems to find Damien’s apathy inspirational. “Ah, the perks of being Damien Blackhollow, huh? Must be nice.” He chuckles and raises his coffee cup like it’s some kind of toast. It makes me want to punch him in his smug face.
Damien, to his credit, doesn’t dignify Mark’s comment with a response.
“The woman, whatever her name, won’t help your case,” Damien says, turning back to Quinn. “But I’m sure you’ll manage. You are the best in the business, after all, aren’t you?”
“We’ll find another way,” Quinn says, nodding along. “We can try requesting security footage from the party, if they still have it. It might capture those entering and leaving. If we can establish you were still there past midnight, it’ll strengthen our timeline. The tighter the better.”
“Good,” Damien replies. “Spare no expense, but keep my involvement to a minimum. I do have a business to run.”
“Of course. Wouldn’t want to take up too much of your valuable time,” Quinn replies smoothly, just a hint of irritation beneath his polished tone.
My gaze keeps going back to the murder scene photos on the table. Something about the symbols gnaws at me, an uneasy feeling that I can’t shake. “These markings,” I say, peering closer at the pictures. “They’re not random. They must meansomething, right? Do we know what?”
“James, let’s stick to the order in the outline,” Mark says with a frown, obnoxiously jabbing a finger at the document on his computer screen. “Quinn and I are leading this conversation for a reason.” He turns to Damien with a tight smile. “I apologize. She’s still quite green.”
Damien’s lips twitch. “Oh, is she?”
As much as I hate to admit it, I know Mark has a point. I’m out of line and there’s a hierarchy here, but I want to prove myself to everyone, especially Quinn. I want them all to see that I’ve got a reason to be at this table too, and my gut is screaming there’s something important about these symbols.
I swallow hard and decide, screw it. No guts, no glory, right?
“But it’s exactly like you said, Mark,” I say sweetly, ignoring Mark’s jaw as it drops to the floor with indignation. “The media are going to push the occult angle because it’s so sensational, and so, the prosecution will have to explore it too. We need to know if there’s any connection between Damien and these symbols.” I look right at Damien, steady and unflinching, searching his face for any reaction. “If there is, we should know about it now, before they find out.”
I half expect Damien to brush me off like he’s done with everyone else, but he meets my gaze with something that feels almost like respect.
“You’re asking if I’m a witch?” His voice is low, almost teasing.
“No, of course not. Witches aren’t real.” I blush a bit. “But I think you know what I’m getting at. Does the prosecution have anything that can tie you to these symbols?”
For a moment, the room feels impossibly still. Then, with a dark chuckle, Damien replies, “Very good. I can see why Quinn keeps you around.” He shakes his head. “No, nothing they’ll be able to directly connect me to anyway. That’s a dead end.”
Quinn doesn’t look convinced. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“What about the missing engagement ring?” he asks, voice deceptively casual. “You wouldn’t know the whereabouts of that, would you?”
My pulse kicks up a notch, and I lean in closer for Damien’s answer. When Vivienne Van Buren was first murdered, the media made a big deal about her missing ring—a seven-carat canary diamond, reportedly worth over a million dollars. The initial speculation was that her death was the result of a botched robbery, that the killer had taken the ring and fled. But with no other signs of forced entry and nothing else missing from the home, that theory had always been weak at best.
