Page 73 of Kept in the Dark
Dimitri closes the distance between us and presses a kiss to the top of my head. I freeze at the casual, open display of affection, and my heart lurches into my throat as my face fills with warmth. He did it so… easily. So intentionally. So… in front of Wesley, almost like staking a claim.
I have to clear my throat to pretend like I’m not filled with fizzy happiness as Dimitri disappears down the long hallway.
I know I’m free to explore the house—might as well start here. I step into what is obviously Wesley’s office and look around.
There are parts of the room that feel original to the space, like the bookcases and comfy couch and desks pushed against the walls, but then there are a dozen boxes of various sizes and shapes, blinking and whirring like some kind of alien technology. I know they’re all doing something because this room is warmer than anywhere else, and it smells like the ozone off-gassing of massive electricity consumption.
It’s enough hardware to give any computer nerd a boner. He’s got two curved monitors, and even his keyboard is wild—one of those RGB-lit ergonomic split boards where you have to know the exact location of every letter to be efficient. I’m more of an internet-and-spreadsheets kind of gal, but I still thought I understood all the variations of what a computer could look like. Apparently not.
True to his word, Wesley’s not even looking at me, hunched over and focused on his screen.
“So, you’re the tech guy, huh?” I ask.
He glances up and gives me a crooked smirk. “That’s what they tell me.” He shoves another salt and vinegar chip into his mouth and washes it down with his energy drink. I see a recycling bin full to the brim with empty cans by the window behind him.
Huh. A charming, environmentally conscientious murderer.
When my perusal of the room ends with me in a spot where I can see his screen, I can’t stop myself from taking an interested glance.
Then I do a double take.
“Is that the coroner’s report from Kyle’s death?” I ask, squinting at the small typeface and messy handwriting that’s as bad as any doctor’s scrawl I’ve ever had the misfortune of trying to translate. But I can make out the name at the top, and I recognize the face from the picture attached, even pasty in death as it is.
“Erm… yes.” Like I saw something I wasn’t supposed to, he reaches up and tilts the screen away with a careful expression. Maybe he’s concerned I’m going to be squeamish about seeing a dead body.
“It’s weird that…” I trail off as I realize what I was about to do. I don’t think professional assassins would thank me for getting involved in their business. “Never mind.”
He pauses, looking at me with brows lifted in surprise. “That’s right, you’re a nurse. You’ve seen coroner's reports before, I take it?”
I nod hesitantly.
“Is there something off about this one? Have another look,” Wesley encourages, tilting the screen back towards me.
“Well…” I glance at the door. I wish Dimitri were here, bolstering me. Not because I’m particularly unnerved by Wesley, but because I feel like I’m about to cross some kind of line, and I’m more used to interpreting Dimitri’s facial expressions. He’d stop me if I were.
Oh well. I sigh and point to the cause of death. “‘Stab wound to abdomen’?”
“That’s what I thought it said,” he nods his agreement. “Either that or…stud wood a achoo, but that didn’t seem right.”
I blow out an amused breath through my nose. “It’s just… strange. I suppose that whoever filled this out might be new, though usually the new ones have much better handwriting.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It’s not the stab wound that kills you—not exactly. It’s blood loss or sepsis or shock or damage to an organ, or something else. The stab wound is the cause of the condition that causes death. Most coroner’s reports I’ve seen are more specific about that.”
“Hmm. Do you see any other mistakes?”
I narrow my eyes, lean forward, and scan the document. “No.”
“Then, perhaps this was a slip-up, or intentionally vague in case anyone checked.”
I shrug, feeling in no way qualified enough to make that assessment—especially since I don’t know what the implications are.
The look he’s giving me is so strange that it makes me take a step back. “Huh,” he eventually huffs again, turning back to the computer with a faint, uncertain smile on his lips. “Good catch, Nicole. Cheers.”
And that’s my cue.
Well, that and a rumbling stomach. There’s an incredible smell coming from somewhere, and it’s making my mouth water.
