Page 30 of Only the Devil
It’s not until we’re in the apartment that she speaks.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and that meek, small-sounding voice of hers softens my indignant edges. “I tend to do that.”
She’s not looking at me, instead focusing on setting down her backpack like it requires all her concentration.
“Do what?” I ask, unfolding my arms because suddenly this feels less like a confrontation and more like something fragile.
“Be an ass when people are nice.” She finally looks up, and there’s something raw in those misty dark eyes. “It’s easier to assume the worst, you know? Less disappointing when people prove you right.”
The honesty in her voice hits me square in the chest. This isn’t about the paycheck or the job. This is about someone who’s been let down enough times that kindness feels like a setup.
I study her face—the way she’s chewing her bottom lip, the defensive set of her shoulders that doesn’t quite hide the vulnerability underneath. I recognize the pattern because I’ve done it myself. Only I’m usually pushing people away so it doesn’t hurt when I need to leave. My gut says she pushes people away because she doesn’t want them to hurt her if they leave.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, keeping my voice low, “I meant what I said. You’re not alone in this.”
Those doe eyes look up at me, and I catch the exact moment her expression shifts—from guarded to something softer, more open. The space between us feels charged, like the air before a thunderstorm. She takes a half-step closer, close enough that I can smell her shampoo, something clean and citrusy that makes me want to bury my nose in her hair.
Fuck me, this woman is really getting under my skin. I want to wrap her up in my arms and soothe whatever hurt is pulsing beneath that tough exterior, while simultaneously wanting to press her against the nearest wall and show her exactly how much she affects me by fucking her brains out. That’s not a complimentary combo.
The urge to pull her to me, to find out if those lips taste as good as I’m thinking intensifies, and the way she’s staring me down, arms at her side, shoulders back, breaths coming shallow, tells me she won’t be opposed.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket. Excellent. It’s the interruption we need.
I check the name and it’s Quinn.
I answer with a swipe, hitting the speaker.
“Hey Quinn. I’ve got Jonas here. You’re on speaker.”
I set the phone down on the kitchen counter.
“I got a hit on Jocelyn Faribault. Emergency services were called to a residence she owns in Virginia.”
“Someone found her body?” Daisy asks.
“DOA. Dead on arrival.”
“Anything else?” Daisy asks.
“Fire. No documented suspicion of foul play.”
“Have you seen anything stating when they believe she died?” I ask.
“No,” Quinn answers. “A neighbor called in a fire. One body found. They didn’t have to wait for dental records to identify her, so my guess is her body wasn’t badly burned, but it was burned badly enough they believe the cause of death is smoke inhalation. Those details will be included in the coroner’s report.”
“What are they saying started the fire?”
“Gas company was called out, so that leads me to believe they suspect a gas line issue. If they suspect arson, nothing’s been documented to that effect.”
“Interesting. I wonder if the plan was to blow the place. Make it look like a gas leak and ensure her body couldn’t be autopsied.” I’m basically shooting whatever shit comes to my mind.
“Maybe. But if a gas leak is used to cause a house fire, doesn’t the whole house explode? I’m asking,” Quinn says. “Arson isn’t something I’ve studied.”
“Tell you the truth, I don’t have a lot of experience with gas lines,” I admit. “Just a healthy respect for them.” I’d expect an explosion, but there are variables.
“Quinn, can you send me the address?” Daisy asks. “And the reports? Or actually, where is it? Is her place close by?”
“It’s about two hours from you,” Quinn answers. “If this is where Jocelyn lived, then she had a sizable daily commute.”
