Page 33 of Only the Devil
And maybe he wasn’t murdered. Maybe I’m drawing connections that don’t exist.
I rub my eyes, the laptop screen blurring. Jake’s still asleep upstairs, and I’m on a sofa connecting random dots. But as I think back to that apartment, to everything I photographed but didn’t really see... Was he murdered? Did they opt to not burn down an entire apartment complex, but instead count on no one caring about an old debt-ridden veteran? I never found the laptop. Mom swore she didn’t sell it and given she wouldn’t know who to sell it to and it was basically worthless, I believe her.
Did they kill him, take the laptop, leave the charger out of carelessness, and leave the notebooks in the stuck drawer because they never found them? Was Uncle Alvin a threat to these people that warranted murder? And does that matter? Because the only explanation is that Jocelyn Faribault was murdered.
A part of me says I’m in over my head, outside of my expertise, and I should pack it up and go. But the other part of me says that Uncle Alvin wouldn’t want that. He had the courage to fight in Vietnam. I can find the courage to stick it out and figure out what happened.
Chapter 12
Jake
Monday morning, the shower’s running when I wake—distinct and steady, earlier than necessary. I technically shared Daisy’s bed, but she insisted I take it while she sat on the sofa in the loft area, tapping away on her laptop. I fell asleep to the light sound of key taps.
While I’m downstairs in the kitchen getting the coffee going, I try not to think about how right it felt to have her curled against my side, when she finally did come to bed and let sleep take her, or how she’d smiled in her sleep when I’d brushed a strand of hair from her face.
Professional distance, Ryder. That’s what this situation calls for.
I check my phone, but there are no updates. I’m not sure what I expect.
From the local authorities’ perspective, there will need to be an inspection, as the going theory is that the gas company is responsible for an innocent person’s death. But the priority will be ensuring the safety of the surrounding neighborhood. If under closer inspection this morning they believe the gas lines were tampered with, that’s an arson investigation. Her cabin is in a small town, but arson with a death becomes a homicide investigation.
Something tells me, though, that whoever removed Jocelyn’s body from the office building likely planned on eliminating the risk of evidence with a massive gas line explosion and something went wrong.
Which makes me think, what evidence did they think a coroner would discover? Because Jocelyn’s body will likely undergo an autopsy, and they will not find smoke inhalation as the cause of death. There was no fire in the office building across the street, and she died in her office.
If someone killed her, what did they use that we couldn’t see? Poison? An injection of something? Are they afraid a toxin will show up during autopsy? Or are they afraid someone’s going to find a needle puncture?
These thoughts keep running through my head and none of us at KOAN have answers. Hudson’s sending Brie, one of my KOAN team mates, to scout the area and learn what the locals are saying.
Footsteps thump down the stairs with rapid fire. Daisy’s in a rush.
“Are you going in early?”
She bypasses me, dark hair still damp. “I want to get in early. Watch for anyone acting differently.”
I charge up the stairs, aiming for a quick change. “Give me a minute.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, I’m walking you across the street.”
“And what? It’s going to look like I hired security?”
“No!” I shout down at her, pulling on a button down with roll-up sleeves, my cargo shorts, and tucking a handgun into the back of my shorts. “Wait for me.”
Does she require an armed escort to cross the street? Probably not, but forty-eight hours ago I assumed a woman died of natural causes. I’m done with assumptions.
I hear the door unlock and, against my better judgement, I tug on leather flip flops. If I end up running barefoot, I’ll pay for rushing. I know better than to risk my feet.
I take the stairs and meet “Ms. I’m Okay” as she exits the elevator.
She rolls her eyes and steps past me.
As we exit the building, the Monday morning energy hits us like a wave. Car engines idle at the traffic light, their exhaust mixing with the aroma of fresh coffee and breakfast sandwiches from the bodega. The metal screen has been cranked up with a rattling screech, revealing buckets of bright flowers—their sweet perfume cutting through the urban smells of concrete and car exhaust. Pedestrians click past in leather-soled shoes, their conversations creating a steady murmur punctuated by the occasional sharp laugh or ringtone.
Daisy speeds along, not giving a damn if I’m near or far. Slung over one shoulder, her backpack shifts with each step, and my gaze drops to her tight little ass and the black dress that hugs every single curve. My guess is she picked the long dress as a business outfit, but the black military boots she paired it with are more don’t-fuck-with-me than I’m-a-financial-dweeb-just-like-you.
The sliding door to the building opens, and I call out, “Hey!”
