Page 7 of His to Haunt

Headlights hit the street before a dark blue BMW slides in beside my van. A suited guy with a nasty fucking scar down his cheek gets out. Contrasting with his classy suit, he has an edge about him that screams wanna-be gangster.

I laugh inside, a smirk edging my mouth. I know the bastard. He’s a Rossi. The Rossi’s and the Byron’s have long brushed elbows.

This side of the Bay Area is a small community in terms of the local population. In a crowd of tourists gathering at the nearby Rush Street bars and casino, the locals stand out like spots of loud color in an otherwise beige malaise.

“Well, what happened here?” Rocco sings, slipping his hand under his dress jacket as he slowly approaches the body with a sneer. The fucker’s ready to grab his gun from his jacket if that body so much as twitches, rigor mortis or not.

“Seems obvious,” I shrug at his fake inquiry.

His careful approach to the dead body, then the car, which could have had a trigger-happy thug inside it, though it doesn’t, humors me.

The sound of a distant siren cuts closer, and Rossi’s posture straightens alert, only briefly examining the body before returning to his car, but not without giving me a once-over. He steps close enough to remind himself of our height difference. He frowns, head tilted upward.

I’m a few above him at six foot two and a half. He is broad in the shoulders; I’ll give him that, even if he is shaped like a box of fruit loops.

The sneer on his face hasn’t changed. His gaze shoots at my black van, dipping to the license plate.

“You see where he came from, Byron?”

My smirk deepens. “Nope.”

He senses I don’t mean it, but it’s the correct answer, so he’s not too bent out of shape over it.

He nods, holding my gaze momentarily like he’s deciding if I’ve seen too much. This meeting at the crime scene is becoming a nasty habit of ours. This may look like a simple car crash, but I know otherwise. That’s what he’s worried about.

If he weren’t such an idiot, he might stop showing up to examine his handy work. Then, I could get my shots in peace.

“Car accidents are common at this corner,” I add, and he nods, seeming satisfied with my choice of words. My only aim is to get him to go away before I must force him to do so. I’d rather finish my job and go without incident.

“Of course,” he says, a tendril of threat wrapping his tone. I don’t contain my mocking snicker or the disdainful disregard in my eyes.

The guy thinks he is a forklift-certified tough guy, but really, he’s a porn-addicted gooner residing in the basement of his mom’s. The only money he makes is stolen. The only pussy he gets is paid for.

He spits on the ground before slinking back into his BMW, brakes screeching as he peels away.

Yes, go, pathetic weasel.

I get the last needed footage as the rising howl of impending emergency crews nears. Lastly, I snap some still photos. Megan, my contact at WLH News, will expect a graphic closeup, and I always get a final shot once the blood has had time to pool.

The first white van appears—Tim, a fellow freelance stringer, a fellow first responder.

But he’s too late. I’ll have this scene uploaded to the highest bidder before he’s finished pulling out his overpriced equipment, and then my work will make it onto the evening news. That’s not why I do it, though.

He cracks his window as he slows the van. Shakes his head at me.

“Fuck you doing here already, Zand?”

“Evening,” I nod before heading to the back of my van to finish the deed on my laptop. Within a few minutes, a few clicks, I’m done. Now, for Lev’s sample.

I place a blood test kit on the portable table and tap water onto the test strip, activating the serum and adding a tiny dot of Lev’s blood on the four outlined circles. Now, I’ll wait two minutes for one of eight possible blood types to be revealed. The rarest of blood will not be reflected in the results, but if Lev turns out to be RH-N, the result will be invalid.

My phone rings. Zoe. She sighs before she speaks, which puts me slightly on edge.

“What is it?”

“Stacy called. Wanted to know if I had the number for an old contact. Said Rachel’s sister, Leena, is moving in today. There has to be a way to stop this, Z.”

Leena Sperling.

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