Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
“Cohen,” I say, not a question.
“Among others.” He sets his mug down, leaning forward. “Listen, Vic. I’ve known you a long time. Always respected your work, your integrity. So I’m going to be straight with you—you need to back off this case.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you poking around places you shouldn’t be. Maybe poking certain people you shouldn’t be.” His eyes narrow. “I’m talking about Marco Russo’s sudden disappearance.”
My pulse would be spiking if I were still entirely human. Instead, I feel an unnatural calm settle over me, instincts I don’t yet understand taking control.
“Marco’s missing?” I keep my voice neutral, my face unreadable.
“Cut the act, Vic. I heard on the grapevine you were seen leaving his house the night he vanished. And then there’s the incident at the Hotel Culver City yesterday. Two of Cohen’s men dead, one with a bullet between the eyes, the other in the heart. Witnesses describe a man matching your description.”
“Witnesses can be mistaken,” I say carefully.
“Sure they can.” Coleman doesn’t blink. “Just like the acid that was thrown at Lena Reid’s face. I’m sure that wasn’t her either. They must have seen some other ruby-haired jazz singer.”
I don’t say a word. Coleman watches me, disappointment evident in the lines of his face. We’ve worked together for years, built a relationship on mutual respect. Now I’m sitting across from him, lying by omission, harboring secrets he can’t begin to comprehend.
“You’re in trouble, my friend,” he says finally. “Deep trouble. Mickey is looking for you, and he’s not the kind who forgives and forgets.”
“Mickey Mouse?”
His stare could cut glass. “Whatever you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in, it’s not worth your life.”
“I appreciate the concern,” I tell him, and I mean it. “But I can handle myself.”
He snorts. “Like you handled Marco Russo?”
“I didn’t come here to discuss any of Cohen’s men,” I say, changing tack. “I’m still investigating Elizabeth Short’s murder, regardless of who wants the case closed. The paid-for bureaucrats didn’t hire me. Virginia West did.”
“Then I’d say you’re more of a fool than I took you for. A stubborn fool.”
“You’re not wrong about that,” I say, standing up and putting on my hat. “I should go.”
Coleman rises too, extending his hand. I take it automatically, giving it a squeeze. Enough that Coleman winces and I have to drop it quickly.
“Be careful, Vic,” he says, and I hear the genuine concern beneath the warning. “Whatever’s going on with you…just be careful.”
Outside the station, the California sun feels harsher than it used to, each ray an assault on my skin that seems to be getting more sensitive with each day. I pull down the brim of my fedora, shielding my eyes. According to Abe, I’ll eventually adjust to daylight, learn to manage the annoyance the sun can bring, but for now, it’s just one more reminder of what I’ve become.
I light a cigarette, the familiar motion calming, relieved that it still tastes as good as before, if not better. My thoughts turn to Lena, waiting back at the colony in Malibu. I’d left at dawn while she was still sleeping, needing space to process everything that had happened.
She’d wanted me last night. I could smell her desire, hear the quickening of her pulse when our eyes met. But I’d refused her advances, retreated to the guest room Abe provided. Was I a coward? Maybe. But how could I lose myself in her body when I was still trying to find myself in this new, monstrous skin?
And yet I crave her. Not just physically, but completely. Her guidance, her understanding, the way she looks at me like I’m still worth something despite the blood on my hands.
I should return to her now, tell her what I’ve learned, plan our next move in this investigation that’s become more personal than either of us anticipated.
I’m halfway to my car when I sense it—eyes watching me. I turn slowly, scanning the crowded sidewalk, and that’s when I see her.
She stands apart from the bustling pedestrians, stillness in a sea of motion. Tall, slender, dark hair swept into an elegant chignon that emphasizes the aristocratic angles of her face. She wears a tailored skirt suit in deep burgundy, the color of dried blood, and as our eyes meet across the distance, I feel something tug at the edges of my mind—recognition, but not memory.
She approaches with confident grace, each step deliberate, predatory. As she draws closer, I catch her scent—expensive perfume and something antiseptic. She’s beautiful but there’s something about her that brings about faint revulsion.
“Mr. Callahan,” she says, her voice liquid velvet wrapped around a subtle European accent. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Do I know you?” I ask, though something in me already knows the answer.
“Not really.” Her smile is dazzling, perfect. Too perfect. “But I know you. I knew Elizabeth Short as well.”