Page 45 of Death and Do-Overs

“What kind of curse?”

I pulled out my phone and showed Imogen the photo I’d taken in the bathroom of the train station, of the vine-like markings Rose had captured in the blacklight.

“Anchorbriar Chains,” Imogen said.

That was exactly what Andrew had said.

“I don’t think a binding curse has anything to do with freezing wounds,” Imogen said. “Maybe Andrew could tell you more.”

I shook my head. “Did you bring the disgruntled client list?”

She blinked her thick lashes at me and formed an oh with her full lips before popping a finger into the air. “I nearly forgot.”

I took another drag of coffee. This time it didn’t burn at all.

Imogen dug through her bag, pulled out a crumpled paper, and flattened it on top of one of the books. It was a printed sheet of names and contact information with red ink scribbled all over.

“Wendy compiled all the adoption applications that you had a hand in rejecting from the past year, because who murders someone for a grudge after a year?” Imogen barked an awkward laugh. “None of them live in New Jersey, so we narrowed them to the fishiest characters, the ones Jayden or Wendy had stories about. I also gave a copy of the list to Brock before I left, so hecould check into things, but it’s too soon to know anything that way.”

Of course it was too soon for her police officer boyfriend to complete background checks. This whole mess had only begun a day ago.

I had no idea how Imogen had managed to help Wendy with the flood, gather her books along with clothes for each of us, and talk through the entire list of adoption applicants in such a short time. She must not have slept last night. That made two of us. How much rest had I actually gotten before the reaper broke into my room? Two hours? Three?

“What are the red markings?” I asked.

Imogen continued, “Suspicion ratings.”

I looked more closely at the paper. There were numbers and face doodles scattered throughout the handwritten bits. It seemed Imogen’s rating system was numeric and emoji.

I found the angriest looking face, drawn with a thick V for eyebrows, steam coming from the sides of the circle head, and devil horns on top. The doodle was accompanied by the number one hundred one and a note that read:broke the steps with a sledge hammer.

I knew who the note referred to without needing to read the name—Anous Brown. It wasn’t easily forgotten, nor was the man the name belonged to.

Imogen leaned closer to see where I was looking. “The one hundred one is for one-hundred-one percent suspicious.”

The choice in listing percentages was definitely a Wendy touch.

A one-hundred-one-percent suspicion rating for Anous Brown was fair. Still, I said, “It’s not him.”

“His name isAnous.”

“I know.”

“He committed a violent attack on the shelter.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“While screamingget out here, Marnie, so I can kill you.”

“Quite damning, I agree.”

Imogen waved her hands in the air. “Then why are you so sure Anous isn’t the killer?”

Interesting how she’d whispered the wordunderpantsbut had no qualms about practically yelling the wordkiller.

A sensation pinged at the tips of my ears, one of being watched. I looked around, but saw no one. I shook it off.

“After mandatory anger management, Anous came by the shelter and apologized,” I explained.

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