Page 51 of Speak of the Devil

“Good plan.” She opened the passenger-side door, then added, “And I’ll call you as soon as I have some info about the G.C.s.”

Caleb nodded, and she got out. For a moment, he remained where he was, watching as she headed into the building, coppery hair swishing with every movement, bright and shimmering against the teal blue jacket she wore.

Damn, she was gorgeous.

But she also wasn’t interested, which meant there wasn’t much point in sitting there and gawking at her.

He backed out of the parking space and pointed the Range Rover toward the house on Pueblo Street.

Because the garage hadn’t been updated yet and didn’t have a working opener, Caleb parked in the driveway. However, leaving his SUV there rather than on the street still seemed to send a subtle message that this place really was his.

Despite all the exposed two-by-fours and supplies stacked everywhere, the house felt a little more cheerful than it had the last time he was here. Sunlight streamed through the big windows, and a couple of birds — plain old finches and sparrows, from what he could tell — had settled on the back wall and were cheeping away.

And he could tell no more ghosts lingered here. The worry had floated around in the back of his mind that maybe he hadn’t located all the victims and maybe a spirit or two would emerge from the woodwork now that their murderer was gone, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

No, his was the only presence here.

As he was poking around the master bedroom, trying to decide whether he should leave the closet as-is or whether he should have the contractors steal a little space from the bathroom to expand it, he saw that Delia had been right. It was good to get familiar with the house and have a clearer idea of what he wanted to do with it.

During the process, though, he realized that he truly did want to make this place his — not as an income property, but as the place where he lived. The remodel would allow him to put his personal stamp on the house, something he hadn’t been able to do with his current home, which had been completely updated — and furnished — before he moved in. Sure, this property wouldn’t be ready for months and months, but whenever the reno was complete, he would live here, not in the house he’d thought would be a good place to set down roots.

Some people probably would have thought he was crazy for wanting to move into a murder house like this, but the ghosts were long gone. Whatever residue of sorrow and pain might have lingered after their deaths, it certainly wasn’t around anymore.

He went back into the living room and peeked outside. The Range Rover sat unmolested in the driveway, telling him that whoever was directing those imp demons, they didn’t seem to know he was here.

Unless….

Now that he thought about it, the answer seemed ridiculously simple. The attacks had occurred when he was either on-site at a casino — or at least its parking structure — or while he was en route to one. Nothing at all had happened when he was only driving to Delia’s office or the grocery store or the bank.

Which meant that whoever was in charge, they seemed a lot more interested in keeping him away from the casinos rather than making sure he was permanently removed from the equation.

Contrary to popular belief, demons weren’t that invested in killing people. They liked to torment them, relished their pain, but outright murder raised a lot of questions, even if there was no chance of actually finding the killer, not when demons didn’t leave any real evidence behind and could pop back to Hell and escape detection.

And killing him now that he’d woven himself a little more tightly into the fabric of the city by buying property and interacting with people like Delia — or even Paige Loomis — on a professional level made such a proposition even more problematic. Maybe if the other demons had figured out who he was and what he was doing much earlier in the process, when he was still moving from hotel room to hotel room while deciding which house to buy, they would have had an easier time making sure his gambling activities were stopped permanently.

Now, though….

Well, if they had a bug up their ass because he’d won too much money at their damn casinos, it would be easy enoughfor him to stop gambling. He already had a decent chunk of change in the bank, and maybe now was the time to think about investing some of it rather than relying on the gaming tables to provide him with his income. Delia must know a financial advisor she could recommend.

After arriving at that solution, Caleb almost wanted to laugh out loud. Could it really be so easy?

He sure as hell hoped so.

Chapter Sixteen

After meetingwith her two o’clock client — who didn’t seem to notice that Delia had had two glasses of wine with lunch — she dutifully got out her phone and texted the two general contractors she’d been thinking of for Caleb’s renovation project. Bruce Mills was already booked up, but Raul Martinez told her he’d just had a cancellation after the second mortgage his clients had been relying on to fund their remodel fell through.

“So I hope this one isn’t on shaky ground,” he said, and Delia had to smile.

“No, this client is paying cash for everything,” she replied. “No bank involvement at all. And the wiring and the plumbing are mostly done, so you won’t have to worry about that. There’s still the HVAC system and the roof and all the cosmetic stuff, but — ”

“You had me at ‘paying cash,’” Raul cut in, and she could practically see him grinning at the prospect. “When did you want to get started?”

“As soon as possible,” she said. “But you’ll need to talk to Caleb and confirm that with him. Let me give you his number.”

After that piece of business was handled, Delia set down her phone and opened her laptop. She didn’t have another client meeting until four, so she thought this would give her a chance to get caught up on what was happening in Las Vegas and the world — and possibly distract her from the way she’d decided to go all in with helping a part demon remodel his dream house.

Or his income property, or whatever. She still wasn’t entirely sure what he planned to do with the place.

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