Page 26 of Nocturne

Something passes across his face—not guilt exactly, but a kind of wariness. “What’s done is done. Let the cops chase their tails on this one.”

An interesting response.

“I need a nap,” I say, fishing my keys from my purse. “Then get ready for the show tonight.”

Marco steps back, suddenly all charm again, the mercurial shift I’ve come to expect. “I’ll be there. Front row.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Save a song for me.”

I watch him saunter down the hallway, whistling a tune, broad shoulders shifting under his expensive suit, before I unlock my door and step inside, exhaling only when the deadbolt slides into place.

The apartment feels colder than usual, though the radiator hisses and clanks in the corner. I shed my coat, hanging it in the closet before moving to the kitchen to make tea. My thoughts drift to Callahan as I wait for the water to boil.

Victor Callahan. Even his name feels reverent in my mind. There’s something about him that unsettles me—not just his slight immunity to my influence, but something deeper. A familiarity I can’t place, like I know him somehow.

Enough that I actually told him about the diary. I don’t know why I did that, honestly. It was like I thought I could trust him, though now I’m having second thoughts. Ishouldhave second thoughts.

Especially when I saw that heat his eyes, the way they blazed when I told him what he really wanted was a good fuck with me. I noticed the way his pupils dilated, how his jaw tightened—I could smell the arousal coming off him. That man wants me, that’s no surprise, but what got me was how much I found myself wanting him. For a moment I imagined myself slipping under the table and getting out his cock, wanting nothing more thanto see that carefully controlled exterior slip away as I took him deep.

The kettle whistles, pulling me from my reverie. Christ, I’m getting turned on just standing here.

As I pour water over the tea leaves, I force myself to stop thinking about Callahan’s dick and all the trouble it could get me in, and make a decision. Marco’s warning has only strengthened my resolve to find out what happened to Elizabeth. And if Callahan is the key to uncovering the truth, then Marco’s jealousy be damned.

I have connections of my own to leverage.

The addressfrom Elizabeth’s diary leads me to a nondescript building in the warehouse district. The afternoon sun casts long shadows between the industrial structures, the streets nearly deserted as workers finish their shifts. I park my car a block away and approach on foot, grateful for the sensible shoes I chose instead of my usual heels.

Betty had marked this location with a simple star. No notes, no explanation—just a star and the date, two weeks before her death. Is it the same warehouse she says she saw someone strapped to a table, the one with the symbols? Guess I’ll find out.

The building appears abandoned, windows boarded, loading dock padlocked. I circle around, looking for any sign of recent activity. At the back, I find what I’m seeking: a side door with a fresh lock, inconsistent with the building’s overall neglect.

I close my eyes, extending my senses beyond human capability. No heartbeats inside. No sounds of movement. If someone uses this place, they’re not here now.

But even with my abilities, the lock is substantial. I can’t pick it and though I might be able to break it down with my strength, that will only make it look like a break-in and raise people’s suspicion. I’ll need to return with better tools, or perhaps?—

“Looking for something, Ms. Reid?”

I whirl around, cursing my distraction. Victor Callahan stands a few yards away, hat tipped low against the afternoon sun, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He looks impossibly solid against the industrial landscape, like he was carved from the same materials as the warehouses themselves.

“Mr. Callahan.” I recover quickly, clearing my throat. “Yet another coincidence.”

“Is it?” His mouth quirks slightly. “You’re a fair distance from your usual haunts.”

“I could say the same for you.” I glance meaningfully at the warehouse. “Following me again, detective?”

“Professional curiosity.” He steps closer, and I catch that scent again—amber, tobacco, and that undefinable something that makes my senses heighten. That makes my blood run hot. Makes my legs want to squeeze together.

“Is that so?” I manage to say. “And so how are you here then?”

“This address was mentioned in Elizabeth Short’s circle. I’m guessing you knew that already.”

“Elizabeth had it written down in her diary. No explanation, just a date.”

“I see. A cab driver remembered dropping her off here,” he tells me. “She seemed nervous, he said.”

Callahan moves past me to examine the door, his shoulder brushing mine in the narrow passage. That same electric jolt passes between us, and he pauses, eyes meeting mine for a moment too long before turning his attention to the lock.

“Can’t get in?” he asks, voice casual as he tests the handle.

“No. I’m not much of a lock picker.”

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