Page 34 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
The question is simple, but it feels heavy. My stomach drops. Every time I feel closer to solving Poppy’s death, something pushes me back into the dark.
I inhale slowly, trying to collect myself. What I want is to scream, but Caldwell can’t know how much the small question rattles me.
“Who else could it be?” I pause to take a sip of wine.
“Anyone else, and anything else.”
“There’s no cause of death for some of these cases. It must be someone who can kill in an… obscure way. It can’t be the merpeople drowning or the werewolves tearing them to shreds.”
“Astute observations,” hesays. “But what of the witches? The demons? They have their ways. Undetectable poisons, and soul-sucking…”
I shudder at the thought of a demon sucking out Poppy’s soul. He’s given me something to think about, but I refuse to seem interested.
“I’m afraid I don’t know enough about all that,” I say. “But, as you said, this is not a romantic topic.”
He wants to continue the conversation—I can tell by the way he watches me with parted lips and an intense stare.
“It isn’t,” he says. In a fluid motion, he swallows the contents of his glass. “However, I would like to hear about your interests as well… and if that happens to be discussions of murder...” He lifts a brow.
The way he looks at me is infuriating. I want to scream in his face, to tell him I don’t like talking about murder; Ihave to! It’s a necessary evil. How he looks at me, nearly accusatory, makes my blood boil. I’m the only one trying to stop this, and I’m continuously accused by other people.
“Murder isn’t one of my hobbies,” I say smoothly. “And it’s bold of you to come on a date thinking it is.”
Oh, the irony.
“I am a bold man.” He holds a piece of cheese between his fingers and pops it into his mouth, his eyes sparkling.
I drain my wine glass, finally, and hold it out to him. “Then you’ll think I’m boring. My hobbies consist of sitting at home with a book… and my cat when I can.”
“Your cat?” His lips twitch as he pours. “The werecat is a cat person?”
Do I have a little black cat at home that inspired my supposed cat form? Yes. It’s embarrassing to admit, but at least he seems to buy my werecat story.
I roll my eyes. “Is that more or less cliche than a witch with a cat?”
“Oh, more.” He chuckles. “Far more.”
“Excellent.” I take the glass from him. “Not only am I an anomaly in the area, but I’m also a cliché.”
“Neither of those is a bad thing.”
“It’s not the most complimentary thing you’ve said to me.” I pick a strawberry from the charcuterie board, lifting it to my lips. I bite, and it bursts into my mouth, perfectly ripe and sweet.
His eyes are on me, likely because the red of the strawberry reminds him of blood. I can think of no other reason for him to stare at me like I’m something to eat—his eyes dark, lips parted softly.
“If you’d like more compliments,” he says, “all you have to do is ask.”
“Oh, that will”—I pause to lick my lips, hoping to rid them of berry juice—“not be necessary.”
“Then I will keep my thoughts to myself, for now. We will see how our second date goes.”
“Second date?” I laugh, momentarily forgetting I’m supposed to seeminterested. “We couldn’t get through our first without bickering—and talking about murder! What makes you think we’ll have a second?”
“Optimism.” He smiles subtly. “At the very least, have I earned your number now?”
I hesitate—but if this were a real date, hewouldhave earned my number. Realistically, I would have given it to him before.
I extend my hand. “Give me your phone.”
