Page 56 of Gilded Wicked Mirrors
Worse still, there were no longer any good suspects. Emrys was with her all morning. He couldn’t have killed him.
The victim, a roughly middle-aged man, seemed to have died from a broken neck. The victim’s head was tilted to such an inhuman degree it looked like it was barely attached to the body.
Someone—or something—incredibly strong killed this man.
At the morgue, Uncle Matias started the autopsy on Sir Andrew St. John, a wealthy aristocrat who had turned freelance reporter. The body’s internal temperature was ninety-seven degrees, which placed the time of death likely minutes before Jevon discovered the body.
Emrys was the only one observing the procedure because her friends were not allowed in the lab.
Wringing her hands and contemplating the best way forward, Quinn stared at the corpse on the exam table.
“So, child, what were you doing at the crime scene?” Uncle Matias asked.
Oh, scratched mirrors.
She placed a false smile on her face. “We were . . .” Quinn tried to come up with something clever to say that would get her out of trouble, but she was the worst liar. Lying was not practical, functional, or helpful on most occasions. It usually caused more problems and led to a lack of control. And because she hated trouble, she had no idea what to do or say.
“Quinnevere Igretta Ashelle, I know you are lying to me.” Her uncle shot a withering glare with his hands, wrist deep in a corpse. “Please don’t tell me you are investigating the gang victim.”
“I—”
“Igretta,” Emrys whispered to Quinn with a raised eyebrow.
She flashed him a look that screamed,shut your mouth, or I’ll devour you, which was met with a low chuckle.
Her cheeks warmed outwardly, expressing just how caught she was, and of course, her uncle’s shrewd gaze noticed everything. “I specifically told you that you were not allowed under any circumstances to investigate her murder.”
It was true, but it was abnormal for him to forbid investigations. Something was off. “I—”
“Dr. Ashelle.” Emrys tilted his head as if acknowledging a gentleman of higher rank. Of course, no gentleman in all of NewSwansea out-ranked Emrys. “I asked Quinnevere to look into Jane Whitfield-Wryte’s murder. She’s helping me. That is all.”
Emrys rolled his shoulders back, power and arrogance pulsating from his pores—it was real and physical. It was like he lit a flame of magic, and no one or nothing could look away from his tango of dominance. Her eyebrows creased.
“Oh, I see. Castle Hill business, then?” Uncle Matias asked.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you should let Quinn work on the investigation while you continue your autopsy.” Emrys’s voice buzzed with enchantment, each word coated with magic and force.
Uncle Matias rubbed his left forearm and clenched his teeth. “You could ask. You don’t have to do that.” A chill rushed through her body, and she gaped at Emrys as her uncle turned back to the corpse. “Well then, Quinnevere, get to work,” Uncle Matias said as he pulled organs out of the chest cavity.
Quinn’s feet felt like concrete blocks. She didn’t know what to do. She bit her lip, her eyes flashing between the two gentlemen.
Emrys had used magic on him, and Uncle Matias noticed it but brushed it off. What in all the mirrors was going on?
Emrys prowled over and whispered, “Are you okay?”
She rounded on him and whispered back, “I am guessing you can’t tell me about that either.”
“No,” he breathed, his eyes alight with shimmering enchantment.
“Wonderful.” Her mouth grew sour. Even if he wasn’t a murderer, he was insufferable. But if he weren’t the murderer, then Quinn would need to visit a mirror, which she absolutely didn’t want to do. The reporter was the last lead, and now that he was dead . . .
Quinn glanced at her samples and hurriedly asked, “Can I take your prints?” Hopefully, he wouldn’t be offended, but it was important to cross him off the list of her suspects.
A side of Emrys’s lips jerked up. “You think I am the murderer?”
“I would like to rule it out.”
