Under Suspicion

by Hannah Jayne

  “It’s going to be okay, Lorraine,” I whispered into her hair. “I know it is.”

  My body quaked with Lorraine’s tense energy.

  “She’s like a kid sister to me,” Lorraine said, the single tear wobbling over her cheek. “I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to her.”

  “Nothing will,” Will said, squeezing her shoulder.

  “You’ll keep us posted, right?” Nina asked.

  Lorraine nodded quickly. “Of course. You guys go home.”

  “Oh, I don’t—”

  “I’ve got you,” Will said over my shoulder. “I can take you home.”

  I nodded dumbly, then blindly fumbled down the hall. The astringent smell of sickness and terror assaulted me the whole way down.

  I slammed the car door and buckled myself into the passenger seat while Will stared straight ahead.

  “You going to be okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. It’s Kale I’m worried about.” I clapped my palm to my forehead. “That’s right. Can you swing by the diner on the way home? We left the UDA files there.”

  Will double-parked in front of the diner and I jumped out, a cold mass of nerves pulsing in my gut. I tried to maintain tunnel vision and avoid the spot where Kale went down, but I had the nagging need to look. The intersection buzzed with dull regularity as a Muni bus chugged by, followed by a Subaru packed with tourists who stared wide-eyed and openmouthed, foreheads and palms pressed against the glass. I sighed: nothing, no clues, no slow-moving car plastered with bumper stickers saying MY HONOR STUDENT RAN OVER YOUR FRIEND IN THE STREET. I had my hand on the door to the Fog City Diner, when I took one last glance back to where Will sat in the car, fiddling with the stereo. He bent low enough for me to notice a snatch of red hair on the other side of the street, a midcalf-brushing trench coat.

  My heart thumped into my throat. Despite the moist, biting fog, my entire body broke out into a hot sweat. I spun on my heel and zigzagged through traffic, across the street, catching the door to Java Script as it swung closed behind the red-haired man. Vaguely I heard Will’s English accent cutting through the sounds of traffic. Vaguely I heard his car door slam shut, him telling me to come back.

  Java Script was warm inside and the heady smell of roasted coffee beans stung my nose. I zipped past a display of hardback best sellers and “Java Script Recommends” titles. I was looking frantically for the red-haired man.

  “Hey, welcome to Java Script.” A teenaged girl wearing a red apron grinned at me. “Is there something I can help you find?”

  “Did you just see a man in a trench coat come in here? He had red hair like mine.” I pulled a lock of my own hair to demonstrate the color. “And he would have looked”—I swallowed bitter saliva—“a little like me, too.”

  The girl shrugged. “Just now? The only person who came in here just now was you.” She smiled and her metal braces glinted in the harsh fluorescent lights. “It’s been a superslow day. But do you want me to leave a message in case someone comes in?”

  The tinkling bells over the door did their thing and Will stepped inside, obviously irate. “What happened to picking something up at the diner? Next thing I know, you’re sprinting through traffic.”

  I grabbed Will by the elbow and led him to a stack of James Patterson’s new new releases. “Didn’t you see him slip in here?”

  “Who?”

  I cut my eyes, left and right, then leaned in. “My father.”

  Will stepped back, eyebrows raised. “Suddenly dear old dad pops back on the scene and stops in for a read?”

  I ran a hand through my hair. “I know he’s here. At least I think he’s here.” I gripped at my chest. “I just kind of feel it.” Bat wings fluttered in my stomach. “Do you think maybe he misses me?”

  Will offered me a sympathetic—if apologetic—smile. “I’m sure any father would miss a daughter like you.”

  I felt a weird, unnerving sense of glee hearing that my father might miss me. That glee was only slightly doused with the unwelcome knowledge that dear old dad raked in souls by the bucketful and offered a fiery, brimstony afterlife, once all their cards were punched.

  I looked over both shoulders. “Maybe he isn’t looking for me. But if I’m wrong, why did you come after me? Did you come in here because you sensed I was in danger? Was your Guardian Spidey sense tingling?”

  “No. My charge almost made herself into a hood ornament two hours after her friend became a hood ornament in the same intersection.”

  I blew out a sigh. “I’m just going to take a quick walk through the stacks and see if he’s here.”

  “You really think ole Satan is going to be strolling through the stacks? I just kind of think, as you know, the ruler of hell, he’d have someone to pick up books for him. Or he’d Amazon it.”

  “I don’t know. Just—”

  “There’s a reading going on tomorrow afternoon.” The red-aproned girl walked up and shoved a flyer in each of our hands. “You guys should come. It’s Harley Cavanaugh, the author of Vampires, Werewolves, and Other Things That Don’t Exist.”

  “Thanks,” I said, stuffing the flyer in my purse. I put my palms on Will’s firm chest. “Give me two minutes. I just want to see if he’s here. I just need to know if—if it’s happening again.”

  I spun on my heel and beelined toward the cozy-mystery section before Will could answer, before Will could say something artificially reassuring about keeping me safe and hiding my secret—as the angels liked to say—“in plain sight.” I wound my way through the stacks, surprising a couple of teenagers making out in the gardening section and then running into an older man in military history. None of them were Lucas Szabo—the man who was my father, the man who left me four days after I was born.

  The man who might very well be the devil.

  It wasn’t until recently that I found out that my family tree was “rooted in hell,” as Nina liked to say. My mother, a seer and a woman who so hated her supernatural gift that she searched her entire life for a piece of normalcy, met my father, Lucas Szabo, at the University of San Francisco, where he worked teaching courses in legend and mythology. He wore cardigans and smoked a pipe and carried a leather briefcase. By all accounts he was a normal man. My mother fell deeply in love. By the time I came around, they were living in a walk-up apartment in the Hayes Valley and eating Campbell’s soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. There were no vampire roommates or unexpected drop-ins by pixies and fairies. They brought me home—drooling and pink, I suspect—and slept with me as I cooed in a bassinet at the end of the bed.

  Four days later my mother came home from the market to find the apartment empty, my father’s closet cleaned out, and me, crying through the slats in my crib. My mother took me home to my grandmother and we settled there together.

  When I was in elementary school, my grandmother told me that my mother died from a broken heart, pining for my father. I had chalked it up to the Lawson hankering for all things deep fried and chocolate dipped.

  It wasn’t until last year that I learned the sinister circumstances of my mother’s death.

  It wasn’t until last year that I learned when my mother hanged herself, I was there.

  Chapter Nine

  “Well?” Will asked as he came up on my shoulder.

  “Well, nothing,” I said, backing out of the military-history book aisle. I leaned against a stack of Harley Cavanaugh’s books and rubbed small circles on my temples with my index fingers. “He’s not here.”

  I felt Will slouch next to me. He laced his fingers through my hair and gently raked through the curls. The movement sent a ticklish prickle down my spine. “Don’t worry, love. It was probably just the old bloke that you saw there.”

  “It wasn’t, Will. Believe me, I wish it were. I don’t ... I’m afraid, what if the hallucinations are starting again?”

  Will turned to stare me full in the face. “The hallucinations were sent from Ophelia, and she’s dead now.”

  �
�I know.” I leaned in so our foreheads were almost touching. “But what if there is another angel? Alex said they might keep coming.”

  “I’m your Guardian and I haven’t heard anything or seen anything.” He shrugged. “Nothing’s come over the dispatch.”

  I blinked. “There’s some sort of Guardian dispatch?”

  Will smiled. “No. Isn’t it possible that you just thought you saw something?”

  I blew out a sigh and stared at the toes of my shoes on the industrial-grade carpet. “I guess. I just have this feeling... .”

  “You feel like you’re missing something?”

  My eyes went wide. “Then you feel it, too?”

  “No, the whole ride over here you were telling me you were missing the files Kale brought over from UDA.” He grinned.

  “You’re a gem.”

  “Come on, then.” Will held out his hand and I took it, allowing him to lead me out of the store and across the street to the diner.

  It was still warm and cozy in there and the scent of meat loaf was still heavy in the air. It turned my stomach.

  “Can I help you guys?” Shirley, the waitress who waited on us earlier, rounded one of the high-backed booths. She cocked her head and smiled, pointing at me with the eraser end of her Fog City Diner pencil. “Oh, I remember you.”

  “You do? Great. We were here earlier.”

  “Right, you were with the pale kids.” Her bright eyes clouded. “I’m sorry, that was your friend who got hit, right?”

  “Kale, yeah. She’ll be in the hospital for a while, but they think she’s going to be all right.” I offered a small smile, as much to convince Shirley of my statement as myself.

  “That’s a relief.” Shirley nodded toward an empty booth to our left. “Can I get you guys something to go, or do you need a table? We’re just cutting into a Black Forest cake.” Shirley waggled her eyebrows. In any other instance, I would have been knee deep in Black Forest before she had rung me up.

  “No, thanks. Actually, I’m here because I ran out and left something at my table. Some file folders? There should have been three, or maybe four. Do you have them?”

  Shirley tapped her pencil against her lower lip. Her eyes went to the ceiling, as if the folders were stashed up there. “I don’t think so.” She glanced over her shoulder at the table where we had our lunch—now occupied by a couple with bright red cheeks and matching I SURVIVED ALCATRAZ sweatshirts.

  “The table’s turned over a couple of times since then, but let me check with the bussers to see if they picked up anything.”

  “Great.” I sank down on a bench, and Will paced in front of me, nose buried in a menu.

  “Are you seriously going to order something?”

  Will rubbed his flat belly. “I am a bit peckish. We didn’t get to eat much before.”

  My stomach folded in on itself as the olfactory memory of those hospital smells stung my nose again. “I can’t see how you can even think of food right now.”

  Will’s eyes followed a plate of fried chicken and mashed potatoes whizzing by. “It’s a gift.”

  “No, sorry.” Shirley came back to us, shaking her head. The little jade elephants hanging off her ears were bopping against her cheeks. “No one remembers cleaning anything off that table other than the usual stuff. And none of the wait staff knew anything about any folders.”

  My stomach dropped to my knees. “Nothing?”

  Shirley shook her head. “Nothing. Aw, don’t worry.” She patted my arm kindly. “I’ll go get the lost-and-found bin and you both can rummage through that. If one of the customers turned them in, they’d be in there.”

  I felt a weak stab of hope and pumped my head. “Yeah, okay. Hey, Will ...”

  Will’s head was bent; his palms were pressed against the glass of the dessert case, where fresh slices of cake were laid out. He popped up and opened his menu again, studying it. “I’ll search through this display case, make sure nothing looks suspicious. You can go through that.” Will nodded toward the flimsy box Shirley returned with. She grinned.

  “Here you go.”

  I pawed through the “Remains of Vacations Past”—funky plastic sunglasses, a couple of mismatched gloves, and two full bottles of sunscreen—and sighed, pushing the box aside. I looked up to where Will stood and cocked one annoyed eyebrow at him.

  “Well, at least one of us found something helpful,” Will said, holding up his overloaded to-go carton, flashing a pleased grin.

  Chapter Ten

  A hot cucumber-melon–scented bath and half a bottle of Chardonnay later, I was home on my couch, staring at my cell phone. Alex hadn’t answered when I called earlier, and I didn’t bother to leave a message. Still, I hoped—it was minuscule, but it was a hope—that he would see my missed call or feel my crushed-spirit Spidey sense and come running.

  No such luck.

  I was about to punch the speed dial again when there was a light knock on the front door. I rolled up on my tiptoes and stared through the peephole, where Will’s head, giant and misshapen, greeted me. He grinned and held up a coffee mug.

  “Just need a little sugar, love.”

  I undid the dead bolt and the chain—you can never be too careful, even if you did live with a fashionista vampire and an eight-inch hound of Hell—and opened the door.

  “Sorry it’s so late. Did I wake you?”

  I pulled my bathrobe tighter across my chest and wagged my head. “No. Nina just got in. I’m too antsy to go to sleep. Any word on Kale?”

  “Nothing new.” Will followed me into the kitchen and I began opening cabinets. “Do you just need white sugar?”

  “Please. And a tea bag, if you’ve got one.”

  I thunked half a bag of sugar on the dining-room table, where Will was making himself comfortable, and glared at him. “You came over for some sugar and a tea bag.”

  “I fancied a cup of tea.”

  “Can I get you some hot water, too?”

  Will leaned back in his chair and grinned. “That would be capital.”

  I put the kettle on the stove and set out a cup for myself, plus a plastic bear filled with honey.

  “So what’s the fits about, then?”

  “Fits?”

  Will squirmed in his chair. “You said you were antsy, right?”

  “Oh, fits. Yeah. I just”—I used my fingernail to dislodge a prehistoric piece of Hang Chow fried rice stuck to the table’s fake wood veneer—“I feel like I’m forgetting something.”

  “Didn’t we have this conversation? You said you were forgetting something. I told you it was the files, and you showered me with thanks and biscuits?”

  “Where are the files, then?”

  “Where are my biscuits, then?”

  “Anyway,” I said, my patience wearing thin, “I know that what happened to Kale wasn’t a coincidence. I know that this wasn’t just some guy tearing through an intersection. Ditto with Bettina”—I swallowed thinly—“and Mrs. Henderson.”

  “And you.” Will reached out toward me, his finger tracing what still remained of the bruise and scratch on my collarbone.

  Whether it was his gentle touch or the tenderness of the injury, I wasn’t sure, but my skin immediately broke out into a sheath of gooseflesh, every fiber of my being on high alert.

  “You’re worried,” he commented.

  I gave him my “duh” look and poured boiling water from the kettle.

  “But you know you’ve got your Guardian right there across the hall.” Will patted his chest smugly.

  “And you’re going to defend me with what? You don’t even own a tea bag.”

  Will cocked an eyebrow. “With all due respect, Miss Ungrateful, I wasn’t planning on killing anyone with a tea bag. And you certainly didn’t mind my interference during your run-in with the idiot vampire slayer.”

  I chuckled despite myself. “Imagine someone thinking I’m a vampire.”

  “Well, you could use a bit of sun, love.”

  I sh
ot Will a withering look. “Tanning advice from the sun-kissed Brit.”

  Will rolled his eyes and dunked his tea bag, then squeezed it against the side of his mug. “Anyway, who said I wasn’t going to outsmart your projected assailant?” He tapped a finger to his temple. “Brain can be stronger than brawn.”

  “And you’re all brain?”

  “Cunning, even.” Will sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. “So cunning that I have an entire cupboard full of tea and yet here I am, drinking yours.”

  “Well, now that you’ve said that, I feel ever so foolish.” I batted my eyelashes and sipped my tea.

  “So tell me what you’re so worried about.”

  “I’m not that worried,” I said.

  “So you shredded that napkin for the sadistic pleasure?”

  I looked down at the heap of napkin shreds and sighed. “I think there might be another fallen angel.”

  “Do you think another one is possible?”

  I shrugged. “Why not? There was Ophelia, and then Adam and his band of goons. Why wouldn’t there be another fallen angel taking their place?”

  Will was playing with the handle of his mug and avoided my gaze.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Will? What do you know?”

  “I was just thinking ...” His words trailed off.

  “What were you thinking?”

  “Maybe it’s not another angel after you. Maybe it’s the one that’s always around.”

  I spat my tea in a mammoth shower. “Alex? You can’t be serious!”

  “Look”—Will’s hazel eyes glittered, the light from our chandelier catching the gold flecks in them—“you said yourself that fallen angels are unrepentant. You said yourself that they would keep coming until the Vessel of Souls is theirs, right?”

  I rubbed a napkin shred between my forefinger and thumb. “That’s what Alex told me. But he was helping me. He was protecting me from Ophelia.”

  “Or he was protecting the Vessel from Ophelia.”