“Last night. He was at the station late, acting strange.” She stared at my desk, lost in thought.
Mind kept replaying Wilcox as he stood up for me the day before. He’d never even pulled his badge. Even a drunken louse would have respected the badge, yet Wilcox had seemed willing to take Jake on without pulling the cop card. Curiosity bit at me, and I finally had to ask, “How did he act?”
“Quiet. I don’t think he was working, just deep in thought. Usually, he’s all over the place barking orders and trying to figure stuff out.”
Yeah, that I could picture about him. “I guess we all have our off-days. So, the police station is where you went after that thing came to visit?”
“Imp,” Miss Prim said. “It was an Imp. Nasty creatures.”
Agreed. The red demon had played a role in the trip down the lane of terror the night before. “Here’s what I don’t understand. You said Satan gave these Imps to Warlocks who what, serve him?”
“Most witches draw their magic from Earth, but some dark witches and warlocks made deals with the devil for demonic powers.”
“But they are human, right? Not demons?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re certain that Imp wasn’t from Satan, watching to make sure I was doing my Praedator job?”
Miss Prim shook her head. “No, they don’t report to Hell. Imps only serve the warlock family they were gifted to.”
“But I guess if it’s working for a warlock who answers to Satan, and I’m working as a Praedator for Satan, we’re kind of on the same side?”
“In a way, I guess.”
“It had said something about rims.”
“Don’t listen to him. Imps like to play tricks. They’d say anything to send you on a wild goose chase for their own amusement.”
“But what if that meant something?”
“It probably didn’t.” Miss Prim paced. “I won’t let this happen.”
“What?”
“Them take you. We will find Logan.”
The wall clock clicked loud enough to inform the time. “I have to leave and meet my mother for lunch.”
“Then I will find Logan Bradley.” Miss Prim’s lips thinned tight in determination. For the very first time, she marched over to Hellhound and pointed an authoritative finger. “You, lazy beast, are coming with me. Your days of sleeping are over. We’re finding a ghost!”
Hellhound’s head whipped in my direction. A whine escaped through large jowls. And if I didn’t know better, I would have thought it was an expression of panic settling on the face of a flame-lit beast from Hell who was now being stared down by a five-foot-something wisp of a ghost.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I arrived at The Lotus on the early side of noon only to discover that along with a bright sunlit room decorated in Feng Shui, my mother was joined by a head full of platinum blond hair.
No. Really, just no.
By the tight grin on her rigid face, I was certain Lacey didn’t appreciate my presence either. However, the revelation did not do a damn thing to stop the bitterness encasing circles around my chest as if it were lapping a motor speedway. Stomach vowed to throw up; luckily, all it had to threaten me with was coffee.
“You’re late,” my mother said. She sipped at sparkling water and studied a menu. “Have a seat, Lacey’s mother will be here shortly.”
The table was square and set for four. I pulled out the chair from across my mother since Lacey had stolen the one by her side. “I’m not late.”
“Why do you always have to be argumentative?”
Lacey popped her menu up in front of her face, but not before I caught the smirk.
Today, there would be no vodka and no Aunt Kate. My crutches had deserted me, and I was left alone. Defenseless. The sight of the two women all cozy while I sat apart, left serious concerns that Satan had already dragged me down to the pits of Hell, and I was only slow to the realization. Tears I’d held back all morning threatened, but I was determined to not let the stuck-up witch see me cry. “Why are we here?”
“To discuss the details of Lacey’s wedding.”
The tone of her voice made me seem like a simpleton, but I had to ask, “Why isn’t Sean here? Isn’t this his wedding, too?”
“This is girl talk. Sean wouldn’t enjoy the conversation.” My mother waved a hand as if that gesture alone dismissed the idea. Me not relishing this topic du jour must have been irrelevant. My mother never sought my opinion before continuing, “I would think with the way you ruined Lacey’s last dinner, you’d be thankful for another opportunity to set things right.”
“Excuse me?” My head rotated from one solemn face to the other. “How did I ruin the dinner?”
My mother’s mouth opened, but Lacey’s hand laid across her arm and silenced her words.
“It’s all right, Claire. Jealousy is quite common with special events, such as a wedding. It’s natural Kiara is feeling neglected since she is not involved with anyone herself and only seeking attention.”
Mouth refused to work, and it left me hanging. And by hanging I mean gaping and soundless. Unable to speak up for my defense. Because… jealous? Surely, my own mother knew me well enough to understand that nothing about this had to do with jealousy. So what that she treated Lacey like the daughter she never thought I was? She had to know I’d never make childish attempts for public attention.
My mother’s gaze became fixated on a spot to my left. The quick glance was all the answer I needed.
Tears still beckoned, and I dug my fingernails hard into my palm, my body begging for pain to distract my eyes. Yup, still my mother’s disappointment. Some things never changed.
“Isn’t this a lovely afternoon?” The perky voice was attached to an older version of Lacey. She appeared beside the table with blond hair teased into a trendy style and held together by a can of hairspray. Botox fought the lines on her face. Makeup was perfectly applied. And she apparently thought squeezing into an outfit better suited for a college coed was age appropriate. Lacey missing school senior year for a nose job now made perfect sense.
“Hello, Donna.” My mother stood, and the women exchanged hugs as if they were the best of friends. “We were just starting.”
“First, should we order a bottle of bubbly?” Donna asked.
“That sounds wonderful, but I have work.” Lacey’s lips turned down into a perfect bow. “Next time, we should plan a dinner.”
“A dinner would be nice,” my mother said. “As for today, I think a glass of champagne would be lovely. We have much to celebrate.”
Donna turned to me. “And what about you …?”
“This is Kiara, Mom,” Lacey said. “Sean’s sister. She works as a receptionist so it’s probably okay if she has something to drink. She only answers phones.”
“Kiara has a college degree,” my mother said. “I don’t understand why she won’t do anything with it.”
“A receptionist?” Donna asked. “That’s a nice… uh, career? Tell me, sweetie, are you married? Or are you one of those women who prefers work over men?”
My mother snorted and made a grab for her glass. And it was only water. My breath hitched at the realization of Lacey being truthful when stating that my mother feared I wasn’t good enough to ever make a love match. Or any match for that matter.
“No, Mom,” Lacey said. “She’s the one who has a date with Mark tomorrow night.”
“Oh. Mark.” Donna’s perfectly plucked eyebrows raised. Even Lacey’s mother knew this Mark was a rotten catch.
“It’s good you finally have a date, Kiara,” my mother said.
Except I didn’t. Have a date… that was. And I found it impossible to believe one had been scheduled with a man I’d never agreed to meet, or had even spoken with. The world of lies and manipulation Lacey presided over, I simply didn’t understand. And my feet threw on the brakes for being dragged into it.
“Am I in the wedding?”
All eyes turned to me.
<
br /> “What?” my mother asked.
“Am I still in the wedding?”
Donna leaned away to flag the waiter. Lacey became busy studying her menu, a flash of irritation on her features reflecting off its shiny laminate surface. Where she stood on this subject was a given. But my mother simply looked puzzled. “Why ever would you not be? This is your brother’s wedding.”
I thought it was Lacey’s wedding, but filter remained in firm place over Mouth. “I think it’s best that I’m not part of the wedding.”
“Really?” A mixture of both glee and hate reflected in Lacey’s wide eyes.
“Now don’t be like that, Kiara,” my mother said. “This is Lacey’s big day, and you’re trying to spoil it.”
“I’m not trying to spoil anything.” I stood from my chair. “I’m sorry, Mom, but I’m out of the wedding.”
I stomped out of the restaurant with full understanding that it might have been the last time I’d ever see my mother. And I didn’t even say goodbye. I bit hard on my lip. The tears now impossible to hold back. Should Aunt Kate at least get a goodbye while I still had the chance? Fingers inched toward my cell, but my hand slackened.
Nope. I couldn’t do it. My mother probably wouldn’t realize I was missing until I failed to show up at the next wedding planning session. And I would be invited to the next planning session because I wouldn’t be allowed to drop out. It’d ruin Lacey’s big day, and Mother would never allow that to happen.
My failure to show would simply prompt disapproval, not a Missing Persons Bulletin. But Aunt Kate? I’d break her heart. There was no way I could speak with her and keep it together. Just the thought of her vivacious face broke the dam. Hot tears fell as I stood on a street corner sobbing. Three light changes and five outta my ways later, I wiped at my face, and I tried sucking in deep breaths, but that only left me one step away from hyperventilation. Based on people's stares and frowns as they passed, my next breakdown should be scheduled as a private affair. Street signs publicized the exact location of my public humiliation.
Congress.
The intersection I stood at crossed with Congress. Logan Bradley lived on Congress Street. I set off. Jaw stiff. Shoulders back. Still scrubbing at the last of my tears, but purpose in my steps. I wasn’t in Hell. Yet. And I damn well wasn’t giving up until I then.
Logan’s apartment building was a step up from my own. Which meant he lived in a hellhole minus the rats. I lived in a hellhole that couldn’t promise no rats. Since Hellhound was now allowed admittance through my front door, I’d point out to him those deadbeat roomies gnawing holes through my clothing while they refused to pay a dime toward rent, and I’d yell squid! The beast had yet to be fooled, but determination kept me trying.
As for Logan’s building, my first obstacle was to gain access. If it was anything like my own, a buzz to some random tenant while crying about keys mailed to China worked like a charm. Because in these worn-down, barely respectable enough to not have a zip code of The Projects type of places, Charles Manson would get buzzed in. Even when announcing his name as Charles Manson.
The exterior of this building alone should have been a waving red flag informing me of Logan’s sham, except the one time I followed him home this wasn’t to his address. A swanky loft in an affluent section of the city was where I had stalked him, and that location had matched the address on his completed Fated Match forms. Forms that instead of being filed in my cabinet drawer by his last name, as was my custom, I’d currently shoved under the L’s for liars.
Phone conversations had been documented after his initial consultation where mentions of a mailing address for the dossiers regarding Logan’s spiritually matched mate occurred, the same mate who’d left Maude drained for two entire days. Those blinding visions Maude had highlighting the couple’s brilliant future really were exhausting, don’t you know? And it was brilliant, not bright. Brilliant future.
In reality, Maude had needed two days at home while the latest round of Botox settled.
But after the promises of dossiers, Logan’s excuses to not have mail sent to his home address began. A cousin on Congress Street was the suggested recipient of all incoming correspondence. Our final conversation had ended rather odd, but (in hindsight) the piss-poor background check had left me satisfied enough for no concerns. And now those apprehensions were how-did-you-miss-this, but at least I was left with a valid home address. No cousin lived on Congress Street. Just one Logan Bradley.
His apartment building came with another interesting fact: It had its own stakeout. A dark-haired man wearing a black cotton button-up sat inside a rundown Chevy parked about a half block away. The guy made pitiful attempts to read the newspaper while sitting parked in front of the next building, awaiting a person who would never appear. My keen observation skills were making amends for their unauthorized vacation, and even from this distance, I could tell it was Logan’s building that held his captured attention. The man was smooth. Forgettable. No rookie, that one. My guess? Mafia or a PI. Mafia probably drove better cars, so PI.
Caution ruled my thoughts while I buzzed some random tenant. Back remained turned toward Dark Haired PI. He might be a lip-reader, after all, and the word keys combined with China had no reasonable explanation. A lot of seconds later, I hefted up three flights of difficult-to-climb stairs that were tricky while being one coffee short of awake. Maude’s expensive stuff wasn’t strong enough.
Finding Logan’s apartment was a cinch; discovering how to get into it was a challenge. Miss Prim had been up for a little B&E, but the ghost could walk through walls. My solid mass of a body didn’t share in that luxury. Next. Picked locks? Even if I had a head full of bobby pins I wouldn’t know where to stick them. Next. Kick down the door? Actually, with my pendant-induced strength, it was the ideal option. Except for that visibility thing. Some neighbor would call the cops, and then I’d have some explaining to do.
My brother told me where he hid his spare key.
Chelsea. Fatal Attraction receptionist. Spare key it was. Her lovelorn, crazy, sob-fest ramblings had paid off. I knew there had been a reason for why I’d listened. First smile of the day broke across dried lips. And damn, I needed some lip gloss because it hurt. The squeak of the stairwell door put a pause to my happy dance—well, the happy dance taking place inside my head. Because Legs? They weren’t moving like that.
Dark hair and a black button-up stepped into view. Nothing could describe the situation as good when a PI took sudden interest in the interior of the building after you had entered. His appearance couldn’t have been due to my use of the word China being screamed five times. While Dark Hired PI sat in his parked car. Unable to see my face. Read my lips. The tenant I’d buzzed for a free door pass had forgotten her hearing aids. I kept explaining that I mailed the keys to China, not sailed somewhere and lost my… yeah, well, best to not go there. It didn’t even make sense. She needed to add senility with hard of hearing to her doctor list of complaints.
“Hi.” Dark Haired PI’s smile was friendly, engaging. “Do you know where apartment 4F is located?”
“One floor up. You’re on the third floor.”
“Well, that’s embarrassing. Thanks.” He stared. I stared back. He stared more. “Have you lived here long?”
“Nope, only visiting a friend.”
“Oh, okay. Have a nice day.”
“Thanks.”
He disappeared. I counted to twenty and listened. I counted another thirty and listened. No footsteps and no door squeaks.
In the clear, and I went back to work. Next task: find the spare key.
The problem with having hidden spare keys while living inside an apartment building is the lack of good spots for said keys to remain hidden. A house? You’ve got your pick of locations. Get all fancy and purchase a fake rock to set on your front porch. Except for the neighborhood kid who’d kick at your overpriced plastic rock for his own sadistic pleasures, no one would know. But for apartments? My eyes swiveled up. And
up. To the top of the doorframe to be exact. Tiptoes went to work. Except they didn’t work. Resorting to jumps, it was. Finally, one small brass key lay in my palm.
The air inside of Logan’s apartment seemed unnaturally still. Uninhabited. Apparently, everyone but the authorities realized Logan was gone for good despite the cluttered furnishings. Per Miss Prim, Logan’s mother had made a couple of shows to the police department during the week, but her drive-by didn’t appear to include her son’s dwelling. Stalker Chelsea must have been too busy having front desk breakdowns to stop by either. Because while my first survey of the room didn’t scream mess with a capital M, it didn’t scream psychotic neat either. Lived in was probably the best description.
An empty bottle of wine, combined with two dirty wine glasses, clued me in about this place being the after-dinner destination. Better dessert options, I guessed, which left nagging questions. Gina knew Logan wasn’t the rich man he pretended, but Logan knew Gina only as rich socialite, Jocelyn Palmer. What concocted story had he come up with to drag her back to this dump? It’s wasn’t as if my penthouse is in the shop, this is a loaner could work.
And this place qualified as dump status to anyone making north of a six-figure income. Hell, anyone making north of mid to high five figures. Logan’s place was only one coffee table larger than my own.
While the living room appeared lived in, the bedroom was a mess. The capital M kind. But it was more of an items knocked off a dresser during a struggle mess than an I’m too lazy to put the clothing inside the hamper mess. The bed was left unmade. Given. A matching set of black lace panties and bra tangled in with the sheets on the floor. Ms. Welch had performed the horizontal tango after only one date. I predicted the look on Miss Prim’s face upon hearing this information would be classic. Should I still be breathing in earthly oxygen long enough to convey the message, that was.
As for clues? Nothing. I had nada. Except for the small object poking at the bottom of my shoe. I had been working through all five steps of distance between bedroom and living room couch when a man’s cufflink shaped in the letter J made its presence known. The familiarity of the gold fastener did not escape me. An identical one had been last spotted holding together a bleached white dress cuff showcasing one hairy matted hand. Rick, from Joe’s Body Parts was the proud owner of the matching item. And the hairy hand.
Reaping Havoc: Kiara Blake Book 1 Page 26