“I’ll bet you can feel the pull,” I told Artie. “That’s because as much as you might want to drag your heels, you know that what’s done is done. Put the past to bed and move on. I guarantee, it’ll be worth it.”
As ghosts went, Artie Pelzer was plenty persistent, fixated on setting the record straight. Now that he knew he’d done it, though, there was no reason to stick around. One minute I was trying to convince him to go, and the next, I was talking to a porcelain sink. A small shock of goosebumps danced across my forearms from Artie’s passing and I brushed it away. And that was all.
Once he was gone, I threw a little salt, but that was just me being thorough…or getting off on the way Jacob looked at me while I did it. We had a few weeks of pent up frustration to work out, him and me—and as soon as we got back home, I intended to go straight for round two.
Carl clarified a few details with me for his report, then headed out. But Bly lingered by the front door. As soon as Carl and the fake utility workers were out of earshot, he said, “Can I talk to you alone for a sec?”
Jacob had been pretty chill about the kissing—but I wasn’t gonna push it. “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Jacob.”
Bly shrugged. “About your permanent record.”
“You can’t tell me anything. I get it. It’s fine.”
“Well, that’s the thing. It’s all redacted, more black marks than words. But as I was prepping for the mission’s wrap-up report, I called up all my documentation—everything I had on you—and I gave it all another look.”
I felt the buzz of a big adrenaline dump. Was there a word for ambivalence made from excitement and fear?
Bly said, “All the names were blacked out—and without any names, there’s only so much you can do. But when I took a good look at your old paperwork, a really good look, I saw that whoever was wielding the big black marker had missed something: a crappy little signature that looked more like a random ballpoint squiggle. Something about it jogged my memory, so I ran an image search.”
That adrenaline was raging so hard now, my ears were ringing and my molars tasted sour. “Okay.”
“I didn’t want to text you anything—best not to leave a trail. But I came up with a guy’s name. A doctor.” He took a steadying breath. “Dr. Kamal. Ring any bells? The one who admitted you to Heliotrope Station.”
I didn’t recognize the name and shook my head, but at my side, I could practically feel Jacob’s wheels turning. Over dinner, when we agreed to leave my sleeping past lie, I hadn’t anticipated his resolve would be tested quite so soon. But maybe it was for the best. I could remind him that he’d promised not to do anything that would incriminate himself. And there was no way that even as Internal Affairs, he could justify digging back fifteen years without calling attention to him snooping around where he didn’t belong.
I told Jacob, “I’m sure whoever he is, he’s long gone.”
“But here’s the crazy part,” Bly said. “The image search matched his signature with something a hell of a lot more recent. Where he is now, I don’t know. But before he fell off the radar, he was at The Clinic.”
My stomach churned as the gnocchi threatened to make a reappearance. “No,” I said, but my voice was dry, and it came out barely a whisper.
Bly must’ve felt me freaking out—but he had too much momentum behind him to soften the blow. “And get this…he was the one who hired Patrick Barley.”
I looked at Jacob, pleading with my eyes for him to banish any thoughts of pursuing this Dr. Kamal in his ongoing investigation of The Assassin. He looked back at me, eyes shining with intensity, and I knew that had as much chance of happening as I did of cramming myself into a smaller pair of skinny jeans.
We made our way back to the car in silence, too stunned to do anything more than process everything we’d just learned. Jacob started to speak, then thought better of it. Why bother making more promises he had no intention of keeping?
He turned over the engine and the dashboard clock flashed 11:59. It occurred to me I still had no idea what day I’d just lived through, and a niggling feeling told me I should probably check. I scowled open my phone.
Huh.
As Jacob pulled into the sparse midnight traffic and headed toward home, I hummed a few bars under my breath.
Happy birthday to me.
-end-
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About This Story
I dig scoping out real estate. Mostly online, though I’ve been known to hit the occasional open house. I’m not in the market for property, though. Just curious about what different sorts of houses are like inside. But a few years ago, when I actually was looking to buy, I seriously considered some new townhouses in Madison. They seemed really spiffy in all the online photos, and the thought of living in a three-story home felt totally decadent. I’d even tricked out the whole top floor as my writing studio in my mind’s eye. But when I did a little drive-by, I realized the crammed-together footprint made me feel too claustrophobic to even consider touring the inside. And given how nosy I am, that’s saying a lot!
If Vic were to encounter the townhouse directly after moving out of his white-on-white apartment, I’m sure he’d think it was fine. But he’s spoiled by the cannery.
He’d also make a better undercover operative than he realizes, once he stopped overthinking everything. He’s naturally reticent, so he wouldn’t spill out too many details. His resting scowly face is inscrutable. Best of all, he actually has good gut instincts, at least until he tries to figure out what other people think about him. And then all bets are off.
Jacob is another story. Vic was right, there is definitely too much Jacob-ness there to override.
I probably would’ve enjoyed knowing Amelia Griggs—in my 20s I had a personable pet rat named Bozzle, very mellow and lovable, even if he did eat all the buttons off my TV remote. Loose inspiration for Amelia came from a friend of a friend in Chicago who was known as The Rat Lady. I’ve looked her up online to see how she’s doing these days. Thankfully she hasn’t succumbed to a cranky neighbor, though she’s now training cats.
My initial idea for Murder House was to send Vic and Jacob undercover together. But not only was it an unlikely scenario given each of their actual jobs, but the more I considered the thought of them fumbling through a parody of a marriage, the less I wanted to see it play out. Weirdly enough, pulling Jacob out of the investigation made more room for him in the story. Vic is always either missing him, remembering something about him…or fumbling into him.
I’m eager to see where the next PsyCop adventure takes the two of them!
About The Author
Jordan Castillo Price has not managed to identify where the squeak in her office chair was coming from. Eventually, she found it easier to simply replace the chair.
She has never been escorted from the gym by security.
Connect with Jordan at the following places:
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The PsyCop Series
Among the Living - PsyCop 1
Thaw - PsyCop Short
Criss Cross - PsyCop 2
Many Happy Returns - PsyCop Short
Striking Sparks - PsyCop Short
Body & Soul - PsyCop 3
Secrets - PsyCop 4
Camp Hell - PsyCop 5
GhosTV - PsyCop 6
Spook Squad - PsyCop 7
Skin After Skin - PsyCop 8
Agent Bayne - PsyCop 9
Murder House - PsyCop 10
PsyCop Briefs - Collection
www.PsyCop.com
Beautiful • Mysterious • Bizarre
fiction by Jordan Castillo Price
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Jordan Castillo Price, Murder House
Murder House Page 24