“The most interesting part is there were also traces of an opioid in her system. Minute, but there. If her body had beenfound much later, this evidence may not have been traceable. I’ll send my report over in the morning.”
This was not the information Santiago was hoping for. He’d hoped for definitive results, instead more pieces were added to the puzzle of Mrs. Willoby’s death. Rising from his desk, he left the station without a word and headed for the one place he knew he could find the peace and clarity needed to work through this mystery.
CHAPTER 10
Santiago joltedawake to the sound of loud music.
What the hell was St. James thinking? He knew how sound traveled on the water.
Despite his swim, Santiago had slept like shit last night.
He’d woken up hard; he’d woken up enraged; he’d woken up to desperate screams; he’d woken up drowning in blood…
He couldn’t remember the context of one dream, but he’d be damned if they’d allowed him to get more than three hours of sleep last night. Luckily it was his day off, which meant he didn’t have to go to the station, but there was plenty of work he could do at home.
The thumping music frayed his nerves.
Cursing, he hopped out of bed, put on a pair of long johns and stomped out the back door. The waters had been rough last night, the currents sending him closer to Mrs. Willoby’s place. Today the water was as still as glass. Trotting down his back porch he frowned as St. James approached, hands in the pockets of his gray slacks, a beige crocheted vest, and flip flops. A cigarette was tucked behind his ear.
The man just really didn’t fit in, yet always seemed to belong here.
“Hard night?” St. James asked, eyes crawling up Santiago’s body, his gaze rested on Santiago’s tousled hair with an arched brow.
“I expected to see you out here earlier, guns blazing. You wanna join me?” he asked continuing his trek toward old Mrs. Willoby’s house.
“What the fuck is going on over there,” Santiago growled, planning to wrap his hand around Edgar’s throat and drag him down to the bottom of the lake.
If Edgar thought he was going to move into his late momma’s house and cause unrest he’d be laid to rest right alongside her.
“Probably a construction crew or demolition crew depending on how the family chose to deal with a house that snatched the old woman’s life.”
The possibility of either took some of the heat out of Santiago’s anger. Exhaustion was making him reactive; reaching toward whatever violence that would allow him some rest.
Santiago moved to the other side of St. James, treading into the lake until the water was shin high as they continued the walk to Mrs. Willoby’s.
“Don’t you think it would be more courteous for you to go back home and put some clothes on?”
Santiago glared at him and kept walking.
When they were within fifty feet of the back porch St. James said, “Maybe we should just pool our money and by the house, at least then the Moors’ spirits wouldn’t have to be disturbed like they’ve been.”
Julian wasn’t born and raised on Shrouded Lake, but he knew it’s history, knew the blood ties that bound them to their land, and they’d both claimed their inheritance when the relative who’d passed it on to them died. For Santiago, that was his grandmother; for St. James, it was his Aunt Ophelia. Becauseneither her nor Julian had children to pass their homes to, they would each will it to a blood relative from the original blood line.
Maybe theycouldbuy the Moor home and leave to it to either a Freemon or St. James relative that would care for the house and lands, if the spirits permitted.
“I’ll put in a call to Mrs. Willoby’s daughter, Sherry Lynn when I get home.”
St. James hung back at the bottom of the stairs as Santiago walked up the porch and banged on the door so hard the floorboards shook beneath him. After the second round of knocking the door flew open.
Santiago took a step back.
The evil before him felt inescapable as she smiled with dark pleasure. Her eyes sliding up and down his body like he was both something and nothing to look at.
“Well, hello there, neighbors,” Ms. Green drawled.
The shock and confusion on Santiago’s face turned to smothered anger. It was fucking delicious. Better than beignets, better than bacon, and if she wasn’t immune to muscles with richly detailed tattoos over swarthy pale light brown skin…heavy, thick black hair that fell in a tangled mess over his shoulders and fanned out, resting over his muscular chest, she would’ve craved him too. But Derrick’s betrayal turned her stomach from men; soured it against virile masculinity that was willing to betray you just to screw your sister. She looked behind Santiago to the man who was as disgustingly handsome as her enemy. She knewthisman was the internationally famous author Julian St. James.
“Would you like to come in? I was just making the guys some breakfast. I’ve got more than enough.”
