There wasn’t much of note. Just a lot of messy desks, locked file cabinets, empty coffee cups, and discarded newspapers.
Jack was nearly ready to give up when he found the candle stub in the trashcan. He frowned, looked to Carla. “Do you guys light candles in here?”
“Hell no,” she scoffed, coming to peer over his shoulder. “Especially not fancy candles like that.”
The votive was a burnt-out stump, black and stained with something dull and flaky.Blood, Jack realized, drawing back.
“Shit,” said Carla, staring. “That’s blood.”
“That’s creepy,” said Jack. He’d seen enough horror movies to know that this probably wasn’t a coincidence.
“Why the fuck would there be blood?”
“I don’t know,” said Jack. “We should ask Boris.”
“Why the fuck would Boris know?”
“I just… feel like he would.”
Carla stood back to scrutinize him, her perfect nose wrinkling. “Fine,” she said. “Let’s ask Boris. It’s not like we have any other leads.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
“You thinkIknow why this guy has a bloody candle?”
“Well, no.” Jack admitted. Afternoon sunshine streamed through the windows and reflected off the countertop with enough ferocity to blind him whenever he made the mistake of looking down. “But you were kind of my only hope.”
Boris glared at Carla, something he’d done quite a lot since their introduction. In her pressed and starched suit, she was completely out of place—too elegant and glamorous for this rundown hotel. Not the normal clientele, for sure.
Jack told himself that Boris’s scowl had nothing to do with jealousy, but a hot ball of nerves appeared in his chest, anyway.
“Your only hope, huh?”
“That’s what I was told,” said Carla, returning Boris’s glower. From her pocket, she procured a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and puffed smoke across the lobby. “You have any ideas?”
Boris crossed his arms over his chest in a way that only served to accentuate the muscles there; Jack tried not to stare at them in front of Carla. “Sure,” he drawled, leaning back in the chair. “Sounds like a satanic ritual to me.”
“A satanic ritual? That’s the best you’ve got?” Carla scowled, took another drag. Lipstick stained the yellow filter like blood.
Boris fumbled under the desk and came up with a batteredbox of cigarettes. “Give me a light and maybe I can come up with something better.”
“There’s always the bookstore lady,” Jack began, but Carla shook her head.
“Nah. Let’s see what else he’s got.”
Boris took the offered lighter, lifted it to the cigarette between his lips, inhaled so that the cherry bloomed. “That’s it. I just wanted a light.”
“That’s it?” Carla snatched her lighter back.
“You think I’m some kind of bloody candle expert? Hell no. I can tell you that it was either an accident, or it was some kind of ritual. Nobody mixes candles and blood unless it’s one of those two options. Get real.”
Jack winced. “That’s… probably true.”
“I mean, you can ask the bookstore owner. She might know the specifics. Or you can try the library.” Boris exhaled smoke.
Carla shook her head. “The library has, like, seven shelves. There’s no way.”
