Zoe
Tacos El Primo doesn’t look like much. A handful of dents on the front bumpers, scuffed white paint with splotches of bright pink, red, green, and blue, and a canopy that’s seen better days. The menu only has four main items on it. Tacos, tortas, mulitas, and a ceviche bowl. Along with the normal accompaniments.
When we have our food—four tacos for me, two for Sin—we sit side by side on concrete benches overlooking the bay. “That’s not much food,” I say with a nod at Sin’s plate.
“I do not technicallyrequirefood.” The look on his face as he takes a bite of his carne asada taco is like a kid in a candy store. “I simply enjoy it.”
For a split second, I wish I were more like Sin. That I could enjoy things with the zeal I see in others. And then I take a bite. “Mother…fucker,” I say through a mouthful of tortilla, shredded chicken, and salsa. “This is amazing.”
Pride shines in his eyes, and he sits up a little straighter. “I have tried every truck in the city. None of them compare to this.”
“That’s dedication I can respect.” I elbow him gently, but his expression sobers. “What?”
“I spent many centuries deprived of food,” he says quietly. “Now, I choose my meals carefully. All of them.”
“Tell me.”
“You do not truly wish to know.” He takes a sip from his bottle of Coke—the kind with real sugar—and shivers slightly.
“Maybe not. But I think Ineedto know.” I take another bite, then pull up the hem of my sweater to reveal the two-inch scar from Temple’s bullet. “I spent a week in the hospital. As far as gunshots go, it was pretty…average, I guess. No major organs hit, the wound was a through-and-through. Couple of rounds of antibiotics, fluids, rest…I was supposed to be good as new.”
“Supposed to be?” Sin turns slightly, appraising me with a discerning stare. “Are you physically compromised? Do I need to worry?”
My cheeks heat, and I stare down at my plate of half-finished tacos. “No. It’s nothing like that. It just...it still hurts. The department shrink says it’s all in my head. I need to ‘process my emotions’ and ‘honor my truth.’ Shit like that.”
Sin rests his fingers over the scar. His touch is almost electric, and my skin tingles in a familiar and very pleasant way. And then his lips curve into a frown. “No. This has nothing to do with any psychological trauma.”
“Then what is it? Is it dangerous? What can I do about it?” A thousand possibilities run through my head in under thirty seconds. Am I dying? Did Templedosomething to me?
“I am not certain.” He gently eases my sweater down and turns to watch the waves breaking against the rocky shore. “You are not in any immediate danger from the injury, Zoe. What I am sensing is...strange. An energy I believe I have felt before, long ago. It may have something to do with Thorn's influence over your late partner. If my fucking memory were only intact...”
I nudge his plate closer to him. “Hey. You’ve done more for me in five minutes than my doctors and shrink did in three weeks. Eat. Let’s go to Jacinda’s, and after that, find somewhere we can talk. I know you don’t want to relive what happened to you, but I think—“
“I need to.” With a sigh, he picks up the greasy paper plate and stares at it like it’s a serving of mashed peas drizzled with motor oil. But after a minute, he shakes his head, sighs, and picks up his remaining taco.
We finish our meals in silence, and I hope we’ll come out of this case okay—or something okay-adjacent, at least. Because the way things seem now?
I’m terrified these murders—these demons—will be the end of us both.
* * *
Jacinda‘s studio apartmentin the Tenderloin is old and worn down, but nearly spotless. Even the threadbare furniture is pristine. Multi-colored votive candles in small Mason jars line every window sill, and though most everything in her refrigerator has expired—the milk a full week ago—even her shelves are organized.
“She was so young,” I say as I examine a picture of her with Dion taken by the water on a sunny day. “Twenty-four, was it?”
“Yes.” Sin rifles through her nightstand drawer. “Nothing of any note in here. No diary or journal, no sex toys. Only a bottle of Ambien, two highlighters, and this.” He holds up a book with a photo of the Golden Gate on it.The Local’s Guide to San Francisco Living.
“She’d only been here six months or so.” I crouch next to a small filing cabinet and give the handle a tug. Locked. “Don’t suppose you found a key in there, did you?”
When Sin shakes his head, I pull a small, zippered pouch from my bag and go to work on the lock. I could probably break the damn thing faster by just jamming a screwdriver between the drawer and the frame, but something about desecrating a victim’s belongings has never sat well with me.
“You need to work on your speed,” Sin says, coming up behind me. “And your technique.” Kneeling, he slides his fingers over mine. “Your dominant hand will have better control, so let your other sense the movement of the tumblers. A lock this size probably has three. No more than four. Which one is loosest?”
I close my eyes, trying to ignore the feel of his body against mine, and probe the tiny lock carefully. “The back one.”
“Good. Now find the next.”
Despite practicing my skills for years, his simple piece of advice has me flying through the lock in under fifteen seconds.
