Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
“O-oh.” It’s less shocked and more resigned. Even so, she shakes her head with swift denial. “Wow. Okay. That… that doesn’t make sense, though. Where does he go every day?”
I stare at her pointedly.
“You tell me, ma’am. Surely, you must have some idea?”
Janelle Bowden’s a smart woman. She’ll put two and two together.
For now, she’s apparently committed to sticking her head in the sand, because she shakes her head fiercely, pressing her lips together.
“I don’t. But there must be a logical explanation, I’m sure.”
“Sure. You’ll just have to ask yourself if you’re okay with what that explanation means.”
She doesn’t say anything, only stares with a stricken look.
I’ve done enough damage for today.
I turn and walk out into the bright-red glow of the evening sun.
I’m fucking crushed as I make my way back to the station on foot.
The question of who killed Brian Newcomb and why.
The heaviness of Miss Lewis’ grief and my weird reaction to it.
The shock etched on Janelle’s face and just what her denial might be hiding.
What the chief might be doing every day when it’s not feasible that he’s hanging around the Jacobins all day.
My intuition tells me there’s something deeper going on, something goddamned disturbing.
Bowden’s always been off.
The man smiles a little too easy, a little too bright, and he laughs at the oddest times. It’s like he puts a lot of effort into being disarming and harmless.
As I head down the street toward the station, I pass A Touch of Grey.
I can’t help glancing in the shop window, but Talia’s nowhere in sight. She’s probably holed up in the workshop in the back.
Move on, I tell myself, but I stop when a faint jingle across the street and a flash of sunlight off glass catch my attention.
Out of habit, I scan that direction.
Then stop.
Ephraim Jacobin steps out of the butcher’s shop on the other side of the lane.
He’s a lean specter cut in black, dressed in their archaic-looking handmade clothes with a buttoned shirt and neat pants and suspenders. His wide-brimmed hat lays low over his face and his thick black and grey beard bells out over his chest.
There’s nothing inherently wrong about Ephraim stopping at the butcher’s. The Jacobins sell pig meat and blood to the shop all the time.
Still, I don’t like how he stops one bit.
How his head turns toward me.
No—not me.
He’s looking at Talia’s shop.
The man stares at the window for too long, his scarecrow expression unreadable—right before his eyes snap to me with a sharpness that says he knows I’m watching.
He knows why.
I see it in the slimy, overly polite way he tips his hat at me.
Yeah, I don’t fucking like it. Don’t like him being within a hundred yards of Talia.
My teeth are clenched as I hold his eyes.
Then I turn and walk pointedly inside her shop.
11
DARK DESIRES (TALIA)
Ibarely register the bell over the shop door jingling.
Not when Grandpa and I practically have our heads knocked together, poring over a sample book of wood grains and finishes and fabrics, debating color, texture, and etching methods.
We’ve been at it all morning, ever since I showed him my revised sketches and asked his opinion on adding Xavier’s indoor water installations without making everything too awkward.
He just lit up.
I love when he’s like this, how he still sparks alive with a creative challenge.
Honestly, his energy feels contagious, and I’ve been buzzing all day.
We’ve just settled on wall fountains with trickling basins embedded in tiled alcoves and framed in leaf carvings when I notice there’s something else grabbing my attention.
I lift my head, squinting against the light like a mole person coming out of the cave.
It takes a few seconds more to realize the bell jolted me from my trance.
“Oh, customer!” I glance back at Grandpa. “I’ll be right back.”
“Mm-hmm. Thanks, Tally,” he murmurs, bent over his sketchbook and scribbling away.
I smile.
He won’t even notice I’m gone.
I straighten my babydoll-pink baseball tee and wipe a little sawdust off my jeans, then put on my best customer service smile and step into the front. “Welcome to A Touch of—oh!”
My heart leaps up my throat.
Micah.
As always, he looks a little out of place in the daylight, this inverted shadow man cast in permanent moonlight. Yes, he’s still staggeringly handsome, especially in the sleek trim of his uniform.
Something about his stance makes me think of a gunslinger from the Wild West translated to modern times. His hips slouch forward and his heavy belt rides low, giving him this lazy swagger. He’s got his thumbs hooked in his belt loops, and his attention snaps to me when I gasp.
“Miss Grey,” he greets me, his lips twitching in that subtle way that says this is a thing now.
He knows better. I don’t even hesitate.
“Talia.” But I stop, giving him a closer look, frowning. Even if he’s giving me that not-smile I crave so much, there’s something heavier and darker there today.