Twisting from the windows is an unamused and entirely peeved Quinn still in her scrubs, who shoves a black bakery box at me and snaps, “How hard is it to answer your damn phone, Brontë?”
Dantë wordlessly steers down the hall toward the den with a suggestive backward glance at Quinn’s ass. My hostile glare chases him into the dark with a demonic cackle.
“Sorry,ma chérie.”I set the box on the island and peek inside. “Chocolate croissants?”
“They’re your favorite,” she huffs, irritated by my confusion, “aren’t they?”
“Depends. Are we celebrating, or are you buttering me up for disappointment?”
These past weeks of waiting for this news have been a fever dream. Bodies haven’t been piling up in the morgue at the rate they were last month. As if the mysterious vigilante just up and left for a summer vacation. Or they’re plotting something big.
Either way, they won’t be alive for much longer.
Quinn exhales through her nose, the anger in her dark blue eyes dulling with apprehension. “The results were inconclusive.”
“Inconclusive?” Her cinnamon curls bounce with her nod as she pulls a report from her tote, the strand of pink hair in the clear evidence bag paperclipped to the front page, and plops it atop the box. I snatch it, unwilling to believe what I’m hearing, and scan the contents. Seeing hard proof of her claim doesn’t make the truth any easier to digest. “How was a test on a strand ofhumanhairinconclusive?”
“Therewas no match between the sample you provided and anyone registered in local, state, or federal databases. Which means—”
“I know what it means.” Dropping the report, I lean heavily against the island. “Salem’s latest Batman is a top-shelf criminal protected by an entire goddamn hive.”
This mission has gone from insane to completely fucking impossible.
“Should I be worried?” Quinn asks warily. “You aren’t going to do anything stupid like start a witch hunt for everyone in the city with pink hair, are you?”
Excellent start.“Of course not.”
She taps her chunky white sneaker, obviously unconvinced. “You’re a coroner, Brontë. Not a cop.”
“Thank the angels for that.” I grab a croissant and chomp into the dough. “I’d be suffocating on sand with the rest of them.”
“Brontë—”
“Help me.”
Her russet eyebrows knit. “What?”
“Help me.” I step closer, carefully watching for any change in her expression and finding only hesitant curiosity. “It’s been ten years, Quinn. The cops don’t care. We can work as a team, hunt down this criminal together. You’ve already come this far. I know you want to see this through just as much as me.”
I’m aware of how desperate I sound. But if I’m going to do this and get away with it, I can’t have her perching on my shoulder and monitoring my every move.
“Oh?” She crosses her arms, taking a defensive stance. “An expert on what I want now, are you?”
“You willingly made yourself my accomplice, Quinn. You wouldn’t have taken such a personal risk if you didn’t have some sort of stake in this.”
Quinn snickers, her jaw twitching.
It’s not a denial.
“I’ll brew a fresh pot,” I offer innocently, gesturing to the coffee machine on the counter across from us. “We can strategize over caffeine and sugar.”
She chews the inside of her cheek. Glances at the bakery box. Picks at the sleeve of her scrubs.
Still no denial.
A tiny nudge.That’s all she needs.
Something within me stirs, like a beast being woken from a long, deep slumber. Perhaps there’s a path I can walk that’ll convince her to take the plunge.