Cat Adams - To Dance with the Devil

Ms. Andrews wasn’t wearing a charm.

“I’d recommend the quesadillas, they’re quite good.” I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt, trying hard to radiate bonhomie and goodwill.

“Is that what you’ll be having?” The words were polite, but her tone of voice and body language were just short of hostile.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t eat solids.” I smiled, flashing just a hint of fang. It probably wasn’t polite, but she was pushing me, deliberately provoking me under an oh-so-polite façade. I’d take it in the interests of business, but only for so long without pushing back a little.

“Oh? I’d heard you’d made some progress in that department.”

Really? Where on earth had she heard that? It was true. I was now able to swallow most baby food, something I would never have dreamed possible right after the bite. But it wasn’t the kind of information that had been passed on to the general public. I was very curious how Ms. Andrews had found out.

I gave her a noncommittal smile as Barbara arrived with water glasses and a menu for my guest.

Ms. Andrews wasted no time ordering, asking for quesas and iced tea. I ordered a smoothie, in part to be social but also because I’m less inclined to have issues with my vampire nature on a full stomach. Abigail Andrews was irritating the hell out of me, but I was not about to let her get to me to the point where I scared a restaurant full of customers.

“So,” I said as Barbara disappeared toward the kitchen, “shall we get to it? What exactly do you want to hire me to do?”

“I want you to protect my daughter.”

“Why?”

She blinked at me, as if I had asked the most stupid question in the world. I didn’t grit my teeth and I kept my voice even and pleasant as I said, “What does your daughter need protection from?”

“Not what, who.”

I raised my eyebrows and gestured for her to continue.

“I adopted my daughter when her birth mother, my sister, was murdered by her husband. He is scheduled to get out of prison two days from now. He is a terrible man—a vicious, violent killer.” She gestured to her chair. “ He did this to me.”

“What’s his name?” I interrupted her. Yes, it’s rude, but she was gearing up for a tirade. And while her emotion was real, the speech itself seemed a little too pat, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. I’ve run into that before, usually when clients are lying or hiding something I really need to know. They rehearse the BS they plan to feed me so that they won’t say what they shouldn’t.

Unfortunately, it’s what clients feel they shouldn’t say that is most likely to bite me in the ass. If I rattle them, I can sometimes get the straight scoop. Temperamental as Ms. Andrews was, this might cost me the job. But I’d rather lose a potential client than get myself or my people killed by walking blind into a dangerous situation.

Abigail sat straighter in her chair, her expression shifting swiftly from startled to annoyed. But she answered, her voice crisp and precise. “Harry Jacobs.”

“Which prison?”

“Excuse me?”

It seemed like a simple enough question to me, but I repeated it. “Which prison is he getting out of?”

“Why do you need to know—”

“If I’m going to be protecting your daughter from someone, it’s generally a good idea to keep an eye on him. That way I can be ahead of the game instead of constantly reacting.” Okay, I was making that up. But now that I said it, it seemed like a good idea. Assuming I had the manpower—which I was working on. If I actually hired one of the people I’d be interviewing tomorrow, I could sic him or her on Harry, if there actually was a Harry.

“Oh.” She was somewhat mollified by the explanation, but she shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Now that was weird. She knew he was being released but didn’t know from where? That made zero sense. My expression must have shown how dubious I was.

“I don’t,” she repeated with a bit more heat. “I got an anonymous call telling me he was getting out. So I called the parole board. I got the runaround for a bit, but eventually they told me that he was not being paroled but was being released early for good behavior. I didn’t think to ask which facility he’d been in.”

Okay, I still didn’t buy that, but I decided to move on. “How long was he in?”

“A little over twenty-two years. I don’t see why—” She stopped speaking in midsentence. She was obviously angry now. Red spots had appeared on both cheeks; her breathing was rapid and a little ragged. The overreaction told me I was right. Something was amiss. She’d intended to keep me off balance, maintain control. She wanted her daughter protected, but she didn’t want me to know from what. Not acceptable. If I’m going to put my life on the line, I want to know all the details. It can make the difference between success and failure, or success with a major hospital stay.

“This isn’t going to work,” she said grimly as she rolled away from the table and turned to leave.

She was right about that. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said. I was lying. I wasn’t sorry at all. “Before you go, can I give you a bit of advice?”

She turned her head, giving me an unfriendly look over her shoulder.

“If you hire someone ethical, he or she will maintain confidentiality. But we all have to know what we’re up against. Tell the truth. All of it.”

She gave me a long narrow-eyed glare before setting her chair in motion. She motored smoothly past Barbara, who was heading for our table carrying a pitcher of iced tea. Barbara watched her go, lips compressed in a thin line. Turning to me, she said, “I take it I should cancel her order?”

“Yep. And bring me a margarita if you would.” It was a little early, but all things considered, I figured I deserved a drink. While I was waiting, I pulled out my phone and dialed Emma’s number from memory. She answered on the first ring. “Hey, girlfriend,” I said, “you got any plans for the day?”

“None I can’t change. What’s up?”

“You know all those boxes cluttering up my house?”

“The ones from when your gran moved?”

“And the ones Dottie sent over before the office blew up, and the ones with Vicki’s stuff from Birchwoods…” I tried to think if there were any others.

“You still haven’t gone through Vicki’s stuff?”

Vicki had been my best friend. She’d died a couple of years ago, the same night I was attacked and partially changed by the vampire. She’d stuck around as a ghost for a little while but eventually had moved on to her final reward. I still miss her every single day. Until just recently I simply hadn’t had the heart to go through her stuff and sift through those memories.

“Not yet. You know how she was about pictures.” Emma laughed. I’m sure that, like me, she was remembering all the times Vicki had pointed a camera at us, or had someone else photograph the three of us together. “I’m thinking there should be some good shots of all of us.”

“I’d be happy to help. Will Dawna be coming?”

“Nope. She’s busy.”

If Emma heard the irritation in my voice, she chose to ignore it. “Her loss. See you at your place in an hour. I’ll bring the wine.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“All right,spill it.” Emma plopped down into the armchair, mock-glaring at me. “You’re upset about something. I can tell.” Emma is petite and pretty, with naturally blonde hair and blue eyes. A former gymnast, she’s built rock solid. Today she was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, but even dressed for sorting through boxes, she looked pressed and neat. I wonder sometimes how she does it.