Chapter Twenty-four
Baxter
I parked my car in a space, managing only six steps before realizing I’d left my coffee sitting on the roof.
Rolling my eyes at my forgetfulness, I got my jacket out of the boot and then went back for it, taking a long gulp before retracing my steps.
The place made great coffee, and it wasn’t overpriced either.
I checked my watch, wondering if Jamie had arrived at the restaurant yet.
He wouldn’t be surprised that I was late, so I didn’t bother messaging him. Best to focus on getting there.
The restaurant was about a fifteen-minute walk once I got out of the car park, which meant I’d arrive twenty minutes late.
Not great. But far from the worst I’d ever been.
I’d pay for dinner to make it up to Jamie.
And if that didn’t work, I’d throw in a blow job as well. No way he’d stay mad after that.
Quick footsteps sounded behind me. I wasn’t the only one in a hurry.
I started to turn, but they were already there—an elbow digging hard into my back.
A bony elbow. I spun around, but the person was already moving away, head down, shoulders hunched.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going,” I shouted. “An apology wouldn’t go amiss either.”
Things sped up the way they do in dreams, and I was on the ground, lying in a slick of my own blood, the sharp, bitter smell of coffee filling my nose. I made a superhuman effort to lift my head to catch one last glimpse of the man.
Dressed in black. A knife dangling from his hand, dripping blood. Long legs. Slim waist. Broad chest.
I woke gasping into the darkness, sweat pouring off me.
My trip to the bathroom was more of a stagger, the light harsh as I flicked it on and splashed cold water over my face, trying to process what my nightmare had just made clear.
My heart hammered in my chest, nausea roiling through me.
Not enough to be sick, but enough that I briefly considered whether forcing it might help.
I left the bathroom light on when I stumbled back into the bedroom, the faint glow guiding me to my phone. Despite it showing four in the morning, I hit call anyway, silently begging Lake to pick up while simultaneously hoping I wouldn’t wake him.
He picked up on the fifth ring. “Baxter?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.
Relief hit me so hard it felt like a flash of white light. “It wasn’t him,” I said. “He was telling the truth. It wasn’t Geoffrey Ryhill.”
“How do you know?”
“I had a nightmare. Only… I remembered more about the man who did it. The build was all wrong for Geoffrey. Geoffrey’s thinner and more wiry. And shorter.”
“It was a long time ago,” Lake said gently, already sounding more awake. “He could’ve lost weight. Been ill.”
“What about the height? Did he shrink? Remember I said my attacker was about my height.” Lake’s silence spoke volumes. “It wasn’t him,” I repeated. “I can feel it. I just know it’s true. I wanted it to be him. Because that would mean they locked up my killer.”
“Okay,” Lake said carefully. “So it wasn’t him. Then we go back to the drawing board. Revisit what we know. If it wasn’t him, we figure out who it was. Maybe talk to the police.”
“And say what?” I asked bitterly. “Ask them to reopen a nineteen-year-old murder that technically isn’t a murder anymore?”
Lake sighed. “Yeah… there’s that.” A slight rustling sound said he’d gotten out of bed. “Didn’t you say one of the necromancers is married to a detective?”
“Yeah, Griffin is. Ben’s a detective.”
“We could talk to him.”
“Maybe.”
“He already knows about you, right? So he won’t think it’s just… crazy talk.”
“Ben’s seen his fair share of crazy,” I said. “He’s been right in the middle of it twice.”
“There you go then. We talk to him.” A slight pause. “How are you doing, Baxter? No bullshit. No pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”
“Not great,” I admitted. My pacing took me to the window, and I pulled the curtains aside.
The moon was full tonight, providing enough illumination that I could see the dark figure across the street standing staring up at my window.
Not enough to make out his face, but enough to see a perfect outline. “He’s here,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Who’s there?”
“The man who killed me,” I whispered. “He intends to try again.”