Chapter Three #3
It was the wrong thing to ask. He could tell from the look of curdled disgust that Doncaster gave him.
That happened sometimes. Shepherd did pretty well at reverse-engineering being a member of society, but not always.
It had seemed like the obvious question to ask. He tried to recover with a quick pivot.
“It might have been a clue as to where to find the rest of her.”
Doncaster still looked disturbed. That did surprise Shepherd. He would have put money on that being in the ballpark of a normal, socialised interaction. It was engaged, helpful, and showed investment in the sorts of things people in society put emphasis on…like true crime.
Maybe it was Doncaster’s problem.
“Plus,” Kel interrupted. “Not to be a killjoy, but I think Uncle Dio probably replaced that one. I doubt the man has been reheating his kievs in a people smoker.”
Doncaster gave him an irritated look.
“My point,” he said sharply, “is that it happened. Within living memory, someone’s fingers were found cooked in this actual kitchen. That’s the sort of thing that makes people not want to spend time somewhere.”
…in Shepherd’s experience, only if the fingers were poorly prepared. He did understand that wasn’t standard, though. Well, he knew. If knowing and understanding were the same thing, he’d have been able to fit better into the world.
The fact that the only paperwork he had was a death certificate for him as an infant would probably still have been a problem. Socially, though.
Which reminded him that Doncaster’s expectant look required a response.
“I’d certainly not buy the place,” he said, with a grave nod.
Mostly because he was in the sort of financial state where he had to think seriously about signing up for a NYT crossword subscription. Doncaster didn’t have to know that, though. He took it as agreement and gave Kel a pointed look.
“See?” he said. “Don’t go counting your chickens before they’re hatched, Ezekiel Laker. Even if Dio Madden doesn’t have a wife or a kid somewhere, this place might end up being more of a millstone than a payday.”
Kel pulled a ‘sure’ face and toasted Doncaster with his mug. “Still, it’s my civic duty, isn’t it?”
An hour into meeting Kel—and distinctly attracted to his particular blend of hot, hapless, and crooked—and it was still Shepherd who snorted at the idea of that being Kel’s motivation.
It made Doncaster snort with vindicated laughter, and a moment later the lanky sheriff took his envelope and his leave.
Shepherd walked him out. Just in case the house was still cranky.
It was a good thing he did, too. A stray root from the yew had crawled up from under one of the paving stones. It caught the sheriff’s foot as he passed and nearly sent him face-first into the concrete.
Shepherd caught his arm to steady him.
“Thanks,” Doncaster said, flustered. He pulled away from Shepherd quicker than was polite. That was normal. Shepherd made some people uncomfortable no matter how ‘normal’ he acted. Doncaster brushed himself down as he gave the root a hard look. “I came in this way; I could have sworn…”
He trailed off as he realized where that train of thought went. It was one thing to acknowledge in vague terms that the Hell House had a ‘dark history,’ another to actually think too hard about the things that had happened. Take that first step, and it was hard to take it back.
Luckily, Doncaster shied back from the edge as he gave a quick shudder to physically shed the brief flirtation with the idea of anything that wasn’t natural.
“Forward that inventory to me,” he said, his voice turned harsh with the close call. “I’ll let you know if we need anything else.”
He left quickly. As the garden gate swung shut behind him, Shepherd saw something on the path.
He stooped down and picked it up, the thick, photo-quality paper slick between his fingers.
A woman with bright red hair and the same smile as Kel was sprawled back over the hood of a Mustang.
Her acid-green jeans were a sour contrast to the slick cherry finish of the paintwork.
“You dropped—” he started to say, but Doncaster was already occupied with something else. A tall man in workout gear and a weighted vest had stopped to talk to him, gesturing at the house and frowning at whatever Doncaster had to say back.
Shepherd glanced at the photo and shrugged. If it was important, there would be a copy somewhere. He folded it, feeling the ink crackle, and stuck it into his back pocket. If there was one thing he’d learned since becoming part of the real world, it was that there was always another copy.
And another con artist, he reminded himself as he turned back to face the house. Which reminded him…
He narrowed his eyes at what felt like the focal point of the house’s facade, the gable windows that glared out on either side of the back door, and pointed a finger at it.
“Don’t get attached,” he said. “You can’t keep him.”
It was a house. Cursed or not, it didn’t have a face to pull, yet somehow, the vibe was still that of a cat haughtily ignoring you as it chewed on its foot.
Fuck.