The First Sin (Rosary Marks #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

REVA

Bad things always happen at night. It’s an unwritten rule. Devils need the dark, after all, to cover up their misdeeds.

As I puke around the side of the ambulance following what has to be the worst call of my EMS career, I remember when I learned that truth.

I was only a little younger than the girl on the gurney, the one currently speeding down the road in the other ambulance on the way to the hospital.

I hate how life gave her the same kind of shit education I’d received.

She’s twelve going on thirteen, instead of seven like I was when everything went to hell, but still.

Things like that—the bad things we don’t like to look at and we don’t like to name—they harden you.

Warp you. Strip away all the sensitivity and finer feelings.

Or they try to, anyway. Using the heels of my hands, I wipe away the tears that are leaking from the corners of my eyes.

“You okay, Reva?” Griffin sticks his head around the edge of the vehicle, sees the puddle of vomit, and beats a hasty retreat.

I scrub my mouth with my sleeve and chuckle without humor. “I’m fine. Just gimme a sec.”

A second later, a bottle of water lands at my feet, bouncing once in the dew-wet grass.

Done hurling my guts up, I swish water around my mouth and climb into the front of the ambo, where Griff waits patiently in the driver’s seat.

I wave the water at him as I shut the door. “Thanks.”

He clicks his belt into place and starts the engine. “Ain’t no thing.”

After I lock in, he pulls out, heading back toward the station. The sun is starting to brighten the eastern horizon of the city, turn the black to navy and purple tinged with the faintest hint of orange.

“That was some shit,” he starts after a moment.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t want to think about it. Didn’t happen.” I snap the three rubber hair bands I keep around my right wrist, the quick snatch of pain anchoring me and holding me in the present.

He looks at me, one hand skating the top of the wheel, the other resting on the window ledge. “We have a report to write, baby girl.” I flinch, and he winces. “Shit. Poor choice of words.”

“You can write the report.”

“Reva…”

“I’m not doing it, Griff. She was a little girl. Twelve-fucking-years-old. I can’t—” My voice breaks and whatever Griff was about to say; he stops.

Snap.

Snap.

Snap.

He slams the steering wheel with his fist. “I want to kill that motherfucker.”

Fuck. “Come on, Griff. I’m like…three seconds from falling apart. I cannot hold you together, too.”

He goes silent, but it’s not for long. It’s like a sink has come unstoppered, and his words are water, flooding through. Inwardly, I hum, trying to block the sound of his voice.

Don’t want to talk about it. Don’t want to—

“…let’s forget for a minute that she was pregnant. She was going to have that baby in the goddamn toilet,” he’s saying, and I can’t shut him out. “And he was going to let her! What kind of daddy lets his little girl—”

I stop him with a hand raised. “The kind who molested and got her pregnant, I’d bet. The kind who didn’t want to go to prison.”

“At least he’s in jail now. He won’t—”

“Can we not? Can we be done with this conversation? I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

The sun is up by the time we reach the station, deceptively warm and bright on this cold November day. We do a quick wash and rinse of the ambo and head inside to grab our belongings from our lockers, shift over for the next forty-eight hours.

Exhaustion pulls at every muscle like a Benadryl cocktail, but it’s simply lack of sleep. Sleep is non-existent when you work Chicago’s night shift emergency services.

But it makes it all the sweeter to sink into when you finally get the chance.

God willing, my loud freaking neighbors will be off somewhere, and the building will be quiet. I’ll pull the blackout shades, snuggle into my bamboo comforter, pull the weighted blanket up, and—

“Hart!” Captain Lange barks my name, interrupting my fantasy and pausing me midstep.

“Sir?”

“Mail for you on your bunk.”

“Thanks.” I begin walking away.

“Tough call tonight. I hear you did as well as you could.”

Fuck. Images of terror-filled eyes, a tiny infant that refused to cry, and blood…so much blood…fills my vision.

Back to my captain, I squeeze my eyes closed and snap the rubber bands again. My wrist aches in protest. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t forget the city offers counseling if you need to talk—”

“I don’t.”

Cap doesn’t reply, his disapproval palpable in the air.

“Thank you, anyway.”

Finished, I continue down the hall to the dorm. My bunk is a top one in the back corner, the envelope Cap spoke of glaring white against the dark coverlet.

Plucking it off the bed, I study it curiously.

It’s hand-addressed to the station care of my full name, Reva Leigh Hart, in thick black Sharpie, which is a curiosity, given I haven’t used my middle name in close to a decade.

Instead of a return address, the words, “WHAT YOU SEEK” is written in all caps on three lines.

My heartbeat quickens.

There’s only ever been one thing I’ve looked for.

Revenge.

Removing one of the hairpins I use to keep my thick mop of nut-brown hair out of the way, I use it to slit the envelope and draw out the contents: a single Polaroid photograph of what appears to be a bar, the picture faded and discolored by age.

In the white space at the bottom, a few words are scrawled in the same ink and handwriting as my name and address: Noir, Toulouse Street. Ask for Midnight.

A spidery chill skitters along my spine.

The name is familiar. When I turned eighteen, bursting with nine years of repressed rage, I used a frightening amount of my parents’ life insurance payout to acquire a list of guns for hire from my techie friend Joss.

I had no idea what I was doing, no idea how to go about finding and hiring someone to kill a person…but I was determined to figure it out.

I had a name, overheard on a one-sided phone conversation one night when my foster father thought I was in bed asleep, and just like that, I had an unquenchable desire for revenge.

The person apparently responsible for the murder of my parents and sister, identified by my view of that rosary tattoo, was a man named Deacon.

Whether he was acting on his own volition or had been hired by someone else, I still didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Deacon needed to die, and I was going to hire someone to take care of that.

Joss actually came through, providing a list of several potentials. Each had their own unique way of ‘scheduling.’ Some liked everything to be one hundred percent digital. Others wanted to meet in person, and provided a location rather than a name or email.

One of the names on the list had been Midnight, listed with, like several of the others, a phone number to call. For the right price, Midnight could supposedly help me in my quest for revenge.

I tap the photo thoughtfully against my opposite thumb, chewing on my lip.

Until now, I had come no closer to learning who was responsible for the murders of my family, other than that distinctive tattoo and the name Deacon.

Years had gone by with no mention of him.

Every now and then I got Joss to do a half-hearted dark web search to see if anything new had turned up regarding his location, but it’s as if he was a ghost. Last time I checked, Joss told me the man was likely either dead or in prison—no one could possibly hide that well.

It didn’t do me any good to hire someone to kill the man if I couldn’t find him, so I never called on any of the contract killers on the list. I didn’t know if any of the numbers even still worked.

But now this.

What you seek.

What the hell was that supposed to mean, exactly? Apparently Midnight was connected to Noir in some way…was it possible that Deacon was there, too?

And who the hell knew I wanted someone dead? What else did they know?

Swallowing down my unease, I lick my lips and slide the photo back into the envelope, then grab my backpack-slash-purse from my locker. It could be a coincidence.

I don’t believe in coincidence.

Back home in the seventh-floor brownstone I rent in Pullman, I drop my bag inside the door and collapse on the bed. I take long enough to dash off a text to Joss—

Has anyone been asking about me? Have you TOLD anyone anything about me? Got a weird package today. —R

—and then collapse with a groan of bone-deep fatigue. I love my job, but it’s exhausting. I’m too tired to even think about the soap opera my life is turning into.

I’m almost asleep when I remember my shoes and have to sit up to shove them off. Daylight seeps in around the edges of the blackout shades, reminding me that it’s still daytime, and the sounds of traffic filter up from the street below.

With a sigh, I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head to cut some of the light.

This is as good as it gets. If I could stay awake long enough to get naked, that would be fabulous, but it’s not going to happen.

And a cat…a cat would be great as cuddle company during daytime naps, but I’ve never felt I was home enough to get one. Ah, well. Maybe one day.

I had one, once. Mr. T. An orange and white stripey thing, with a white cross on his forehead, sweet and goofy and friendly. I was petting him that night…

Mr. T wouldn’t stop licking my face.

I loved his kitty kisses, but I had just fallen asleep, and he woke me up. My sister, Delia, was having a sleepover with her friend Dani, and they’d kept me up for hours with their talking and giggling.

It was very annoying. Even more so because Delia was my twin, and twins should stick together. Delia was acting like she didn’t even want me around when her friend was here.

“Stop it, Mr. T,” I said, giving him a quick kiss of my own. He purred louder and burrowed into my armpit beneath the blanket.

At least he hadn’t abandoned me.