The Unkindness of Ravens by M. Hilliard (readera ebook reader .txt) 📗

to happen again. Wait here.”

She pulled the keys from the ignition and hopped out, locking the car behind her. I huddled into the seat, pulling the jacket she had given me more closely around myself. The blanket provided by the EMTs was soaked by the time they were satisfied I was not concussed and in no need of a trip to the ER. Jennie Webber had assumed responsibility for me, handed me her coat, and bundled me into her car.

I watched the beam from her flashlight bounce around as she did a circuit of the house. Pierre barked, and lights went on briefly in Henri’s apartment. She went up the stairs to my place, where she did a thorough check of the porch. She returned to the car and grabbed my bag from the back.

“Let’s go. Everything seems fine. But I want you to take a good look around when we get upstairs. If anything seems out of place or not quite right, you tell me.”

Worked for me. I wanted to get somewhere safe and hand over the evidence, and I’d decided Officer Webber was my best bet. She was twitchy and ever-vigilant, but she wasn’t easily fazed and she’d proven willing to bend the rules. After I’d dragged myself up the stairs and assured her that everything was as I left it, she took my keys, unlocked the door, and we repeated the drill inside. The place was its usual degree of untidy—stacks of books here and there, a pair of shoes by the door, and the hamper of clean laundry in the bedroom. Not great, but not bad. I could tell that nothing was disturbed, but I doubted anyone else could.

“It’s fine. Everything is just as I left it. I’m not what you’d call a neat freak.”

“No judgement. I’m not either.”

I doubted that, but it was nice of her to say.

“You should be okay here for the rest of the night. We’ll have someone in an unmarked car on the street in a couple of minutes. You’re not going anywhere alone until we catch whoever killed Joanna Goodhue.”

“I’d rather you stayed. I found something. And I’ve heard things, things that don’t make a lot of sense, but I think they’re important.”

“I can call O’Donnell—”

“No. I’ll talk to you.”

She looked surprised, and a little suspicious.

“While you’ve been watching me, Officer Webber, I’ve been watching you. Sam O’Donnell outranks you, and is more inclined to take me at my word, but he’s from Raven Hill. We’re not. What I think is going on? I think you’ll get it. I don’t know that he will.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced, but she pulled out her phone.

“Give me a minute,” she said and stepped onto the porch.

I used the time to fill the kettle and put it on. By the time she came back I’d decided on my approach.

“I’ll stay,” she said, “but if I feel I need to call Lt. O’Donnell in, I will.”

“Fine. Take a look at this. I’m freezing, I need to take a hot shower and change.”

I dropped the baggy of evidence on the kitchen table and headed to the bathroom. I needed a few minutes to figure out how to finesse the details of my story. I leaned on the vanity, let out a big sigh, and looked in the mirror.

The Hag of the Dribble looked back.

“Gah.” I turned my back on the apparition and peeled off my wet clothes. Within a minute I was in the shower, sudsing and lathering and hoping the hot water pounding on my head would help me order my thoughts. By the time I emerged, I had my story straight. I needed to gloss over some of the timing, but otherwise I was giving her the truth.

Officer Webber was sitting at my little kitchen table, frowning over the evidence. The kettle was rattling on its burner, emitting little puffs of steam. I rummaged in the pantry for what I needed.

“Tea?” I called over my shoulder.

A brief pause. Perhaps breaking bread with a former suspect was not covered in the police academy.

“Sure, thanks,” she replied.

I set a tin of Irish Breakfast on the counter, and added a jar of honey and a bottle of Jameson’s. I was pulling mugs from the cabinet when I saw her eye the whiskey.

“Irish cough syrup,” I said, as I set the tea to steep.

“Do you have a cold?”

“No, but I’ve had a chill.” I coughed. “See? I think I’m coming down with something.”

She rolled her eyes but her lips twitched.

“Cream? Honey? Whiskey?” I waved the Jameson’s at her.

“Straight.”

“The whiskey?”

“The tea.”

I set it in front of her and turned back to the counter. After a few sips of my own doctored tea, my nerves settled.

“We need to talk about all this, Ms. Hogan.”

“Call me Greer. I think it’s time we dispensed with the formalities. Fire away.”

I took another swallow of my tea and pulled out a frying pan.

“This flash drive, Joanna Goodhue’s?”

“Yes.”

“And you came across this how?”

This was the tricky part. I stuck my head in the fridge and pulled out eggs and butter.

“I found it in the archives this afternoon.”

“You just happened to find it?”

“I was looking for something else at the time.”

Silence.

I looked over. She raised an eyebrow.

“Really,” I said. “Did you look at the sheet of paper that was wrapped around it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

She smoothed out the notes and studied it while I whisked eggs and made toast. She didn’t say anything until I set the plates on the table and sat across from her.

“A girl’s gotta keep her strength up,” I said. “I’ve never been one of those women who are too delicate to eat a bite after a shock.”

“Neither have I.”

“So, what do you think?” I waved my fork at the notes.

“I have no idea what any of this means.”

I was impressed she admitted it.

“Neither did I at first.”

“But you do now?”

“I think so, but it took me a while. I found the paper a couple of days ago, tucked in a book. I kept