Chapter Sixteen
Thoughts of Jeannie and krokodil, of Scratch and dangerous emotions—and even Grif, wherever the hell he was—were gone as Kit peeled haphazardly through Vegas’s urban core. But a buzzing filled Kit’s head—Marin’s tattered cry on perpetual repeat—while her heart pounded hard enough to breach her chest. She dialed 9-1-1. She gave the operator Marin’s location. Then she rocketed toward the newspaper’s offices, determined to get there first.
The hospital and paper were each pinned in the middle of the city, but so was the police station, so Kit was surprised to arrive at the Trib’s grounds first. No guard, Kit realized, as she whipped through the open gate. It would have given her pause—why did it feel, suddenly, like danger lurked everywhere?—but she’d already spotted the small figure propped like a doll outside the employee exit.
“Marin!” Kit was out of the car, screaming as she ran toward her aunt, only vaguely conscious of sirens rising into the air somewhere behind her. There was blood. There was her aunt, glassy-eyed and slack-mouthed, head rolling Kit’s way.
There was a needle taped to the inside of Marin’s arm.
In it, a viscous yellow substance was primed, and pointing dangerously at the delicate blue vein of her forearm, held in place by a dirty makeshift tourniquet. Masking tape, yards of it, secured Marin’s other arm so that it was pressed tight and useless at her side.
Kit’s knees burned as she dropped down next to her aunt, gently edging a finger beneath the needle, and carefully angling it away. “I can’t remove it. It’s too tight.”
Sirens wailed closer behind her, but not close enough. Kit searched Marin’s free arm for marks, but the blood seemed to have all come from her face. A split lip. A bloody nose.
“J-just hold it clear until they get here.”
“Okay. I— it’s okay,” Kit lied, lifting her head to find Marin’s shocked gaze trying to locate her own. Her aunt—who single-handedly ran the city’s newspaper, and had fought off cancer like an Olympic gold medalist—managed a wobbly smile. Kit nodded and lowered her eyes again, studying the poisonous contents. Krokodil.
She fought back tears along with the shakes. She—and, more to the point, her aunt—couldn’t afford for her nerves to rise. Still, it was a lot to ask of someone whose sole living relative had just been attacked. Marin, who never missed any damn thing, realized it.
“Talk to me,” she said, voice weak, though the command was suddenly there.
“About what?” Breathe, thought Kit, breathe and stay focused.
“Where’s Grif?”
Damned good question. Kit jerked her head.
“Okay, the case you’re working on, then.”
You mean the one that did this to you? Kit wondered, but didn’t say. The one that put you in danger?
“Did you find out any more about the dealers?” Marin pressed.
Amazed, Kit just stared. The woman had just been attacked outside her own workplace, probably by those very same dealers, and while her blood was still wet on the pavement around her . . . she wanted to talk shop?
Kit shook her head. Yet there was a waiting in the silence. Marin needed a problem to solve, and focusing on that might keep Kit’s emotions under control as well, so she swallowed against the dryness in her throat and tried to gather her thoughts.
“Okay. Okay, well, I visited the user who survived. Jeannie Holmes. She was comatose, though. She couldn’t tell me anything.”
“It was worth a shot,” Marin said, wincing against some unseen pain. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come up with nothing only to circle a story from the other side and hit pay dirt.”
Marin’s breathing was beginning to steady, and the sirens finally seemed to be getting closer, allowing Kit to catch her breath as well. Perspective dawned with the passing minutes: this had been a warning, not an attack meant to hurt.
Somewhat reassured, Kit blew out a hard breath. “Well, maybe it just looks like nothing. I mean, as I was sitting there with this unconscious girl, I couldn’t help but think of negative space. Sometimes what’s not there is just as important as what is.”
“Elaborate, please.”
Kit almost—almost—smiled at that. It was one of Marin’s favorite directives. So she nodded. “Well, it’s like when I decorate my home. I first consider the layout of the room, its shape and form and function. Then I place the large pieces, sofas and tables and beds. After that, I layer in the medium pieces, the side tables and lighting. The small touches come after that, vignettes and tablescapes and all the knickknacks I own and love.”
Marin’s eyes began glazing over . . . and it wasn’t from shock. “The point?”
“Editing,” Kit said, just as shortly. “I go through the rooms and subtract twenty percent of what’s there. Clean it all up. Simplify. Make it look pretty.”
Marin wrinkled her nose at that, but in Kit’s world, pretty was always the point. “It’s the subtraction of detraction, Marin. That’s what makes a space impactful. It only looks like nothing is there. Follow?”
“Feel free to push that syringe,” Marin retorted.
Kit winced, then noted the closed-lip smile on her aunt’s face. In a chaotic situation, she’d once again taken control. “I’m just saying that it’s the same with people. You look past the obvious, and into the negative space they’ve left behind,” Kit said, like it was clear. “We still don’t know who this Bella woman is, but she’s not Yulyia Kolyadenko.”
And then three squad cars suddenly squealed into the wide lot, and steel-toed boots sounded behind Kit before hands were gently pulling at her arms. Voices rang in her ears, shouts rainbowing over her head and shattering the air’s stillness in relieving arcs, but before moving away, Kit made sure the needle was freed from Marin’s soft, delicate skin. Then the paramedics arrived, too, and they all backed off, and Marin was no longer alone.
“It was just a warning,” Kit heard someone say, a palm easing around her shoulder. Kit realized she’d sunk to the ground next to the exit. Her head had fallen into her palms and she was shivering despite the blazing heat.
“Grif?” She sat up, shaking off the image of blood and that needle and the horrified expression on Marin’s face when she’d arrived.
“It’s me, Kit,” the voice said, and her name settled her spinning mind.
“Dennis.”
“It was just a warning,” he repeated, palms warm on the sides of her head. His jaw clenched as he studied her face.
“Yes,” Kit said mechanically. It was a terrible one.
“Where is Grif?” he asked, voice strained.
Kit looked around at all the officers, at the paramedics, at Marin, then back at Dennis. She finally shook her head. “I don’t know.”
All she knew was he hadn’t been where he said he’d be.