“And aren’t you the lucky one?”
“Yeah,” I said, tossing my arms around Parker’s neck, liking the woozy feeling in my head. “Aren’t I?”
Parker grinned down at me and I noticed how perfect and white his teeth were. I brushed his lips with my fingertips, and he caught my hand, gently kissing my palm. The touch of his lips sent a little quiver down low in my belly.
“I like you, Parker Hayes,” I said, working hard to lock my eyes to his. Parker brushed his hand over my hair, shaking a few strands of charred pot roast off his sleeve.
“You’re all right, too, Lawson.”
I was leaning heavily against Parker, loving the feel of his warm, muscular pectoral muscle against my cheek and maybe drooling just the smallest bit when Nina walked in.
“Nina!” I wailed, throwing my arms around her and stiffening against her chilled skin. “I have been looking everywhere for you. Do you know Parker Hayes?”
Nina wriggled out of my embrace and narrowed her eyes at Parker. I had never seen that smoldering look, and I slumped down, sitting hard on a kitchen chair. “Are you mad?”
“What did you do to her?” Nina ignored me, her words sharp and directed at Parker.
“Me?” Parker wagged the bottle in front of Nina’s nose. “Don’t ask me, ask Robert Mondavi.”
Even in my less than optimal state I could feel the heat as Nina’s eyes raked over me.
“It was St. Supery,” I whispered.
“She’s had a little too much to drink,” Parker explained in a low voice.
Nina’s dark eyes slid to the ceiling.
“And an issue with the microwave.”
“I made pot roast!” I said brightly. I looked at Nina’s white fangs and frowned. “It’s too bad you don’t eat.”
“No, it isn’t,” Parker and Nina said in unison.
“This is nice,” I said, pulling my legs up onto the chair and curling my arms around them. “It’s like we’re all having a dinner party. A nice, normal dinner party.”
The last splat of pot roast peeled off the ceiling and hit Nina right between the eyes.
“Come on, Lawson,” Parker said, tugging on my arm. “Let’s get you into bed.”
“Let’s!” I said, standing up quickly.
Nina grabbed my arm. “That’s fine. I think you’ve done enough, Detective Hayes. I can get my roommate to bed.”
I linked an arm around each of them, feeling lighter than air as they dragged me into the living room. “My friends,” I said, happily.
Nina stepped away from me and stooped, her dark eyes focused on the scatter of crime-scene photos I had left on the floor.
“Are these from the murders?” she asked, her head cocked.
“Yeah,” Parker said. And then, to me, “They were supposed to be confidential.”
“Whoops!” I sang. “They must have fallen out of my safe.”
“We know the first one is Alfred Sherman—”
“Sophie’s attorney friend,” Nina supplied.
“Right. The second was a vagrant. Forensics just came back with an ID. Dauber. Dauber Sawyer.”
Nina leaned down, her bare feet making no indentation on the soft-pile carpet. “Dauber Sawyer is no vagrant.” Her eyes were wide, matter-of-fact. “He’s the general manager of Dirt. He went missing over a week ago.”
“He went dead about a week ago,” Parker said, straightening up.
Nina’s eyebrows went up. “How dead?”
My stomach gurgled. “How dead is there? Isn’t there just dead and”—I looked at Nina—“undead?”
“Really dead,” Parker finished. “Was Sawyer a demon? How well did you know him?”
Nina shrugged. “He wasn’t a demon. He was a seer.”
I felt the saliva go hot and metallic in my mouth. “A seer?” I whispered.
Parker looked hard at me. “A seer whose eyeballs had been gouged out.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said, weaving my way toward the bathroom.
Chapter Eighteen
I locked the bathroom door behind me and then sunk down onto the cool tile, cradling my head in my hands.
Sophie Lawson, General Failure.
I clamped my eyes shut, feeling light-headed and odd, and that was when I saw Mr. Sampson.
With my eyes closed I had a perfect image in my mind of Mr. Sampson, though not from any memory I’d ever had. He was chained, but not against the chocolate-brown walls of his UDA office, and he looked disheveled and forlorn. He was in his human form, but his clothes were ragged and torn, and his usually pink-scrubbed skin looked sallow and was streaked with dirt and blood.
“Sophie?” he whispered, his lips dry and cracked, his voice low and hoarse. “Sophie, can you hear me?” His brown eyes were searching in the dim light.
I could see my own head nodding and then hear my own voice. It reverberated, dreamlike, through my skull.
“Mr. Sampson! Are you okay?”
“Oh God, Sophie, you’ve got to get me out of here. We’ve got to stop him.”
“Where are you?” I heard myself say. “Stop who?”