“Can we ask what he told you?”
She started to speak, but stopped and pressed her lips together, working to control her emotions. “He died after a car accident. Earlier that day, his wife had seen him with another woman. When he was in the hospital, before he passed, he heard her say she believed he was having an affair. But he wasn’t. The woman was a jewelry designer. Her name was Rosa de Santos, and he was having a special necklace made for his wife. He asked me to tell her all that. To tell her that Rosa has her necklace.”
“Oh, damn,” I said quietly, tears threatening me as well. We worried about our own, our Novitiates, our House, when there were a million tiny tragedies every day. And as Annabelle’s work tonight had proven, a million tiny miracles.
“Yeah,” she said. “I have a lot of nights like this. But I’ll call Mrs. Leeds, and tell her about Rosa and the necklace. She’ll grieve again; it’s inevitable. But now the fog across her memories, the fear of infidelity, will be gone.”
“We’ll let you get to that,” Ethan said. “And we’ll get back to our search.”
“You know,” she said, glancing toward the south, “if there are any maverick supernaturals around here, you might find them in Hellriver. The chemicals shouldn’t hurt immortals, and there are plenty of sups who just don’t care about that kind of thing. Where better to wheel and deal than in a neighborhood like Hellriver?”
“And since the CPD doesn’t risk its officers’ health by sending them into Hellriver,” Ethan said, “there’s protection for them.”
Annabelle nodded. “They do sweeps once a year or so. Usually around Christmas. Charitable types will come around, shuffle any remaining humans into shelters, and the cops will follow, round up any stragglers. But when the holidays pass, there’s not so much goodwill, and temps get cold again, people find their way back into the houses.”
Living on the edge, Ethan said silently to me. Much like Caleb Franklin. He glanced at Annabelle. “How do you know so much about it?”
She smiled. “I come across all types, and I pick up information here and there, file it away. Context is important in my business. You never know what information you’ll need. The folks who request my services aren’t always on the up-and-up. And, frankly, ’mancers like to talk. This job can be dangerous. We try to keep each other aware.”
“Any idea where in Hellriver the sups might be?”
“No, sorry. I stay out of there physically.” She patted her belly, as if her touch would protect her child from the darkness around her. “Especially with Peanut, who is currently again kickboxing my internal organs. Enough already, kid.”
“We’ll let you get back to work,” Ethan said. “If you do hear anything, could you let us know?”
“Of course,” she said with a smile, and we exchanged numbers.
“It was a pleasure meeting you.” Annabelle smiled and offered a hand.
I looked instinctively down, realized the skin of her palm was dotted with hundreds of black dots the size of pinpricks. When I looked at them, she looked down, squeezed her fingers.
“Each handshake with a client leaves a mark,” she explained. “Not all ’mancers do it; they don’t like the permanent reminder of death. But it’s important for me to keep a memento of the ones I’ve spoken to. They trust me, and I take that trust very seriously.”
I had no doubt of that. I took her hand, shook it. “I’m really glad we got to meet you, Annabelle.”
“I’m glad you did, too. Be safe. And stay away from ghouls if you can.”
I intended to, absolutely.
? ? ?
“Where to now?” I asked Ethan when we made our way to the sidewalk again.
“I suppose we should take a look at Hellriver. See if we can find alchemy or other sorcery.”
I nodded, and we walked south toward the broken fence that marked the boundary between Franklin’s neighborhood and Hellriver.
“We’ve discovered something our stalwart Sentinel is squeamish about,” Ethan said. “Dead things.”
“Dead things should stay that way. Present company excluded,” I added at his arch look. “Because you’re the most handsome ghoul of them all.”
He snorted.
“Annabelle seems cool. Very levelheaded for a woman who does what she does for a living. She seems like the type who gets the job done, takes care of her family, fries up the bacon or whatever.”
“Are you casting a sitcom?”
“It certainly sounds like it.”
We reached the chain-link fence that separated Hellriver from the rest of the world, which still bore enormous yellow signs warning of the chemical spill. We walked over a section of fence that had been flattened against pavement, passed a peeling billboard of the neighborhood’s once-famous dogwood trees. FOR BACKYARDS, FOR COMMUNITY, FOR YOUR FAMILY, it read.