Blood of the Demon (Kara Gillian 2)

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?” This was good. No need for interrogations when people were more than willing to gossip.

“Really. That’s why everyone was so baffled when they found out she’d left him. And apparently she filed for divorce the same day.”

That was news to me. “Well, she probably still gets a decent settlement, right?”

He shrugged. “I suppose, but the money was only part of it. She loved being Mrs. Davis Sharp—society wife.” He gave a soft snort of what might have been derision. “She loved all the trappings—the parties, the events. Loved being seen and noticed. Like her car. Davis bought the two of them matching red Mercedes convertibles as a wedding present. She wanted hers to be bright yellow, so everyone would know it was her when she drove it. But they don’t come in yellow, and Davis—thank God—refused to let her have it painted.” He shook his head and straightened. “Well, I’d best go do my duty. It was nice talking to you.”

“And you too,” I replied with a smile. And thanks for the gossip, I added silently.

I didn’t stay much longer. There was no reason for me to pay my respects to the widow and plenty of reason not to, since she was a suspect.

A low rumble of thunder greeted me as I exited the church. By the time I pulled out of the parking lot, it was a full downpour and I had to flick the wipers to high to be able to see anything.

My phone pinged to tell me I had a text message, but since I was already driving white-knuckled, I waited until I was stopped at a red light to look at it.

It was from Ryan.

This weather sucks ass. Why the fuck am I moving here? Surfer Boy says Hi.

I grinned and quickly thumbed in a reply.

Wimp. This is just light drizzle. Ur moving here cuz we are only ones who can tolerate you. Everyone else hates you. Sad but true. Say hi to surfer boy.

The light turned just as my phone pinged again. The next three lights were green, so I finally gave up and pulled into a parking lot to read his reply.

I knew it. Those fuckers. Explains why no one comes to my Star Trek themed xmas parties. But you still love me forever and ever?

I couldn’t help grinning like an idiot as I read it, even though I knew he was joking around.

Only out of pity. And only when you bring me donuts.

I replied. I waited, and half a minute later it pinged.

Donut love. I’m cool with that. If you’re not busy, come by our office. Zack is pining for you.

“What a dork,” I muttered as I pulled back onto the road. But I was smiling.

Chapter 14

I’d never been to the local FBI office before, and upon entering I realized that I hadn’t been missing much. There was no reception area, or secretary, or phones—in fact, it was pretty much just a white room about the size of my kitchen, with two metal desks, a black filing cabinet, and some chairs that looked like they’d been purchased at a thrift store. And I had the distinct feeling that Ryan and Zack had been forced to beg, borrow, and bribe to get what little they had.

An older couple stood inside near the door, but there was no sign of Zack or Ryan.

“They’re in the back,” the woman said before I could ask, jerking a thumb toward the opposite wall. I looked where she’d indicated and saw the outline of a door that I’d missed seeing at first. “Agent Kristoff is looking for an umbrella.” She looked out sourly at the sky. The rain had slacked off considerably on my way over here, and I personally didn’t think an umbrella was necessary for the twenty-foot walk to what I assumed was their car—the only car in the lot that wasn’t obviously some sort of official vehicle. But since I wasn’t the one who had to go hunting up an umbrella, I kept my opinion to myself.

“Thanks,” I said instead. The sour look remained on her face, though the man with her gave me a gentle smile. I figured them both to be in their late fifties or so, but there was a pallor about the man that made me suspect he was sick—and not with something that would soon pass.

The door in the back wall opened and Ryan emerged, carrying a large black umbrella. “Here you go, Mr. and Mrs. Galloway. I’ll walk you out to your car.” He gave me a smile and a slight nod of acknowledgment, then held the door open and the umbrella ready for the couple. He escorted them to their car, carefully shielding them from the few drops of rain that still fell, then jogged back to the office as they pulled out of the small parking lot.

He wasn’t smiling when he returned.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

He made a rude noise in the back of his throat. “Would be better if I had victims who could understand that if they aren’t willing to testify, then there’s not much I can do for them.”

I gave a sympathetic grimace. “Who are they? Or can’t you tell me?”

“Sam and Sara Galloway. They used to own a popular—and profitable—restaurant on the lakefront called Sam and Sara’s.”