Vengeance of the Demon (Kara Gillian 7)

After a glance to make sure the agent was still on his phone, I flipped through the old pages. Agent Ryan Kristoff had been at the plantation every day since the investigation began and, with the exception of today, for anywhere from three to eight hours.

Which, of course, signified absolutely nothing. After all, there was a shitload to go through on a very large plantation. I handed the clipboard to Agent Square-Jawed Law Student and strolled back to Pellini’s car, glancing at him and Boudreaux in time to see the latter again glare daggers at me. I returned a bland look.

Boudreaux shoved the piece of paper at Pellini. “Why is she here?” he snarled, gesturing my way with a sharp slash of his hand. Without waiting for an answer, he reached through his car window to grab a folder then stormed toward me, teeth bared.

I instinctively shifted into a defensive stance. This was way more than his usual Kara-you-suck attitude.

“What the fuck did you have to do with all of this?” he demanded and swept his arm up to indicate the plantation. “What did you do?”

Son of a bitch. “Back off, asshole,” I shot back. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Boudreaux flipped open the folder to reveal an enlarged copy of the photo Pellini had shown me in the restaurant. “That!” He jabbed a finger at blurry me behind McDunn. “You were here, not three feet from Mr. Farouche.”

I scoffed. “Seriously? That’s not me dude.” Admit nothing, deny everything. “Don’t know who it is, but just because I’m kinda female-shaped doesn’t mean I’m every female.”

His expression hardened as he pulled a sheet from beneath the photo and slapped it on top. “Fuck. You.”

Fuck me is right. It was a computer-aided police artist sketch of a woman who looked an awful lot like one Kara Gillian. I fought to channel my shock and dismay into a wrongfully accused and pissed reaction.

Boudreaux shook the folder at me. “That’s a little more clear than ‘kinda female shaped.’” Anger sharpened his tone. “Tell me!”

I pygahed then lowered my voice. “Boudreaux, it’s not me,” I said, calm and insistent. “I don’t know what’s going on here.”

The fury in his eyes faded into desperation. “Gillian . . . just tell me what happened.” His words resonated with pain and confusion. His need for information had nothing to do with making an arrest and everything to do with finding closure for his own grief.

Farouche had been responsible for a host of evil acts, but he’d clearly been very important to Boudreaux. An ache of sympathy bloomed in my chest. If I came clean to him right now there was every chance he wouldn’t pursue it any further. Unfortunately, I couldn’t leave it to chance. Too many other lives were at stake.

“Boudreaux, I can’t.”

His eyes went flat as he slapped the folder shut. He knew I was holding back. “You’re done,” he said through clenched teeth, then strode back to his car and drove off.

Pellini ambled my way. “What’s up with that?” His tone stayed mild, but he watched my every reaction.

I let annoyance creep into my voice. “What’s up with what? A sketch of a woman who he’s decided is me?” I shook my head. “He’s never liked me, and I’m an easy target for his anger.”

Pellini regarded me in silence. “Yeah. That must be it,” he finally said, sounding utterly unconvinced. “I’ve had enough of this place. Nothing here for me. You ready to roll?”

“Gladly.”

• • •

Pellini kept the radio on for the drive back which once again saved us from awkward silence. It remained plenty awkward as we sat there not talking, but Pink Floyd was singing about being comfortably numb which at least saved us from the silence part. I wasn’t bored, though. I spent the majority of the drive going over options regarding Pellini and the shocking way he’d batted that potency aside.

I’d worked with Pellini for years and hardly knew the guy. What I needed was a chance to determine whether or not he possessed any sort of arcane skill. It still seemed ludicrous—after all, this was Pellini—bu

t it would be the height of stupidity to not check everything out.

My thoughts continued to churn in a messy useless sludge, and when we pulled into the PD parking lot I was no closer to a defined course of action.

Pellini cleared his throat as he parked. “I, uh, know the plantation was a bust, but maybe we could get together for a beer later today, and I could pick your brain about other possible connections to my case?”

And, like that, a solution emerged. “I’ll do you one better,” I said brightly. “You can come over to my house tonight. Say around seven? A couple of friends are staying with me for a few days, and we’re going to grill up hamburgers and ribs. You’re welcome to join us, and after we eat you and I can discuss the case.”

Tension melted away from him, and he smiled. Not a nasty smile, either. “Seven. Yeah. I can totally do that. I’ll bring the beer.”

And I’ll bring the demon.

Chapter 9