The toaster burped up another pastry. Finn grabbed it and tossed it to me. I clutched the thin wafer in my right hand. The heat didn't bother me. Then again, Finn wasn't the one with scars on his hands. Wasn't the one who'd felt the spider rune burn into his flesh. Silverstone metal could contain only so much magic. The Fire elemental who'd been torturing me had had more than enough to turn my rune into superheated liquid, mark me forever, and laugh all the while. The memory made my head ache, and I massaged my temple.
The television was on, although the sound was muted. Some incomprehensible game show with what looked like screaming contestants flickered on the screen. I changed the channel to the Food Network.
"Any more news about my botched hit last night?"
"Nothing much," Finn said. "More press conferences at lunchtime with the police, namely Captain Wayne Stephenson vowing to catch you no matter what. Another one with Alexis James talking about what a great guy Gordon Giles was and how she hopes the reward will help bring his killer to justice. Do you know they've gotten more than a thousand tips since she offered that money last night?"
"A million dollars." I shook my head. "Every nut job in Ashland, elemental and otherwise, will be after me. Or at least chasing my ghost."
"Hell, for that much, I'm tempted to turn you in myself." I stared at him.
"Not that I ever would," Finn amended. "Friendship is much more important than money."
I arched an eyebrow. Finn's lips started to twitch, and he let out a low chuckle. I snorted. "I can't believe you said that with a straight face."
"Me either," he confessed.
I threw one of the sofa pillows at him. Finn ducked out of the way.
His smile faded, and he jerked his head at one of the windows that fronted the street.
"Sophia called the cops to the Pork Pit. They arrived around three this afternoon." I got up and stared through a crack in the curtains at the street below. Yellow crime-scene tape hung across the front door of the restaurant. The afternoon sun flashed on the slick tape, creating a bright spot that burned my eyes. No one moved inside the storefront. Normally, at five on a weekday afternoon, folks would be waiting to get in and be seated. But people passing by only slowed their steps and shot curious but knowing looks at the restaurant. In Ashland, crime-scene tape was better than an obit in the newspaper.
I usually worked in the afternoons, since the restaurant was so slammed, and I missed the noise and rush of the supper crowd, along with just knowing that Fletcher was leaning against the cash register, sipping his chicory coffee and reading a few pages of his latest book the way he had for so many years now.
Things that the old man would never do again.
The grief and guilt threatened to overwhelm me again, but I focused on the cold rage in my chest, letting it freeze out the other, softer emotions. I'd had my crying fit last night. Now was the time to be strong. For me, for Fletcher, and especially for Finn.
I'd let Fletcher down. I wasn't going to do the same to his son.
"The cops are gone already?" I murmured.
"Yeah," Finn said. "Bastards weren't even there an hour. The coroner arrived before they did. The cops looked around a few minutes, loaded up his body, and left." We stood there a minute, watching the world turn. A world Fletcher wasn't part of any more. The cold rage beat in my chest, a slow, steady drum.
Finn spoke first. "I hate to be demanding, but we need some sort of plan, Gin.
Because this little conspiracy we've gotten caught up in isn't going to go away until we're both dead. I know Dad always told us to leave town. To get away if anything happened to him or one of us. But I-I can't do that, Gin. I just can't. Not until whoever is behind this pays for what he did to Dad. I understand if you want to leave town-"
"Shut up," I snarled. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm not running, and I'm not leaving town." Finn blinked. "You're not?"
Fletcher's flayed face flickered in front of me. His ruined flesh. His blood on the floor of the Pork Pit. The icy knot in my chest tightened. "No, I'm not going anywhere."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. Double-crossing us is one thing. If this had been about not paying us the rest of our fee, well, I could have understood that. It's happened before. But they killed Fletcher. They hurt you. They set me up. And that is unacceptable." Finn pulled his green eyes away from the Pork Pit and looked at me. "So what's the plan? How do we find out who's behind this?"
"One body at a time."
Finn blinked at the vehemence in my voice, but I'd already moved on to more practical matters. "What about work? What are you telling the money men at the bank?" I asked.
"Already taken care of. I told my boss I'm sick with grief over the murder of my father and taking a week off," he said. "Not a lie, really."
"What we need to do first is figure out what Gordon Giles was really up to."
"You think the client lied to Dad? That would never happen." Finn's voice dripped with sarcasm like grease off a piece of bacon. "How do you propose we decipher the motives and activities of a dead man? Because Gordon Giles certainly isn't going to tell us anything."
I rolled my eyes. "Simple. All we have to do is meet with Donovan Caine." Silence. Finn squinted at me for a few seconds. Then he stuck one finger in his ear, wiggled it around, and pulled it out, as if clearing wax out of the passageway.
"Sorry, Gin, but I think you stayed in the insane asylum a little too long. Because that's the craziest idea you've ever had. Meet with Donovan Caine? Are you out of your f**king mind?"
I ignored Finn's rising tone. Sometimes he screeched worse than a five-year-old.
"It makes perfect sense. Donovan Caine was at the opera house to see Gordon Giles.
Somebody went to a lot of trouble to kill Giles, blame me, and tie the whole thing off with my corpse. That tells me this is about more than just embezzled funds. I want to talk with Caine and see what he knows. See why he was meeting with Giles." Finn scratched his chest and leaned against the wall. The muscles in his shoulders rolled and bulged with the movement. "And how do you propose to get Caine to tell you all that?"
"Because we know something he doesn't." "And that would be ..."
"That somebody in the police department is in on this."
"This is Ashland, Gin. The police are usually in on it. They make careers out of that sort of thing." I stared at Finn.
He sighed. "Fine. Tell me what you're thinking."