15. Diem

15

Diem

I saw no gain in pointlessly running around the city, but the thought of returning to the office where I risked being alone with Tallus was unsettling. I had no idea how to proceed or what the expectation was at this point, and I’d made myself sick with worry.

What if he kissed me again?

What if he didn’t?

What if he insisted on a conversation? A relationship? A more detailed explanation of my failures?

What if the whole thing had been nothing more than a realistic dream?

Every time I closed my eyes, the memory of Tallus’s mouth returned. I tasted the silky glide of his tongue teasing my lips, seeking entry. I felt his warm hands on my face, keeping me in place. The solid line of his body invaded my bubble. Standing close. Wanting more.

Then, my world shattered into a billion irretrievable pieces because, to save my life, I couldn’t figure out how to take it further. Even in a fantasy, I was hopeless. Even when it wasn’t real, all I could offer was a disappointing exchange. How fucking pathetic. I couldn’t figure out where to put my hands or how to make the motions to return the kiss. Worse, I couldn’t find the words to tell Tallus how badly I wanted him, how much I didn’t deserve him, and how stupid he was for pursuing anything with me.

You’re a waste of space. Good-for-nothing, useless piece of shit.

Yeah, I know, Dad. Thanks.

No. I would drive around the city all fucking night, jump through imaginary hoops, and chase nonexistent leads if it meant not being alone in my apartment with him, where he would inevitably shine a spotlight on all my faults and back me into a corner.

Or he would go home.

Was that worse or better? I didn’t know anymore.

The bare-bones truth remained. If I couldn’t sort my shit out soon, Tallus would give up and walk away for good. And I really wanted to sort my shit out because never seeing him again would kill me.

Fucking therapy was proving to be useless.

What I needed was a manual. A step-by-step guide. The Dating for Dummies handbook.

Who was I kidding? Even then, I’d fail.

I growled under my breath, but Tallus didn’t comment. Thank god.

The sky was a nocturnal bruise when I reached the general vicinity of where Tallus had asked me to drive. Beecroft Road was long and likely busier during the daytime. At that later hour, pedestrian and road traffic had decreased. I pulled into an available street parking spot across from the York Cemetery and killed the engine.

Tallus scanned our surroundings, clucking his tongue. I still didn’t know why we were there, and he didn’t seem eager to explain.

Without a word, he hopped out and aimed for a ticket machine a few feet down the road. He dug his wallet from a pocket and purchased a parking permit. Returning to the Jeep, he handed it to me through the open passenger door.

“Put it on the dash, and let’s take an evening stroll, shall we?”

I did as he asked and got out, noting the nearby buildings. When the sparse traffic cleared, we crossed the street. On the other side, Tallus checked his phone. “This way.”

“What are we doing?” I jittered with anxiety and had been fighting a nasty craving for a drink or cigarette since visiting Winifred. Tallus and his antics had stressed me out so much my nicotine cravings were back in full force. Great. Wonderful. I hated the perpetual itch under my skin that I couldn’t scratch. I hated fighting my genetics day in and day out.

Tallus pocketed his phone and hit me with the knee-weakening, sultry smirk, the one I found hard to resist. “I did some detective work at Allan’s house. Aren’t you proud of me?”

“And?”

“And Allan Cornell did indeed visit Madame Rowena.” Tallus propped his hands on his hips, smug as can be.

Frowning, I examined the surrounding block again but didn’t see the psychic woman’s storefront anywhere, nor did I understand why he’d brought me to Beecroft.

A rumble sounded in my throat. “Tallus. Get to the fucking point.”

“Calm down, cuddle bear. I’ll explain.”

“Explain faster. It’s after eight. I’m starving, and I haven’t had dinner.”

“Huh. Me neither,” he said far too sarcastically. “Too bad there isn’t a sexy, brooding, six-and-a-half-foot hunk of a man around to ask me out on a date to a fancy restaurant. I wouldn’t say no.”

“Tallus—” my throat clogged when I tried to interject my opinion, but bubbly Tallus didn’t pause long enough to allow me to have a comment.

“So. Here’s what I’ve got. Allan Cornell got a parking ticket at nine eighteen p.m. on August first, mere days before he killed himself. He was parked in the 145-150 block of Beecroft Road. Right about there.” He pointed at where I’d left the Jeep.

My skin prickled with interest. I gave Tallus a look that urged him to continue.

“It means Allan was in the area long enough to pay for parking—which is a minimum of thirty minutes—and for his ticket to expire.”

I scanned the street again, still not fitting the pieces together. “And?”

“Follow me, Guns. I’m gonna blow your…” Tallus paused, scanned me up and down with his salacious bedroom eyes, then winked seductively. “Mind.” His smile was brilliant as he spun on his heels and sauntered into the cemetery.

My thoughts nose-dived into the gutter for half a beat before I realized he was getting away from me.

“Hustle, Guns.”

I hustled. I was always scrambling to keep up with Tallus. The man kept me on my toes.

Without streetlights, a blanket of darkness folded around us. The inner-city cemetery didn’t boast thick tree cover, but somehow, stepping within the gates dampened the traffic noises and gave the impression of seclusion. I caught a whiff of cigarettes and internally whimpered. Not what I needed. Maybe if I said it enough, my system would believe it.

Tallus held his phone in front of him, focusing more on the screen than where he was going. It was a good way to get mugged or trip and fall on his face since the ground was uneven.

I kept my eyes peeled as we weaved among rows of headstones, heading northwest. It might have been late evening and dark, but we weren’t alone. The cemetery was buzzing with activity. Several groups had assembled in shadowy corners, mostly questionable-looking young men who were likely up to no good. The cherry ends of cigarettes glowed near their faces. It was then I scented the musky aroma of weed as well.

The few women present were definitely up to no good. Their scarcely clad figures had little to do with the lingering August heat.

Toronto wasn’t without its homeless population, and there were more than a few vagabonds who’d set up camp—literally—among the crooked markers. One had fired up a camping stove and was cooking a whole can of beans on the blue flame.

It didn’t take long before we landed on a cedar-lined path leading out of the cemetery and found ourselves on Park Home Avenue. Tallus stopped, pivoted, checked his phone twice, and grinned as he pointed down the street. “Voilà.”

I followed his finger toward a blinking sign posted outside someone’s residence. The neon lights advertised Madame Rowena’s Readings and Spiritual Healing .

Looking smug, Tallus crossed his arms and waited for my reaction.

I scanned the street, but it was all houses, no offices or storefronts. Beecroft had boasted condominiums and an arts building. I could see no other reason why Allan might have been in the area.

Except to visit the psychic. Not for the first time, I was impressed with Tallus’s observational skills. All from a parking ticket.

“Let me see your phone. Do you still have the map up?” I asked.

Tallus handed me the device. It was zoomed in to show our location on the street, so I zoomed out until it covered several city blocks. I noted the position of every store, company, and restaurant in a three or four-block radius.

“There’s a library.”

“I saw that too, but they close at eight thirty on Thursday nights. August first was a Thursday. Allan was ticketed at nine eighteen. The library is less than a five-minute walk from where he parked. The timing doesn’t work.”

He was right, and nothing else in the vicinity drew my eyes except Madame Rowena’s. I glanced down the street again at the flashing sign on the front lawn. She operated from her house, which may or may not be legal, depending on if she’d obtained permits. The cop in me was always active, no matter how much I hated the association.

“Why not park on Park Home?” I motioned to the empty street.

Tallus gestured to a nearby sign half covered by a tree’s dense foliage. “No parking zone.”

He was right. And Beecroft was a quick jaunt away if you cut through the cemetery.

“I’m right, aren’t I? Allan came to see her days before he died. He might have seen her several times in the interim. Winnie said he was going out at night. That’s two, Guns. Two suspicious deaths attached to this woman. When are you going to admit I have something here?”

“Two suicides ,” I reminded him.

Sure, it was a curious coincidence, but nothing more. Allan being in the neighborhood before he died and Amber using the psychic’s services was not enough to raise suspicion. Not with me. It was still a stupid case based on nonsense superstitions. Mind control, brainwashing, or fucking skilled manipulation was not responsible for these two peoples’ deaths. Madame Rowena was not Jim Jones or David Koresh. At best, she was a dime-a-dozen scam artist long past her prime who used her well-honed skills to make a few extra bucks.

“You’re still not convinced.” The defeat in Tallus’s tone stung. His shoulders sagged, and he looked for all the world like a kicked puppy.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to. I can read your mind.” He waved his fingers near my face.

I deadpanned.

Tallus chuckled. “Okay, I can’t, but it’s written all over your face. You think I’m stupid.”

“ You’re not stupid,” I snapped.

“You think my theory is stupid.”

I held my tongue and stared from the blinking sign down the road, back into the cemetery from where we’d come, then to Tallus, who waited with bated breath for me to confirm or deny.

He was so eager about this case. His excitement was invigorating, so again, I mumbled a response to avoid bursting his bubble.

Tallus cupped an ear. “Say what? I didn’t catch that.”

“It’s not stupid. Let’s go check it out.” I didn’t know what we were looking for, but my insides quivered when a brilliant smile shone from Tallus’s eyes. No matter how I felt about his convoluted theory, it didn’t matter. I’d made the right decision.

Two cars occupied the driveway of the two-story house. A late-model tan Escort and a newer model BMW in a sleek black. A second sign was propped inside the front bay window, indicating Madame Rowena’s business hours. According to it, she was closed nightly at six o’clock.

That didn’t jibe with when Allan got his parking ticket, but I stayed quiet and let Tallus have fun. Never mind Mulder and Scully or Sherlock and Watson, Tallus was the rangy kid from Scooby-Doo. What was his name? I couldn’t remember. Either way, Tallus had a warped idea of investigative work.

He tugged me to crouch behind a red mailbox across the street so we could scope the joint —his words, not mine—then he proceeded to surreptitiously peek around the corner for several minutes to ensure the coast was clear.

I couldn’t give a fuck about staying inconspicuous and refused to duck down no matter how many times he insisted.

A heavy curtain hung over Rowena’s front window. It was dark beyond. In fact, every window visible from the street gave the impression no one was home. If it wasn’t for the two cars, I’d have made the remark out loud. Tallus must have reached the same conclusion, deciding it was safe, and took to the shadows as he followed the driveway past the two vehicles toward a backyard gate.

I scanned the empty street before chasing after him.

We hadn’t rounded the corner when muffled voices pierced the quiet night. Tallus froze, held up a staying hand, and cocked an ear to listen. The voices were coming from inside, raised in argument. It didn’t sound like a guest in the middle of a session with the psychic.

It was the tone of a man and a woman.

Dramatically peeking around the corner, Tallus surveyed the scene before gesturing the all clear. He opened the gate and entered the backyard. Less worried about discovery—maybe I wasn’t taking this seriously enough—I followed, refusing to crouch and proudly sauntering at my full six-and-a-half feet of height.

Tallus squatted low beneath a window emitting a strange reddish-orange glow across the yard. It cast a pool of crimson on the uneven stone path leading from the side gate to the rear door.

“Do you want to be seen?” he hissed, motioning for me to make myself less conspicuous.

I stood abreast of the window, body pressed to the decorative shutter stuck to the siding. Tallus must have decided it was a better spot and joined me, stealthily stealing long glances inside.

I was about to remind him to be careful—the interior lighting wasn’t bright enough to conceal us at the window—when his eyes bulged, and he flattened himself against the wall like he’d been caught.

Copying his action, I cursed under my breath, ready to run at the first hint of trouble. Had he been noticed? We were trespassing, but that ball of twine could unravel quickly if a disgruntled cop showed up. Stalking, burglary, predatory behavior. The list of potential charges was long.

“Holy shit,” Tallus hissed, glancing again before ducking away. “It’s him.”

“What? Him who?”

“Dr. Hilty. Mr. I swear I Haven’t Talked to my Wife Since the Divorce. That lying sack of shit. He’s in there right now. I saw him. Look.”

Tallus unglued himself from the wall and peeked through the window, waving for me to do the same. Curious, I stole a glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, the psychologist slash hypnotherapist was present. Tie askew, balding head exposed and glistening with sweat, face blotchy with angry red spots, the man radiated fury.

And he had a lot to say to his ex-wife if his runaway mouth was anything to go by.

In contrast, Madame Rowena didn’t appear fazed by the man spewing animosity. Standing her ground, shoulders relaxed, she wore a smug expression. The woman fit the stereotype I’d envisioned when picturing crazy psychics. Her wardrobe was not that different than what I’d seen in the photographs of her in her younger days. The seventies and early eighties had returned with a vengeance. I wasn’t sure if the costume was meant to set the stage so her customers believed the act or if the wardrobe was her preference.

She wore a long, flowing, multicolored, and layered skirt with a frilly blouse sporting poufy, bell-style sleeves and oversized wooden buttons. Her hair, more silver than brown, was parted down the middle and fell to her waist in wiry, frizzy curls. Around her neck, she wore a collection of colorful beaded necklaces. Hoop earrings dangled from each multi-pierced lobe. Her skin was surprisingly wrinkle-free and smooth for a woman in her sixties.

Hilty shouted, and Rowena smirked, shrugged, and shook her head accordingly. The more blasé her responses, the angrier he got.

The pair were in an office, or rather the room where I assumed Rowena entertained her clients. Again, the cliché was rich. A round table with a fringed cloth stood between the ex-husband and wife. A bowl of multicolored crystals sat in the center. Tarot cards were assembled in a neat pile beside a fat burning candle, and although the window was closed, I could swear a hint of cloves or jasmine or bergamot—fuck if I knew what to call it—wafted through the pane.

Celestial paintings hung on the walls. Numerous shelves were packed with figurines, labeled glass jars of herbs, and countless books. Unicorns, Tibetan bowls, dream catchers, trickling fountains, dragons holding gemstones, rune stones, and decorative wooden boxes meant to mimic antiques filled the spaces in between. More candles flickered near a partition by the door. Plants grew from every corner and hung in woven hemp holders from the ceiling. Strings of lights clung to every surface. It was magical, mystical, and so over-the-top I wanted to roll my eyes. Did people seriously believe in this bullshit?

The odd light bleeding through the window came from two color-shaded freestanding lamps.

As I tried to make out the design on the closer one, a sudden bang stiffened my spine and snapped me to attention. My heart rate went from ninety to nothing, my adrenaline surged, and I almost grabbed Tallus and threw him to the ground.

But once I processed the scene and realized the good doctor had done nothing more than slapped the table with a meaty palm, toppling the stack of tarot cards and making the candles flame sputter, I exhaled the panic.

The couple’s argument was muffled and mostly indecipherable, but I picked out the odd word here and there.

“…out of your mind… to prison again… not a game, Row… police… Who… now… to me… owe me… up to…”

Between Dr. Hilty’s rapid speech and the distortion caused by the closed window, the big picture wasn’t quite clear enough to grasp, but we listened and watched. Calm and collected Rowena had no come back for her ex’s vitriol, but when she did, her voice was too quiet to travel. Whatever her words, they only made him angrier. What caught my attention was the smug expression she wore. She didn’t fear this man. If anything, she looked self-satisfied. In control. And devious as hell.

“Give them to me,” Hilty shouted at the top of his voice, smacking the table again. “All of them.” His chest heaved as he waited for Rowena to act.

When Rowena didn’t move, Hilty shoved her out of the way and barreled toward a filing cabinet. He wrenched the top drawer open and ripped it apart, yanking out files from time to time and tossing them on the table. He did the same with the next drawer and the one below it until he’d gone through the whole cabinet. I lost count of how many he took.

Once satisfied, he gathered them into a pile and flicked through them one at a time. Every second that passed, he lost a shade of color. He continued to examine the files, lips trembling, eyes skimming warily over the contents. The man had gone from pure rage to a ball of nerves. Whatever was inside those files had shaken him. Done his perusal, he tucked the stack under an arm.

He said something to his ex, finger jabbing angrily at her face.

Rowena shrugged.

Hilty bellowed with another flash of rage, “No more, Row. No. More.”

When the psychic didn’t respond one way or the other, he shook his head like he was disappointed. Whatever he said next was too low to hear.

Their encounter rapidly concluded, and Tallus and I were far too close to the back exit. Dr. Hilty would leave any minute now, and we’d be compromised.

When Hilty vanished from the room, I snagged Tallus’s arm and wrenched him away from the window, shoving him in front of me and urging him to go through the gate. “Move it. Hurry.”

He hustled along the side of the house as I heard the back door open and fall shut. The street was still thirty feet ahead, so I snagged Tallus again, detouring him toward the hedged front yard next door. It was better to be out of sight than for Hilty to notice two strange men wandering the empty street outside his ex’s house after something sketchy had occurred inside.

We were safely concealed when Hilty came down the driveway, got into his BMW, and turned on the engine.

“Why is it,” Tallus hissed, close enough to my ear to make me shiver, “that you have no problem dragging me around by the scruff of the neck, but you won’t run your hands over my naked body when I’m lying there ripe, willing, and waiting for you to fondle me?”

My cheeks warmed, and I was glad for the darkness. I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. What was I supposed to say to that? It wasn’t the first time he’d pointed out my propensity to get physical during times of stress when I needed him to move his ass. Tallus found humor in the exchange. What he didn’t realize was how pissed I got at myself for doing it. I shouldn’t be so forceful and demanding. These were not positive qualities and were a prime example of a lack of impulse control. It was reactive and negative like smacking a mouthy teenager for cursing in your face.

I didn’t want to be that person.

Tallus, always perceptive, nudged me playfully. “I’m messing with you, D. It was a joke. You can drag me around all you want. Doesn’t bother me.”

I didn’t respond.

Tallus softly chuckled and kissed my shoulder before turning back to see what the doctor was up to since he hadn’t moved the car. I pretended the simple action—all Tallus’s tender actions—weren’t upending my entire life.

The car idled. Hilty had yet to leave. I tried to see through the dense hedge, but it was impossible.

“What the fuck is he doing?” I snapped.

Tallus, dismissing caution, peeked over the top of the bushes. “He’s reviewing the files again, and he’s on the phone.”

I chanced a quick glance. Hilty spoke to whoever was on the other end of the line for two or three minutes before hanging up. He tossed the files on the passenger seat, then buried his face in his palms and scrubbed. When he sat back, he punched the steering wheel, and a muffled “Fuck” reached my ears. Another minute passed, and Hilty pulled onto the street and drove away.

“Come on.” I hopped to my feet and did not grab Tallus by the arm as I hustled to the sidewalk and aimed for the cemetery.

“We’re never going to catch up with him, D.”

“He’s going to his office.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I don’t.”

But I strongly suspected Hilty wasn’t about to take those files home.

I wanted to know what they were about. If my years as a cop had taught me anything, it was not to ignore my gut instincts, and at the moment, they were telling me to follow the man because the folders he’d taken from Madame Rowena were important.

But we didn’t make it that far.

The cemetery was crawling with a police presence. The instant I saw them, my skin tightened and back stiffened. I hated police officers. It didn’t matter that I used to work for the department. It didn’t matter that Tallus and I had been doing nothing wrong—spying on Madame Rowena notwithstanding—I always felt like a target.

I always felt guilty for existing.

The cemetery technically wasn’t closed for the night until ten o’clock. There was no law stating we couldn’t cut through. Still, when I insisted we go around by way of the street to avoid unnecessary confrontation, Tallus was having none of it.

“This doesn’t affect us. We’ll be fine.”

It didn’t have to affect us for the police to think we were a problem. My size alone made me a target.

But I followed Tallus because, god help me, I would follow that man into the fiery pits of hell if he asked. I was instantly on the defense, ready to fight. How many times as a teen and young adult had I dealt with the police? Even as an officer, no one had ever been on my side. I was trouble on sight. The shit stirrer. The six-and-a-half-foot-tall man with the scars on his face couldn’t possibly be innocent. He looked dangerous and threatening, and everyone, every-fucking-one, judged a book by its cover.

I stuck close to Tallus, keeping my chin down and hands in my pockets. Tallus slowed when we got closer to the commotion, visibly gawking. The man couldn’t help himself, could he? Always had to have his nose in other people’s business.

The group of loitering men and women we’d passed on our way through had been rounded up by a handful of uniforms. Two of the young men were in cuffs, kneeling on the ground, looking as pissed off as I felt. The rest of the group was being questioned by a broad-shouldered constable with a trusty notepad in hand. Radios chirped. Orders were shouted with clipped authority. The men on their knees argued and spat venom.

Three more cops scanned the area with flashlights.

On the move again, Tallus whispered, “Act cool,” as he angled us wide around the crowd.

But no. It was never going to be easy.

A sharp whistle pierced the air, drawing us to a halt. “You two. Over here.”

Fuck. I knew they wouldn’t leave us alone. A low growl resonated in my chest, and I balled my fists. Great. Just what we fucking needed. “We should have gone around,” I spat.

Tallus gently touched my arm and lowered his voice. “Relax, Guns. Let me do the talking.”