Page 96 of Wild Embers
Bear sits up on his bed by the heater but doesn’t make a sound.
Assuming it’s safe, I shout through the door, “Who is it?”
“It’s me,Cielito.”
Glancing around the room, I determine that there isn’t enough time to hide the evidence.
Or the evidence board.
Or the evidence connected to the evidence board.
Making a face, I ask in a whisper, “What do you think, Bear? Should I answer the door?” Bear sighs and angles his head. “You’re probably right.”
Opening the door a few inches, I block the space with my body. “Hey, Santi. What’s up? Can I help you with something?”
Santiago stands taller, peering over my head. “Are you hiding something?”
Closing the door a couple of inches, I leave enough room just for my face. “No. Why would you ask that?”
His gaze drops to the exposed skin of my legs, and my belly turns into a fluttering mess. Then I remember that all I’m wearing are a pair of loose sleep shorts and an oversized off-the-shoulder tee.
That’s my Friday night.
“Then why are you standing like that?” Santiago leans left.
I lean left and sport a fake frown. “Like what?”
He leans right. “Like you’re guarding Fort Knox.”
I lean right.
He gives me a look that is probably supposed to make me feel disciplined. “Blake.”
“Santiago,” I retort.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re making this weird.”
“I’m not making anything weird,” I argue. My mouth pinches as a thought occurs to me. “How did you find out which room I was in?”
“Blake,” he says with a squint, skipping over my question, “Do you have someone in there?”
Santiago doesn’t wait for me to answer and pushes his way inside.
Stepping out of the way, I sweep my arm out to my side and shut the door after him. “Come on in. I don’t need privacy.”
“What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is—” Santiago pauses, taking in the room. He points to the wall. “That’s a murder wall.”
“No.” My arms fold across my chest as I shrug. “It’s how I organize my thoughts.”
“Pictures of dead bodies.” He points again. “Murder wall.”
His amusement fades as his eyes evaluate all the notes, photographs, and sketches tacked up on the wall to the empty coffee cups. “You’ve been doing this by yourself?”
I simply nod.
Santiago takes his time looking over my mess as if he’s able to follow my thought trains. “Do you think it’s all connected? The texts and the Debt Collector.”
Sighing, I rub my eyes. “It’s one theory among thousands.”
