Page 68 of Requiem & Reverie

I limp after Nola and Oliver, out of the pole barn, the flare in my side a reminder that I have yet more wounds to sew tonight. Flipping off the lights, I hear the rubbing together of latex in the darkness, and I close the door behind me.

24

Nola

Six weeks later …

“Mom! Uncle Jonah’s here!” Oliver calls from inside the house.

“Coming!” I answer back, twisting the sand-glazed bowl to study the shiny golden lines sealing the cracks, before setting it down atop my workbench.

After giving a quick wash to my hands at the sink inside my studio, I wipe them dry against my apron and make my way into the house, depositing the apron on a hook along the way.

Decked out in winter boots and a coat, Oliver stands at the front door, his bags already packed and ready to go.

Arms crossed, Jonah tips his head, eyes narrowed as he studies my face. “You’re absolutely, positively certain you don’t mind him ice-fishing?”

“I’m as … certain … as Mom was, when you went ice fishing with Dad. Just be careful, okay?” A nervous laugh slips out unintentionally. “I’m going to try not to think about it too much.

“I’ll be fine, Mom.”

My face softens at that and I grab him by the crown, tugging him in for a quick kiss. “I know you will.”

“You’re welcome to come with us. Diane might be willing to give up the baby for … two, maybe three, minutes to let you hold her.”

“I wish. I have a show next weekend. Just trying to build up my inventory again.” Leaning against the staircase bannister, I cross my arms and smile. “How is baby Nora, by the way? Sleeping through the nights, now?”

“Mostly. Diane and I take turns feeding her.”

“It’s only temporary. Take it from me, someday you’re going to miss those moments.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “I’ll take your word for it.” Stepping toward me, he pulls me in for a hug. “Remember to lock the doors, okay? And if you need anything, I’m just a phone call away. Grim’s going to do his usual drive by tonight.”

“Still haven’t caught him, huh?”

Lips pressed to a hard line, he shakes his head. Jonah’s department has worked tirelessly to find The Sandman, who they now know is Simon Jeffries—that much I offered. “I’m not going to lie, Nola. He could be anywhere, at this point. At least now, we have a name and a face, and it’s been blasted all over the news. Hasn’t been a girl missing in weeks. My guess is, he’s probably trying to lay low. Maybe even moved on to a different city by now.”

“Maybe. I hope you’re right.”

“There was one curious bit of evidence noted by the investigator who checked out that pole barn, though.” He glances to Oliver and back to me, as if Oliver might give something away. “Shoe prints found just outside the door seemed fresh, the day police were called. Same size as Voss’s, which he noted alongside what was determined to be yours and Oliver’s. Different sole pattern, though. And the depth of the impression was slightly off from the others.”

“Which implies …”

“Two things, actually. A lag in the time the crime was reported, and the fact that someone might’ve carried something out of that pole barn on a different day. Wearing different shoes.”

“That is interesting.”

Jonah bites his lower lip—he probably doesn’t realize I know he does this when he thinks someone is lying to him. Must be a sort of comfort thing to keep from punching the other person. “Of course, I had to remind the investigator of the possibility that members of the Devil’s Disciples may have tracked through there before our arrival. The brother of one of the men found at the garage, where you say you were initially held, seemed pretty hellbent on knowing who killed his kin.”

“Is that a possibility? The shoe prints belonging to one of them, I mean?”

“Perhaps.” The way Jonah looks at me reminds me of the time when we were kids, and he asked me if I’d swiped cash from his piggy bank. “Doesn’t seem likely that you would have waited to call the police.”

“I wouldn’t have. I wanted that bastard locked away more than anyone.”

“Or dead, I’d imagine.” He’s definitely onto me, but I’m not going to crack on this one, because Simon Jeffries mutilated innocent people. He doesn’t deserve to simply rot in a jail cell, or risk being set free. “You heard from Voss?”

I shake my head, setting my hands on my hips. “Not much. He’s been in New York, the last couple weeks.”