Page 42 of Booked for Murder

“All right. So I had a car magazine problem. You can inspect my entire apartment. You won’t find anything related to cars in here. Now that we’ve gotten the pleasantries aside, let’s get down to business. This murder won’t solve itself, and we have a lot of work to do if we want to pull together an investigator cell. Otherwise, we’re just going to end up being a bunch of unsanctioned vigilante magical librarians.”

“Vigilante magical librarians?” Bradley asked, raising a brow.

I shrugged. “Jezabella is obviously a librarian in training, so she counts. That’s about the only thing we all have in common. We’re certified book dragons. I will rearrange your internal organs with my cane if you even think of calling me a worm. There is nothing worse in a library than a book worm. Book worms do not read. They eat my precious books. Call me a book worm, and I will turn your death into a masterpiece.”

Beatrice tossed her head back and cackled. “I swear, she’s not normally like this. She’s usually a great deal more professional. That said, I like this side of you, Janette. Bring her out more often.”

“I take my job seriously. And that’s what we’re going to have to do if we want to find out who killed those politicians and why.”

“Politicians? When did my request become pluralized?” Bradley asked.

“It became pluralized when a serial killer targeted six people with the same general affiliations using the same kill methods to do the job. Worse, they’re making it appear someone like me, an exsanguinator, did the crime. When you have six distinctive killings like that, you either have a serial killer or a copycat. And these people all have one thing in common: their political beliefs. They all feel adept-level magic is the one true way, and anyone below them, or was not bred in a pre-approved manner, counts as the dregs of society. I understand he was your friend, but I was one of those dregs, and his policies target me and my family. But there’s no justice in murder—and that killer, or killers, will strike again. That’s all I need to know. So, let’s get to work.”

Eleven

I’d built a new life, one I liked.

Once I decided to do something, my tendency to do it despite the consequences often got me in trouble. Bradley’s mother kept trying to kill me with the power of her glare alone, and I ignored her attempts with a certain amount of glee.

In a way, she was right. Bradley and I could certainly be children, and my rebellion counted as childish. No matter how much of a defiant act I put on, the Hampton family technically owned me. The for life contract still stood, a legally binding arrangement only they could revoke. My current status as partially disabled gave them the option to reassign me to a different role within their family.

In the foolishness of my youth, I hadn’t seen—or cared—about the significance of that clause. My parents had, to some degree, but I’d been young and believed myself wiser and smarter than a bunch of adults. Not only that, I’d been wise and smart enough to understand I purchased something precious with my freedom.

My parents would be comfortable for the rest of their lives. They’d received a lump sum at the confirmation of my contract, and they would receive monthly payments for the natural duration of my life from the Hampton estate.

All my posturing did was delay the inevitable, although I delayed the inevitable for a good cause. My personal feelings for Senator Godrin didn’t matter. Someone had murdered him in a brutal albeit somewhat humane fashion, and I meant to find out who. I’d have to resurrect the woman I’d once been in the process, but some prices were worth paying. I even acknowledged my selfish motivations.

I truly made the perfect scapegoat for the crime, with one exception: I’d been in a coma at the times of the first two killings, and being in the hospital fighting for my life made for one hell of an alibi.

So much had changed in four years, six months, and three days. Four years, six months, and four days ago, I had lived in the ivory tower with my life preplanned and carefully managed. Those months, four of them with a handful of days mixed in, had left me a changed person. Six more months of rehab and studying had laid the groundwork for my escape back to New York.

For over three years, I’d built a new life, one I liked. I’d dealt with physical therapy, numerous operations, and more pain than I cared to think about, but I’d done it on my terms.

I’d been my own person. With the Hamptons back in my life, it was only a matter of time before I paid the piper again, becoming a puppet for the sake of my aging parents.

I didn’t look forward to the first time I crawled back home with my tail between my legs and confessing my various sins, including hiding out and enjoying what I could of my life. My father would be disappointed, although he would approve of my work field.

While I hadn’t quite managed to become a nurse, he valued education, and books were a symbol of education.

My mother might talk to me in a few years after she sent me into the backyard to pick my own switch so she could give me a beating I’d never forget as a reminder of why I shouldn’t do such things. It’d only taken one round with the switch as a child for me to clean up my act and decide to be a little lady rather than a demoness.

My mother regretted the switch incident.

I appreciated it. I’d learned a lot that day, including that even the most peaceful of people had breaking points and a capacity for violence. She’d cried, and she’d avoided even raising her voice to me after that, leaving my father to be the enforcer of the family.

Bradley offered all of the information he had on all of the murders, which mostly matched what I’d gleaned from the police records. I regretted burning my copies, as I could put the Hamptons to work reviewing them if I told them what to look for and where to touch.

It wouldn’t hurt—much.

Well, it would hurt when Beatrice found out I’d been the reason she’d been dragged out of bed early.

“I have a confession to make,” I announced, staring at the sea of paperwork covering my coffee table.

“Oh, this should be good,” Beatrice muttered.

“I’m the one who hacked into the police records for a copy of the murders. I faked doing other work on one of the library computers, erased or modified the log files, and printed them with other documents so I could hide them. I set aside other print jobs to help cover my tracks, and I made sure I deleted the print records as well.”

Beatrice stared at me with a dumbfounded expression. “You did that?”