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She really missed me.
I’d have to swing over and visit her this week.
Later on, I tried searching online for images that matched the dragon logo on the baggies from Clave’s office and Cole’s pocket, but nothing came up. With Razai still out of touch, and most of the students leaving campus for the weekend, I decided to end the night early for once.
Even illegal people deserved a good night’s sleep.
On Sunday, I visited the locations of the crimes. The boys’ locker room showers. The creepy theater storage room. The scene of the car fire.
Nothing stood out to me. Not to my eyes nor my magic.
I expected at least one or two tugs from my intuition, but no. She was as silent as a ghost that could not, under any circumstances, scream, wail, or screech.
Fucking bummer.
Urgency writhed in me like a nest of spiders all day, and still, Razai hadn’t replied to me. I studied the files five times over again without any real spark of a lead. Azra was out of town for the day too, picking up supplies in Boston.
So, I squirmed in my stress all day long and into the evening. That white-haired bastard better show tonight. If he didn’t, I’d do something drastic. Like spray Betty with castor oil and hair dye.
At nine, someone knocked on my door. Not the front door, of course. The balcony door.
“It’s open, asshole!” I yelled. It’s been, what? Five days since getting to know Razai? And already I could predict that’s where he’d come in. Just call me a fucking clairvoyant.
It slid open. The curtains flung out as the angel waltzed in, bringing a gust of cool air and a bag of something that looked suspiciously like food. “Hello, Detective.”
He dropped the bag onto the coffee table and finally looked at me. “I have some news—”
The man’s eyes tracked over my hair, to the glasses sitting on my nose, and to the faded pajamas I wore. He ended on the pink fluffy slippers.
“What?” I barked, impatient.
His head tilted to the side. “You look… different.”
“You watched me for three weeks and never saw me in pajamas? What kind of stalker are you?”
He lifted his chin. “I never intruded on your home. That would be an invasion of privacy.”
“Yeah, why would I expect you to do that?” I mumbled. The audacity of this man knew no bounds.
“I like it.”
I dragged the tip of my pink highlighter over another line in the documents. Getting the students’ previous class schedules was the next step to this process, and Castile was seriously lagging. “Like what?”
“Never mind.”
I lifted a brow. “Whatever you say.” Finally, the smell hit me. My head jerked up again.
“Croquettes,” he said, confirming my greatest dream and worst nightmare.
I sat up straighter, eyeing the bag with the careful sort of obsession one does when they’re about to lose their shit. “I am going to eat all of those,” I warned.
“Half,” he corrected, already striding into my kitchen and rummaging through the cabinets like he owned the place. “You get half. Oh, come on. Stop sulking. I’ll give you one extra if that makes you happier.”
“It helps,” I conceded through the lake of saliva trying to drown me from the inside. Keep it cool, Gray. You just forgot to eat for a short five hours.
He carried two cups and a plate to the table, then pulled out a bottle of stout he poured into the cups.
I pinched the piping-hot, cheesy potato balls onto the plate and narrowly avoided scalding my fingers off. It didn’t stop me from biting into one and feeling the delicious sensation of my taste buds boiling.
