“Notifying next of kin.”
A grimace twisted my lips before I could smooth them, but he only watched my mouth.
Maybe I had a sour cream mustache from that travesty of a taco?
“You didn’t mention you knew the victim,” I said casually. “That might have been helpful.”
“She’s pack,” he replied simply.
Meaning Ford had known her too, and he had kept just as silent while I stupidly followed procedure and waited to see if the cleaners identified her based on her fingerprints. He had handled me like a pro, and I had bought into his aww shucks routine without blinking because he was so darn likeable.
Credit where credit was due. Or, in this case, blame. I was the one who made the verbal report to Bishop as fast as I could rattle off the pertinent details, and I did it without input from the pack reps. All in order to avoid Midas’s notice, which I had attracted anyway.
The shadow I cast across the wall slow clapped for me until I wanted to punch the bricks where his face ought to be. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“Nothing will make this easier for her mother, but it will help if I’m the one who delivers the news.” He might have tried to hide his short, quick breaths, but the flare of his nostrils drew my eye. “Wounded predators don’t respond well to other predators in their dens.”
“I understand.”
Surprise flitted through his impossibly blue eyes, which I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been gazing into them again. Likely that’s why he let it show. Most folks had more sense than to make eye contact with him.
“No false modesty?” He canted his head, looked his fill. “No argument against your predatory nature?”
“This job requires a predatory nature.”
“True.”
Heels clicked on pavement, and a woman’s tremulous voice called down the alley, “Midas?”
“On my way, Bonnie.” He lingered with me a moment longer. “If any staff member has threatened you, propositioned you, or otherwise made you feel uncomfortable in your own home, you can tell me.”
As tempting as it was to throw him off my scent by blaming my anxiety around him on another gwyllgi, I couldn’t toss someone else under the bus. “It’s not like that.”
“Midas?” the woman tried again, her voice going impossibly softer. “The Randalls are waiting.”
“I have to go.” He blasted out a sigh. “The victim was Shonda Randall, by the way.”
“Thanks for that.” I could tell this was costing him, so I paid a little back. “For giving me a chance.”
“You’re welcome.” He glanced over his shoulder. “The offer stands.”
“Which offer is that?”
“You can come to me if you have any problems at the Faraday.”
“I can manage.”
A slight dent appeared in his right cheek a more charitable woman might call a dimple. “I’m sure you can.”
He turned and started toward the slip of a woman doing her best not to cower when he got close.
“Come on, Bon.” He didn’t reach out, didn’t touch her, and they both seemed relieved to avoid the contact.
Maybe I was misremembering the chapters I read on gwyllgi as part of my training, but I could have sworn this pack, thanks to their distant warg ancestry, were big on touch as a means of reaffirming pack bonds.
Since it was none of my business who rated skin privileges and who didn’t, I tabled my curiosity and hit the stairs.
I lived two stories up, which suited me fine. High enough to easily defend but low enough to jump if I had no other choice. Why yes, those were the selling points the potentate mentioned before showing me to my shoebox—I mean, apartment.
The intricate exterior lock on the window was my doing. Since I only used the front door when accepting deliveries, I considered this my primary entrance and locked it behind me every time I left. There was no point, really, considering how tight security was at the Faraday. Yet another reason for its sky-high rent and exclusivity. I never could have afforded this address without the potentate, who lived several floors above me, footing the bill as a thinly veiled attempt at keeping tabs on me via job perk. Not that I was complaining. Free is free.
Sadly, the POA’s generosity hadn’t extended to a decorating budget, so I managed to furnish it for pennies since that’s all I had to rub together these days.
The layout was a perfect cube. As with most efficiency apartments, it came without interior walls. The front door, which opened onto the hall, stood opposite the single window I used to come and go. The other door, on my left, led to the extravagant, if compact, bathroom. The microkitchen managed to fit everything a girl needed to survive and sat on my right, and the dining table where I sometimes ate but mostly sewed was on my left. The living room/bedroom occupied the corner right of the front door.
The futon where I spent my days was a Vampslist find and cost me fifty bucks after delivery. I could have traded for it in blood, but that was too risky. The mattress, such as it was, had been wrapped in cotton batting until it was cloudlike, and slipcovered in lavender fabric. Pillows in every pastel color imaginable covered it from head to toe, and most nights I collapsed face-first into them without bothering with underwear, let alone pajamas.
With a little help from a staple gun, a dollar hula-hoop, and Velcro hanging strips, I had created a wall-mounted canopy in complementary shades whose draping lengths could be tied back when I was watching TV or pulled closed against the sun when I was ready for bed.
With yards of fabric left, I’d made another one using the light fixture in the center of the room as my starting point. From there, the material fanned out to cover the entire ceiling, spilled down the otherwise white walls, and left behind a splash of color and texture before pooling on the polished concrete floor.
All in all, it was very Arabian Nights, if I do say so myself, though most of that was to blame on my day job rather than personal taste.
Four days after moving to Atlanta, in order to establish my new identity, who was sorely lacking in credit scores among other things the average person cultivated over a lifetime, I invested a whopping two-thirds of my life savings in a Peachy Keen Sheets franchise I ran out of a kiosk at Haywood Square, a Society-owned mall, funding my new life with my old one. As my apartment attested to, the freebies had to go somewhere.
Plus, it was a great excuse to put the MBA I had worked my butt off earning in my past life to good use.
Most importantly, being my own boss gave me the flexibility to close shop when my real job required me to put in extra hours. That was probably the reason I didn’t make as much selling sheets as I had hoped, but what can you do? The stipend I was paid as the POA’s apprentice was enough to keep me solvent. I could make it another year on the cheap. Then it was make-it-or-break-it time with this gig. Either I would be elected as Potentate of Atlanta or—
No.
There was no or.
I had no backup plan.
I would be the next Potentate of Atlanta.
Full stop.
Since Ford had been nice enough to give me a lift, I had time to watch the last movie in the Robot Space Tentacles trilogy, but working my first solo crime scene had wiped me out, and dealing with Midas—twice in one night—had left me drained and a little spooked.