Chapter Eight

 

“Oh, my God.” I stared down at him, frozen in horror.

Ian moved swiftly, kneeling over the still body of the man. He pressed his fingers to the side of the man’s throat, searching for a pulse. Eventually he grunted and looked up grimly.

My mouth moved wordlessly, but then I finally croaked, “Is he dead?”

Ignoring my question, he rasped, “Call 911.”

Ian moved swiftly, rolling the man onto his back. He tugged a packet from his wallet, unfolded it, and inserted something into the man’s mouth. He began performing chest compressions, leaning down to puff two breaths into the thing between the man’s lips every now and then.

Feeling dazed, I did as he requested. As I dialed the phone with shaking hands, I watched Ian from the kitchen.

Once my phone call ended, the only sounds in the room were those of Ian’s grunts and breaths. While the spirit of the man didn’t approach me to communicate, I felt him around us. I wanted to tell Ian it was too late, but suspected trying to save the man was how he was dealing with the situation.

Sirens in the distance grew louder, and then two burly paramedics tromped into my house through the open door. The next ten minutes were a blur of strangers crowding into my small home. In addition to the paramedics, two patrol officers also showed up. After giving my statement, I mostly stayed in the kitchen, trying not to get in the way. One of the cops knew Ian from the ER, and they had a quiet conversation near the body. After a bit, Ian joined me in the kitchen.

“He’s deceased,” he said quietly.

“Yes. I . . . I know.”

He nodded, staring down at the floor. Shame radiated off of him, and his thoughts were all about what he could have done better.

“You did your best,” I said softly. He probably didn’t want my platitudes, but his guilt was so intense, I had to say something.

Ian’s expression was grim and I was still in shock. While I spent a lot of time with the dead, I’d rarely seen an actual dead body. I felt queasy and did my best to avoid looking over to where the old man lay. I prayed his spirit wouldn’t linger once they removed the corpse. It was a distinct possibility though.

“Something’s not right,” Ian muttered.

My nerves jangled at his words, but I wasn’t exactly surprised at his comment. After all the cryptic things the old man had said, his death felt way too suspicious.

“Were you the one who called the police?” I asked.

He glanced at me. “I did. That was no ordinary heart attack.”

“Oh.”

While I knew calling the police had been the right thing to do, I dreaded them snooping around my home. I didn’t have the best relationship with the cops. I’d had a problem last year when they had received an anonymous complaint about me, accusing me of petty theft. The charges had been bogus and ultimately dropped, but the cops didn’t always agree with what cases the DA pursued. It was a small town and the odds of maybe running into an officer who knew about the petty theft charge wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

“We had to call them,” Ian said.

“Yeah, I know.” I gave the remaining cops a wary glance. “If that wasn’t a heart attack, then all the things he told us could be connected to his death.”

Ian frowned. “You don’t think maybe he was just rambling because he was so sick?”

“He seemed convinced he was in danger. What if he wasn’t mentally ill? What if someone really was after him?”

A muscle worked in Ian’s cheek. “You seriously think a person named Sabath was after him—”

“Sableth,” I said shortly.

“Whoever. You think his story was true about being chased by someone who revels in anguish and despair?” Ian’s voice went up an octave with incredulity.

“I don’t know.” I grimaced, remembering the chemical scent on the old man’s breath. “All I know is, he was scared of something he implied was supernatural, and now he’s dead. Isn’t that awfully coincidental?”

Ian shifted uneasily. ”I can’t help but think all the stuff he said was simply his brain misfiring from his impending death.”

“It feels like something more,” I murmured, shivering as I watched the body being carried out of my home. So far, the spirit of the man didn’t seem to be manifesting, and I was relieved about that.

As they exited the house with the corpse, a tall middle-aged man entered the house, looking alert. He had close-cropped silver hair and sharp blue eyes. His polyester suit and the business-like way he carried himself made me think he had to be a cop. He approached us, his expression very serious.

“I’m looking for a Lorenzo Winston?” His tone was brusque.

My stomach clenched with nerves. “I’m Lorenzo.”

“I’m Detective Monroe.” He flashed credentials. As he tucked them away he studied me, pursing his lips. “How are you this evening, Mr. Winston?”

“Well—” I winced. “A man died in my house. My night could be better.”

“Of course.”

“I’m Dr. Ian Thatcher,” Ian interjected. “I’m the one who called the police.”

Detective Monroe studied Ian. “How do you two know each other?”

“Lorenzo and I are friends,” Ian said smoothly. “We were about to have dinner when the old man knocked on the door.”

Detective Monroe turned his gaze on me. “You didn’t know the old man?”

“I have no idea who he was.” I left out the part about the old man thinking he knew me. It had always been my experience telling the police less rather than more was the smart thing to do.

“Why do you suppose he knocked on your door?” Detective Monroe frowned.

“I have no idea.”

“But you didn’t know him?” Detective Monroe tugged a notepad from his suit pocket.

Didn’t I just say that?

“No,” I said politely, reining in my irritation. “Never saw him before in my life. Maybe he saw the lights on and that’s what drew him to my house?”

“Hmmm. Maybe.” Detective Monroe scribbled something on his pad.

“The old man said some odd things.” Ian rubbed the back of his neck.

“Like what?” Detective Monroe perked up.

Sighing, Ian said, “He implied he was being chased by someone named Sableth.”

Detective Monroe grunted. “Come again?”

Ian grimaced. “That’s the name he used. He said that person wanted something from him. He also implied Lorenzo might be in danger.”

The detective frowned. “What kind of danger?”

Ian rasped, “I think he was babbling because he was dying. I wouldn’t take anything he said seriously. I mean, he seemed to think he knew Lorenzo, even though Lorenzo didn’t recognize him.”

I gave Ian an impatient look. If he kept saying shit like that the detective was going to start thinking I was involved somehow. That I was lying about knowing the old man. “Look, the bottom line is I didn’t know the guy. He was dying and he said some crazy things. I’m sure if you ID him and check things out, you’ll see there was no connection between us.”

“I’ll definitely do that.” Detective Monroe’s blue eyes were shrewd.

“There’s a possibility he might have been poisoned,” Ian said.

“Is that right?” Detective Monroe flicked his cool gaze to Ian. It struck me he didn’t seem surprised. “What makes you think that?”

Ian frowned. “The odor on his breath and the discoloration around his mouth. I’ve seen plenty of heart attack cases in my career. That was no simple coronary event.”

“Interesting.” Detective Monroe rocked back on his heels, surveying the small room. “Did he have anything to eat or drink while he was here?”

I narrowed my eyes. “No. We told you what happened. He knocked on my door, said some crazy shit, and then fell dead on the floor. I didn’t serve him food or beverages. There wasn’t time.”

“I had to ask, Mr. Winston,” Detective Monroe said. “You two were the last people to see him alive.”

“Okay, fair enough,” I said tersely. “But we didn’t know him and we didn’t do anything to him. If he was poisoned, it had to be someone else who did that. Maybe the person who he thought was chasing him.”

The detective grunted. “Do you know anyone named Sableth?”

“No, I do not.” I was starting to worry Detective Monroe was one of those cops who liked to make the crime fit the person, rather than the other way around.

Detective Monroe glanced at Ian. “How about you? You know anyone by that name? Could be the last name of one of your patients?”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell.” Ian shrugged.

“Did the old man have any ID on him?” I asked.

“Apparently not.” Detective Monroe tucked his pad and pen into the pocket of his suit coat. “We’ll figure out who he is.”

“I hope so.” I was praying the detective was wrapping things up.

“One thing’s for sure,” Ian said, “Whether he was talking gibberish or not, he was legitimately terrified, and he definitely believed his own story.”

“Hmmm. Well, once we identify him, we’ll look into his phone records and texts to see if there was anyone threatening him.”

I froze as I suddenly remembered the phone call I’d received in the hospital. Were the police going to see that he’d called my cell and think I was lying about knowing him? I didn’t know him. But that phone call could make me look guilty. Was it better to bring it up and get ahead of it or not mention it, hoping they didn’t even see that he’d called me? Was it wrong of me to hope the Fox Harbor Police Department did shoddy work so that they’d miss that phone call to me?

I focused on Detective Monroe, wishing I could get a sense of where his head was at. Did he really suspect I was involved, or was he just sniffing around because that was his job?

Unfortunately, Detective Monroe wasn’t someone I could read easily. Nothing about me and this case came to me. All I could get was a vague sense that his feet hurt because his shoes were too small, and he was looking forward to taking a hot shower when he got home after his shift ended.

“I’ll undoubtedly have more questions for you two,” Detective Monroe said.

“That’s fine.” Ian nodded agreeably.

Not feeling nearly as affable as Ian, I didn’t respond.

“We’re releasing the scene to you, Mr. Winston.” Detective Monroe knitted his salt and pepper brows. “If you remember anything else, call me.” He handed me a card as he spoke. “If I don’t get back to you immediately, be patient. Our little city has had more than its share of violent crime lately, and our department is small.”

Detective Monroe stepped out onto the porch. Moths dive bombed him as they circled the yellow bug light above his head. He tugged the collar of his peacoat tighter around his neck and met my gaze. His eyes reflected the light oddly, appearing to almost glow like a cat’s. But then he looked away, and I assumed I’d imagined it. “I advise you to lock your doors.”

“Okay.” I shivered, glancing around uneasily.

Ian and I watched the detective drive away, and we went back inside. I gave the spot near the door where the old man had died a wide berth and headed into the kitchen. Ian joined me.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked.

Since I hadn’t invited him to begin with, I should have wanted him to leave. But after what had happened, I really didn’t want to be alone. I found his calm presence reassuring. “Why don’t you stay for a bit? We can have a drink.”

Ian smiled, appearing happy that I wanted him to stay. “Shall I pour more wine?”

“How about something stronger than wine?” I suggested.

Ian’s eyes brightened. “Sure.”

I went to the small pantry and found the bottle of single malt twelve-year-old whiskey Claire had given me for my birthday. I set the bottle on the table and went to grab two crystal tumblers. “I was saving this for a special occasion, but I don’t think I’ve ever needed a good strong drink more.”

Ian winced. “It’s been a weird evening. Not what I expected when I came here tonight.”

“No.” I sat down, grabbing the bottle and uncorking it. “I’m still in shock.”

“Me too.” Ian watched me, his expression thoughtful.

I poured us each a generous serving of the amber liquid. I held my glass up and said, “Cin, cin.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s Italian for cheers.”

He bumped his glass gently with mine. “I’ll drink to that.” He sipped his whiskey and nodded. “That’s nice.”

“It is,” I agreed.

He studied me. “You look like you have Italian heritage, but your last name is English.”

“Yeah, my mother is of Italian descent. Dad is English.”

“But you mentioned before you’re not close to them?”

I dropped my gaze. “Nope.”

He took another drink and set the tumbler down. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you mention the phone call?”

My stomach tensed. “Phone call?” I’d assumed he was going to ask me more personal questions about my family, so I was thrown.

“Yeah, the call from the old man. I overheard you and the old man talking about him calling you before. Why didn’t you mention the phone call to Detective Monroe?”

I avoided his gaze. “It didn’t seem important.”

“Seriously?” He narrowed his eyes.

Stalling, I tasted my drink, letting the notes of brown sugar and oaky vanilla bathe my tongue. Once I’d swallowed, I said, “I didn’t need Detective Monroe any more interested in me than he already was.”

“But that call could be an important clue.”

“How?” I frowned. “I didn’t know him, Ian. I have no idea why he called me.”

“Sure, but the fact remains that he did call you.”

“He did. Yes. But I’m still not convinced he actually knew me. I certainly didn’t recognize him. Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity. Or maybe he was a crazy stalker.”

“You really think he was stalking you?” His tone said he didn’t necessarily agree.

“All I know is I have no idea who he was. All that nonsense about Sableth bringing anguish and despair. The guy was obviously not right in the head.”

“He did sound demented,” murmured Ian, rolling his whiskey around in his glass.

Trying to change the subject I glanced at the long-forgotten crockpot on the counter. “I’m sorry you went to all the trouble of making dinner and then we never ate. It’s been sitting out for hours at room temperature. I’d be afraid to eat it.”

“No. Death by crock pot is definitely not how I want to go. Besides, it wasn’t much trouble really. It was just some simple chicken casserole kind of thing I found on the internet.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “Awww, you looked up a recipe for me?”

He shrugged. “I needed an excuse to come see you.”

His willingness to be open about his interest in me intrigued me. In the past, when I’d bothered to date, I’d gravitated to game player types. He was very different. Warmer. That familiar attraction I felt for him fluttered through me. While I didn’t want to have a relationship with him, or anyone for that matter, sometimes I was tempted to just start something sexual with him. He’d be a fun distraction. I had no doubt he’d be good in bed. His confidence was too high for someone who sucked at sex.

“What did the old man say to you on the phone?” Ian asked quietly.

“We’re back to that again?”

“Yes.”

I sighed. “I really wish you’d let it go.”

“A man died in your home, Lorenzo. I don’t see how either of us can let that go. Something is going on, and I worry you’re at the center of it.”

“If that’s true, Detective Monroe will probably come knocking on my door again. Until then, I’d love to put it behind me.”

He ignored me and said, “Could all of this be connected to . . . your work?”

“What do you mean?”

He grimaced. “I guess I wonder if maybe you poked your nose into the wrong psychic coffee clutch. Maybe you ruffled some ethereal feathers.”

I squinted at him. “Are you asking if I accidentally unleashed the hellhounds or something?”

He laughed sheepishly. “Dabbling in the occult is rumored to be dangerous.”

“It’s never been dangerous before.” I avoided his gaze as memories of that strange entity from the other day came back to me. I’d definitely felt threatened that day.

“What about your session with Aunt Agatha?” He frowned.

“That wasn’t really dangerous,” I lied. “It was more annoying than anything.”

“You sure about that?” He looked unconvinced.

“Yes.” I stood because it was easier to avoid his gaze that way. I instead went to look out the window over the sink. The night felt especially dark and oppressive tonight. There was only a sliver of a moon, and it was more humid than usual.

I was surprised when Ian joined me. He stood beside me, his shoulder lightly brushing mine. My pulse stuttered as the heat of his body reached me. It had been a long time since I’d been with a man. My senses were hyperaware of everything about him—his clean male scent, the raspy sound of his whiskey-infused breaths. It was impossible not to think about the kiss we’d shared.

He gulped the rest of his drink and set the glass down on the counter. Turning to me, he said breathlessly, “What would you think about me spending the night?”