Free A Scrying Shame by Donna White Glaser Page B

down.
    “Can you tell me your name, please?”
    “My name?” Arie squeaked.
    O’Shea glanced up from his notes, and his lips tilted up slightly on one side. He closed the notebook and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Just trying to be friendly.”
    “Oh,” Arie said. Good lord, couldn’t she think of any other word? Fortunately, she remembered the dress. She was even able to sound reasonably coherent when she described what she’d found and why she’d set it aside.
    O’Shea was already nodding by the time she’d finished telling him about the footprint. “Thanks, we know about it. The dress snagged on the coroner’s gurney when they were wheeling her out. One of the guys stepped on it. It’s not evidence.”
    Arie resumed feeling stupid. The reprieve had been far too brief.
    “And you still haven’t told me your name.”
    “Arie.” Since he was a cop, she added, “Like the initials—R.E.”
    “What do the initials stand for?”
    “You’d have to shoot me first.”
    This time, he let the smile go, and it spread across his face like the sun. “I’d hate for it to come to that.”
    Grady ruined the moment by walking into the living room.
    “Listen, while you guys were cleaning, did you come across anything like a journal or a diary? Appointment book? Anything like that?” O’Shea asked.
    Grady shook his head no, but Arie stiffened at the mention of a diary.
    Flash.
    Red leather. A tiny silver lock. The smell of bleach fills her nostrils.
    It was a mere moment, but the detective’s eyes locked on hers. They weren’t smiling anymore.
    “I don’t know where it is,” Arie said.
    “But you’ve seen something like that? Which was it?” O’Shea’s tone was crisp and professional. He pulled the notebook back out.
    “No. Of course not. I don’t . . . . no.”
    O’Shea stared at Arie, his pencil still poised on the notepad. She stared back.
    Grady laughed. “Dude, you are so weird.” Turning to O’Shea, he said, “This is only like her third day. She’s still freaked out. You should’ve seen her yesterday. Barfed all over the bathroom, and I’d just sanitized it.”
    O’Shea didn’t look convinced, but he slowly put his notebook away. His eyes slid back and forth between Grady and Arie.
    When the blue orbs landed back on Grady, Arie’s coworker shook his head ruefully. “Newbies.”
    “Yeah,” O’Shea said. “Newbies.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    Guts showed up as expected right after lunch. He and Grady yanked up the bloodstained, four-by-eight sheet of plywood and then sprawled out on their stomachs to peer into the hole. The flashlight beams darted about while they examined the floor trusses. Arie hung back, trying to stay out of the way. The strobe-like effect of the flashing light bothered her. When the doorbell rang, they all jumped.
    “Hey, get that,” Guts said. “If it’s reporters, send them away. In fact, send anybody else away. We can’t have people traipsing around in here with a hole in the floor. Some jackass will fall in and sue me.”
    “It’s been three weeks,” Grady said. “It’s not going to be reporters.”
    “Oh, yeah? It’s not like it’s been solved or anything. The cops have had this place completely sealed off, so now’s the time for them to sneak in. I’ve seen it before. Plus, this chick was kinda famous.”
    The two went back to examining the trusses while Arie went to the front of the apartment. She opened the door to a middle-aged woman almost as height-deprived as herself. To compensate, the woman had piled her hair into a complicated topknot that wobbled whenever she moved her head. Behind her stood a tall, heavily made-up blonde in her late teens. Despite her youth, she’d acquired a pouty look that seemed permanent. Something about the girl made Arie’s skin prickle into goose bumps.
    A reflection from the woman’s glasses caught Arie’s eye, and a faint sibilant hiss whispered . . . So lossst.
    “Oh, my gosh.” The woman