Free Scarlett Undercover by Jennifer Latham

a soft spot for Emmet. We made it work.
    While Emmet sipped his coffee, I filled him in as best I could on my life. Yes, I was still working cases. No, I wasn’t doing anything too dangerous. No, I hadn’t gotten any taller.
    He listened close, asking questions when it suited him.
    “How’s Reem?” he said, nodding a thank-you to the waitress for refilling his cup. I’d given up on my soda.
    “Busy.”
    “She taking care of herself?”
    “Not really.”
    Emmet took the wrapper off a straw and rolled it into a ball.
    “You helping out?”
    “As much as I can. I keep the apartment clean and make sure she eats.”
    He poured a plastic container of cream into his coffee and stirred.
    “Tell her I said hello. And if she ever has a night off…”
    He let the words hover.
    “You know Muslim women can’t date, Emmet,” I said. “And Reem’s hard-core. Unless that changes, it just won’t work.”
    He smiled and shrugged like he didn’t care. Only I knew he did.
    “How about some pie, handsome?” The waitress was back, and she wasn’t talking to me.
    “What kind you got?” He draped his arm over the back of the seat. Emmet was not unaware of his charms.
    “The usuals, plus boysenberry and mango.”
    “I think I’ll take chocolate cream with a slice of peach on the side. If I’ve got room after that, I’ll try the mango.”
    “Anything else?” Her lashes looked ready to flutter off her face.
    Emmet looked to me. The waitress did not.
    “I’d like a slice of sweet potato,” I said. “And my soda, if you don’t mind.” Her pen moved across the pad in her hand, but her eyes stayed on Emmet. She batted her lashes one last time and walked away, rear end swinging.
    I pretended to throw up in my mouth. Emmet grinned.
    “I can’t help it, Scarlett.”
    “Yes. You can.”
    He laughed, eyeing the waitress like a well-fed wolf. “Maybe a little. But there’s no point behaving till I’ve got someone worth doing it for.”
    I rolled my eyes. Asked him if we could talk about something more important.
    “Nothing’s more important than you and your sister.”
    I rolled them some more.
    “Tell me about Quinlan Johnson.”
    His smile disappeared like a raindrop in the ocean. “Like I said on the phone, it sounds like your client’s brother needs counseling, not a detective.”
    “Maybe,” I said. “But my
client
needs me.”
    We watched the waitress set three fat wedges of pie in front of Emmet and slap my soda down. “The mango’s on the house,” she said, giving Emmet a wink. “I made it myself. Tell me if I put in enough sugar.”
    “Darlin’, if it’s half as sweet as you, it’s twice as sweet as I can handle.”
    She let out a quackish giggle and waggled back to her station like a duck in heat. I didn’t bother wondering if my pie would ever show.
    “Emmet,” I asked quietly. “Were there any marks on Quinlan Johnson’s body?”
    His fork froze halfway to his mouth.
    “Yes.”
    “Well?”
    “What kind of marks do you mean?”
    “Tattoos. Scars. Stuff like that.”
    He put the forkful of chocolate in his mouth and chewed a long time before he swallowed.
    “Maybe.”
    “Was there a kind of design, like interlocking rings?”
    “Maybe.”
    “I’ll take that as a yes.”
    Emmet put down his fork. “What makes you ask?”
    “Well, I’m pretty sure my client’s brother has the same thing carved into his wrist. It’s red and infected and ugly, and he’s not doing anything to keep it clean. Like he wants it to scar.”
    Emmet pushed the chocolate pie away.
    “There
was
a mark on the Johnson boy’s body, exactly like the one you’re describing. The medical examiner said it was at least three weeks old.”
    “On his wrist?”
    “Chest. We think it’s a ritual mark from some kind of gang or cult that hasn’t crossed our radar until now.”
    “A rich white boy gang?”
    “Or cult,” Emmet repeated. “That’s what I’m thinking. The department psychologist,