A Black Deeper Than Death (Miki Radicci Book 1) by M.E. Purfield

Author:M.E. Purfield
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: urban fantasy, horror, crime, mystery, murder mystery, young adult, dark fantasy, urban, noir, series

STORAGE AND BUSINESS

After Grandpa leaves for work, I shower and dress. I sit at my drawing table and freehand some sketches for the comic script Marvel has hired me to draw. Corey, home from school while his teachers celebrate Professionals Day, putters around the kitchen and knows better than to disturb me while I work. A few hours later when I take a break, Corey approaches and asks if I need him to do anything.

“Nah, you’re free for the day,” I say.

He nods. “You wanna do anything after lunch?”

“Can’t,” I lie. “I have to meet up with Sharon and discuss last night.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re going to discuss Mr. Wonderful with your lawyer. Probably make a pre-nup.” He smiles.

“Oh, my God. It should be the other way around. Chris is like so rich. We drove around the city in a limo.”

“Ugh! I am so jealous. Think he has a gay brother?”

“Hmm. I don’t think so. He hasn’t mentioned any siblings.”

Corey kisses my cheek, “I hate you and I love you,” and walks off.

I sketch for a few more hours. When my hand cramps up and my eyelids grow heavy, I pack up the sketches and get ready to leave the condo. Before I go, I double-check the locks and the window by the fire escape. The metal is strong and, in the light, doesn’t look like it was tampered with. Out in the hall, I jiggle and push at the door. I’m turning into one of those paranoid Italian ladies from Brooklyn who thinks someone is going to steal their mothball scented Faberge eggs. There’s no sign of a break in, stupid. So you know they didn’t get the pictures from home, I tell myself.

I pick up a coffee from the bagel cart on the corner and take a cab to the storage warehouse on the Upper West Side. I enter the office and ask if there was a break-in on my unit last night. The clerk behind the counter doesn’t have any record of one and assures me that the office would have called me to report it.

We walk down the narrow hallway to my unit. Using his own key, he opens the metal shutters and pushes the door up. I step inside and wander the stacks of paintings and boxes of sketchpads. Although it has been a month since I was here, I don’t think anything has been touched or moved. This freaks me out, because now the killer had to have broken into my home. Does that mean they have a key?

The clerk asks if I need to fill out a robbery report. I apologize and tell him that I just had a bad feeling. He smiles, understanding.

Back in a cab, I go to the offices of Red Velvet Pocket. The building is a standard redbrick deal with a bodega under it at the corner of 2nd Ave and 24th St. I approach the buzz box next to the glass door and scan the listed names. I spot RVP, the only non-name.

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