The Scrying Game by Thomas Christine Zane

Author:Thomas, Christine Zane
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-06-19T00:00:00+00:00

14

If anyone had heard anything in the moments before Perry’s murder, it was going to be his neighbors. They hadn’t been forthcoming with Chief Hammonds, but that didn’t surprise me.

I knew firsthand how people acted around law enforcement. It was a self-preservation thing more than anything else—there’s a reason Miranda Warning says anything you say can and will be used against you.

It’s easier not to say anything at all. And with a crime of this magnitude, it’s much easier to tell yourself someone else will speak up.

When you do finally get someone to fess up—to tell you they heard something outside their apartment or saw something strange—it isn’t always reliable. As time passes, memories fade. They get hazy. A female voice can turn into a male voice or vice versa. A simple conversation can turn into a fight. Whispers become shouts or nothing at all.

Perry had lived in a row of townhouses across from the salon, about a quarter of a mile down the street from Sabal’s Grill, where Chief Hammonds had been eating at the time the shooting occurred.

The hairs on my neck stood on end. It occurred to me that maybe Henry had seen or heard something and not put it together.

Mac’s Auto was maybe a mile away. But chances were, Mac had passed this house any number of times. She would’ve noticed all the different cars in the garage.

I wondered, had she been honest with me? Was she really okay with Perry’s side hustle?

Beau’s side gig was what landed him behind bars.

Neither of Perry’s next door neighbors were home.

I rang the doorbell on the next townhome and was immediately bombarded by yaps and barks. On the other side of the door, what had to be six or seven dogs joined in a chorus of aggravation at my audacity—how dare I do something so bold as ring their doorbell?

A shrill voice rose over the yapping. “Get down. Get down. And go to your room. I’m serious. To your room. This minute.”

The door swung open. A woman with frizzy brown hair acknowledged me with a put out smile. She wore a comical amount of jewelry—bead necklaces, lots of rings, and earrings the size of saucers.

A growl burst from the living room behind her. A straggler, some sort of terrier mix, trotted around a corner. The little mutt turned his head and growled before disappearing.

“That’s no treats tonight, Bruggle.” The woman rolled her eyes and opened the door wider. “Terriers are the hardest to train. I should know—I was a Yorkshire Terrier in a previous life.”

Did she really just say that?

“Sorry, I didn’t prep for your arrival,” she went on. “Sometimes my visions are clouded by my afternoon nap. Another of my former traits shining through.” She grinned.

“Who are you?” I was finally able to say.

“Scarlett Myst. But I think you knew that. And I, of course, know who you are, Willow Brown. I sensed your impending arrival to Mossy Pointe about a month before you came.”

“You mean when the

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