The Dead Don't Dream by Meghan O'Flynn

Author:Meghan O'Flynn [O’Flynn, Meghan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pygmalion Publishing

Chapter

Twenty-Three

Maggie’s skin vibrated as she locked her front door behind her. The car seemed miles away, her feet heavy like she had a pair of chubby raccoons clinging to her legs.

Did Christine get a different set of earrings made, or did she take Tonya’s, which would make her far more suspicious? If nothing else, Tristan had called the jeweler his “foster father,” so the man was close to Tristan himself and would have information about Christine’s dramatic scene at his store. Perhaps he could offer insight into both. Plus, “Benedict, Eden” had pulled up a search engine hit immediately, as if Google was encouraging her to move ahead.

The air inside the DeLorean smelled stale, like dust and day-old French bread. This is crazy. This is his family.

But it didn’t matter. She didn’t see another viable path. There were no good options that guaranteed Helena’s protection from her husband—none that ensured Tristan Simms would keep his mouth shut about Helena’s location if the police picked him up.

The detective was already investigating Tristan. She’d investigate everyone else. Someone had to explore the other options, including the shifty detective himself. Someone had to care about the truth.

The car door shrieked. Her keys rattled like wind chimes as she shoved them into the ignition. Maggie turned the key.

Rrrrr-rrrrr-rrrrr—click!

She frowned. Today of all days.

Rrrrr-rrrrr-rrrrr—click!

Maggie turned the key again. This time it didn’t even try to turn over. Was the battery dead? Dammit.

She should call a tow truck, get the car in to be fixed, but she could do that later. She had less than two hours before she was supposed to be at work—closer to one and a half now.

Maggie left the car sitting in her driveway, called a Hytch, and managed to make it to the rental car place before she crawled out of her skin. She picked a Toyota that looked shiny enough, but smelled like sadness. Most people believed sadness didn’t have a smell, but she knew better. It was salty—musky. Like nearly rotten spuds, by far the worst kind of potato.

She was down to an hour by the time she got onto the highway. She gripped the Toyota’s wheel and pressed harder on the gas.

The strip mall was not hard to find, nor was it crowded—good. She didn’t want an audience. She parked in the front of the lot and made her way under an awning embossed with silver leaves on gilded vines. Emeralds of Eden, one of twenty independent jewelry stores in the area, and the only one owned by a Benedict, which is what Tristan had called his foster father during their first session.

The front door was made of oak, and there was no bell to announce her presence. That made the place feel quaint, but the glittering pieces on display erased that perception. As in most jewelry stores, glass cases formed a large U-shape around the outer perimeter of the shop, glowing white lights aimed at the sparkling goods beneath. No fluorescents here, only a series of lamps

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