Spooky Business (The Spectral Files #3) - S.E. Harmon Page 0,34

living out of boxes.”

“This weekend. The latest,” I assured him.

He smiled at me crookedly before he headed for the door. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I knew it,” I called after him.

*

Delaney Shores was a little beachside town, far removed from the bustle of the city. If Delilah Rose did indeed flee to her friend’s house for refuge, it was a ballsy move. I certainly wouldn’t have relied on the hiding-in-plain-sight methodology with a man like Kane on my tail. I’d probably rent bunker space from a survivalist and say goodbye to sunlight. Are amenities like ammunition and freeze-dried meals included in the rent or what?

I pulled up to the curb and parked, surveying Valerie Carr’s smart little cottage. It sat back from the road a bit, surrounded by an actual picket fence. The star of the property was the tidy yard, trimmed within an inch of its’ life and chock-full of colorful plants. The flower beds were perfectly manicured, and as I headed up the cobblestone walkway, I didn’t see so much as a stray leaf.

A large German shepherd was snoozing on the porch. I glanced at him warily, but when I mounted the steps, he only lifted his head briefly to eyeball me with dark eyes. I half crouched, having a brief internal debate on whether petting would be welcome.

Yes, his steady gaze said. Do it.

I cocked my head skeptically. “You’re not going to bite?”

Of course not. There’s a reason all dogs go to heaven, you know.

“We don’t know that for sure,” I murmured. “That could just be dog propaganda.”

I barely have any teeth. He yawned as his eyes closed. Pet me, you chicken.

I realized I was having an imaginary conversation with a dog and put a stop to it immediately. I rubbed his gray-speckled fur lightly, only to find he’d already fallen back asleep. I gave him one last pat and stood. He let out a loud fart and startled himself back awake, and his gaze landed on me accusingly before drifting shut again.

Well. My lips twitched in amusement while my nose twitched from the smell. Someone’s certainly doing a bang-up job guarding the threshold.

I knocked on the door for a while before heading around to the side yard. I spotted a woman in a pastel jogging suit hunched over a table. A large jug was on the table, along with a bunch of Mason jars. As I watched, she pushed a tap on the jug, and something golden and viscous emerged into the mason jar waiting below.

“Ms. Carr?”

She startled, shoulders jumping as she nearly fumbled the jar. As it was, a good portion of the liquid spilled over the side and onto the grass. “Well, there goes the honey,” she said, resting the jar on the table and frowning up at me. “You startled me darn near to death.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Who are you anyway?”

“Detective Christiansen.” I cleared my throat at her blank look. “We spoke on the phone?”

“Where’s Walter?” she asked worriedly. “He’s usually so good about alerting me.”

If Walter was that hound on the porch who barely blinked as I hammered at the door for ten minutes, I seriously doubted the veracity of that claim. Walter was retired as fuck. “He’s fine, I think. I saw him on the porch taking a little nap.”

“Yes, well, he does that at his age.” She blinked at me owlishly from behind Coke bottle glasses. “Detective Christiansen, you said?”

“Yes.” When she continued to stare at me, I raised an eyebrow. “Something on my face?”

She looked startled. “What? No. You just… you like somebody that I used to know.” She held up a jar of honey. “Would you like to try some? Once you try it, you’ll never go back to the supermarket stuff.”

“Oh, that’s—”

“I’ll make sure you go home with a jar,” she said definitively, as if that was all settled. “Detective, I’m not sure why you’re here. I’ve already told you that I haven’t seen Delilah in many years. I don’t know what else I can say on the subject.”

“Valerie,” I paused as I tried to think of the best way—the polite way—to call an elderly woman a dirty damn liar. “I know you’re not being upfront with me.”

“Detective—”

“I looked into the paperwork you filed for Blue Heron, Inc. All in your handwriting, filed under your name and address.” She began filling another jar as if I hadn’t spoken at all, but the tension in her shoulders said she heard me just fine. I went on doggedly. “I know you