Dini ignored the absurdity of the question and watched the dots on the screen as Quin was typing.
Q: SO I’VE BEEN MESSAGING WITH MY SISTER AND …
Below it, a photograph, and she sat straight up, heart thudding, hands shaking, her entire body in such a tremble that she didn’t trust her ability to successfully send a reply.
Q: DINI??? I’M CALLING YOU.
Her phone buzzed and she took the call, not knowing if her power of speech would be any better than her power to type.
“Dini?” Everything about him exhibited concern. “Are you okay? You look …”
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes.”
“That is Detective Irvin Carmichael’s notebook?”
“It is.”
“Why didn’t you bring it?”
“Honestly—it wasn’t with the rest of the stuff I took. My sister has it. She has a thing for notebooks, journals. This was in the top drawer of his bureau—up in the attic along with more personal things, I think. I called her a while ago to catch her up on…everything. Anyway, long story short, she’s Fed-Ex-ing this to me tomorrow. You’ll be reading it Wednesday evening.”
“You could just ask her to send pics of the pages.” Even as she said it, she prayed he wouldn’t.
“Are you kidding? And miss a chance to see it with you? No way.”
“Now you have to finish reading so you’ll know the guy before it gets here. I’ve had a crush on him forever, you know.”
“So, I’m in competition with my great-great-grandfather? That’s not creepy at all.”
“Not so much competition as—”
“Fulfillment?” He waggled his eyebrows.
Dini laughed, letting them both off the hook. “Tell your sister thank you.”
Chapter 13
Excerpt from
My Spectral Accuser: The Haunted Life of Hedda Krause
Published by the Author Herself
Had it only been a robbery of all my worldly goods, I don’t know that Mr. Sylvan would have brought the police in so quickly or given them full authority to assemble and question every guest on the property. But there had been some destruction in the room—at the very least, a mess created—and that sort of disrespect for the Menger in all of her majesty would not be tolerated. Doors were knocked upon, robes and slippers donned, and erstwhile sleeping (or otherwise engaged) room occupants were herded to the lobby to be gathered among the settees and questioned by a fleet of uniformed officers.
What did you hear?
What did you see?
What do you know?
I deemed the entire operation ridiculous, for why would a skilled thief hide within the scene of the crime when a dark city and a myriad of escape routes waited right outside the door? I voiced as much to Mr. Sylvan, who countered with an argument that sometimes the best place to hide is within plain sight.
The entire evening’s activities were helmed by Detective Irvin Carmichael. I knew he was in charge long before our introduction. He stood at the apex of the second-floor balcony, stoic and still. Still, rather, with the exception of the almost imperceptible movement of his head and the constant scribbling in his notebook.
I was the last person Detective Carmichael—hereby known as Carmichael, as his title always made me uncomfortable, and his Christian name a least favorite—to be interviewed. He told me he wanted a “clean” view of the scene and circumstances, not one tainted by what I, the victim, would want him to find. He told me too later, in private conversations that will remain so, that I appeared quite fetching with my hair tumbled loose around my shoulders and eyes a-sparkle with agitation.
I insisted we not conduct our interview in the middle of the lobby where, whether from the landing or through the windows, the thieves themselves might be watching. Instead, we went into the Menger bar, to one of the booths along the back wall, with Bert given charge to keep away any prying eyes.
We sat on the same side of the booth, his body shielding mine like a wall. He was not a particularly tall man, but he was solidly built. Stripped of his overcoat, it was clear he didn’t have a soft bit of flesh to him. Everything about him reminded me of a bulldog—his build, his stance, the set of his jaw, his fixed attention. His hair was a coppery red, worn straight and short, brushed dry without a hint of cream, and every exposed bit of his flesh riddled with freckles. Face, brow, hands—up past his wrists. I’d never known a grown man to be so featured, and it served to tamper what might otherwise have been a severe