White Night (The Dresden Files #9) - Jim Butcher Page 0,4

said. "Officially, she's going down as a suicide."

"Which means the ball is in my court," I said.

"I talked to Stallings," she said. "I'm taking a couple of days of personal leave, starting tomorrow. I'm in."

"Cool." I frowned suddenly and got a sick little feeling in my stomach. "This isn't the only suicide, is it."

"Right now, I'm on the job," Murphy said. "That isn't something I could share with you. The way someone like Butters might."

"Right," I said.

With no warning whatsoever, Murphy moved, spinning in a blur of motion that swept her leg out in a scything, ankle-height arc behind her. There was a thump of impact, and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Murphy—her eyes closed—sprang onto something unseen, and her hands moved in a couple of small, quick circles, fingers grasping. Then Murphy grunted, set her arms, and twisted her shoulders a little.

There was a young woman's high-pitched gasp of pain, and abruptly, underneath Murphy, there was a girl. Murphy had her pinned on her stomach on the floor, one arm twisted behind her, wrist bent at a painful angle.

The girl was in her late teens. She wore combat boots, black fatigue pants, and a tight, cutoff grey T-shirt. She was tall, most of a foot taller than Murphy, and built like a brick house. Her hair had been cut into a short, spiky style and dyed peroxide white. A tattoo on her neck vanished under her shirt, reappeared for a bit on her bared stomach, and continued beneath the pants. She had multiple earrings, a nose ring, an eyebrow ring, and a silver stud through that spot right under her lower lip. On the hand Murphy had twisted up behind her back, she wore a bracelet of dark little glass beads.

"Harry?" Murphy said in that tone of voice that, while polite and patient, demanded an explanation.

I sighed. "Murph. You remember my apprentice, Molly Carpenter."

Murphy leaned to one side and looked at her profile. "Oh, sure," she said. "I didn't recognize her without the pink-and-blue hair. Also, she wasn't invisible last time." She gave me a look, asking if I should let her up.

I gave Murphy a wink, and squatted down on the carpet next to the girl. I gave her my best scowl. "I told you to wait at the apartment and practice your focus."

"Oh, come on," Molly said. "It's impossible. And boring as hell."

"Practice makes perfect, kid."

"I've been practicing my ass off!" Molly protested. "I know fifty times as much as I did last year."

"And if you keep up the pace for another six or seven years," I said, "you might—you might —be ready to go it alone. Until then, you're the apprentice, I'm the teacher, and you do what I tell you."

"But I can help you!"

"Not from a jail cell," I pointed out.

"You're trespassing on a crime scene," Murphy told her.

"Oh, please," Molly said, both scorn and protest in her voice.

(In case it slipped by, Molly has authority issues.)

It was probably the worst thing she could have said.

"Right," Murphy said. She produced cuffs from her jacket pocket, and slapped them on Molly's pinned wrist. "You have the right to remain silent."

Molly's eyes widened and she stared up at me. "What? Harry…"

"If you choose to give up that right," Murphy continued, chanting it with the steady pace of ritual, "anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

I shrugged. "Sorry, kid. This is real life. Look, your juvenile record is sealed, and you'll be tried as an adult. First offense, I doubt you'll do much more than… Murph?"

Murphy took a break from the Miranda chant. "Thirty to sixty days, maybe." Then she resumed.

"There, see? No big deal. See you in a month or three."

Molly's face got pale. "But… but…"

"Oh," I added, "beat someone up on the first day. Supposed to save you a lot of trouble."

Murphy dragged Molly to her feet, her hands now cuffed. "Do you understand your rights as I have conveyed them to you?"

Molly's mouth fell open. She looked from Murphy to me, her expression shocked.

"Or," I said, "you might apologize."

"I-I'm sorry, Harry," she said.

I sighed. "Not to me, kid. It isn't my crime scene."

"But…" Molly swallowed and looked at Murphy. "I was just's-standing there."

"You wearing gloves?" Murphy asked.

"No."

"Shoes?"

"Yes."

"Touch anything?"

"Um." Molly swallowed. "The door. Just pushed it a little. And that Chinese vase she's planted her spearmint in. The one with a crack in it."

"Which means," Murphy said, "that if I can show that this is