Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet by Darynda Jones Read Free Book Online

I get back.”
    “Okay, lock the door on the way out.”
    “O—”
    “Wait!” She popped up again, an idea lighting her face. Her heavy liner narrowed as
     she patted the desk, searching for her sunglasses again. I let her get them that time.
     She slid them onto her face, then said, “I’m doing you a favor.”
    I hitched my hip back onto her desk. “Yes.”
    “And favors need to be repaid, right?”
    Wondering where she was going with this, I said, “Yes.”
    “Go on a date with me.”
    “You’re not really my type.”
    “Come on, Chuck. One date and I’ll never ask again.”
    “No, really, you’re not my type.”
    “You know how you have this incredible gift for being able to tell when someone is
     lying?”
    I glanced at Harper. She seemed very interested all of a sudden. I shrugged. “Yeah.”
    “Well, I’m thinking about dating this guy, but I can’t quite get a read on him. You
     know, I can’t tell if he’s being truthful with me or not.”
    “Do you suspect him of anything in particular?”
    “Not really. I just thought you could show up —” She added air quotes to emphasize the deception “—then just sit with us a minute.
     You know, just long enough to get a read on him.”
    “I don’t really read people.”
    “Feel him, then.”
    “Fun, yet awkward.”
    “You know what I mean. Tit for tat, lady. Take it or leave it.” She looked past me.
     “No offense, Harper.”
    “Oh, none tak—”
    “So?” Pari said, interrupting poor Harper, who was finally getting a word in. “My
     couch for your mad skill.”
    “Well, since you put it that way.”
    “Sweet. I’ll text you the place and time.”
    “Wonderful. I’m going to show Harper the couch.”
    “Okay.”
    I figured our conversation was over, but no sooner had she ducked behind the desk
     than she popped right back up again. She reminded me of a toaster pastry minus the
     icing.
    “Wait a minute. Where have you been?”
    “Around. Just kind of hanging out in my apartment.”
    “For two months?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “Hmm. Okay, well, lock the door!” she yelled. She was so pushy.
    “She’s interesting.”
    “Yes, she is.” I led Harper around a tight corner, made tighter by the boxes of supplies,
     and into a small back room. “It’s not much, but no one will think to look for you
     here, I’m certain of it.”
    She took it all in with a gracious nod. I could tell she wanted to scrunch her nose
     in distaste, but refrained out of kindness. “This is perfect,” she said instead. What
     a great sport.
    “Okay, I’m off to do investigative stuff. I’ll come back later tonight. You gonna
     be okay here?”
    “Sure, I’ll be fine.”
    I put a hand on her arm to draw her attention away from her new surroundings. “I’ll
     do everything in my power to find whoever is doing this to you. I promise.”
    A tiny smile lit her face, and if I wasn’t mistaken, she was a little relieved. “Thank
     you.”
    After leaving Harper standing in the middle of the tiny room, I spotted Pari’s apprentice,
     Tre. He was working on a girl’s tat who looked torn between anguish and desire. I
     could hardly blame her. Tre was like a Long Island iced tea: tall, unassuming, delicious
     enough to wet your whistle as well as other places, and packed a lethal punch when
     you least expected it.
    “Hey, Chuck,” he said, nodding at me between buzzes of the needle. The fact that deep
     down inside, tattoo artists must enjoy the infliction of pain on others was not lost
     on me. I wondered if that trait spilled over into his personal life. I could handle
     pain if that’s what he was into. Not a lot, but …
    “Hey, you,” I said, only a little worried I’d make him mess up. Mistakes were so permanent.
     Like nine-months-after-prom permanent.
    He paused his efforts to ask, “Do you just call me you because you can’t remember my name?”
    My shoulders wilted. “Darn. You caught me. No, wait, it’s here somewhere.” I