Hotter Than Helltown: An Urban Fantasy Mystery (Preternatural Affairs Book 3) by S.M. Reine Read Free Book Online Page A

used them when he was a kid.
    Even with the back door standing open—through which I could see a yard of junk cars, probably owned by the body shop—it was several degrees hotter than the rest of the house. Sweat practically exploded from my pits.
    “The oven’s broken, Mary,” said the lone cook without preamble. He was wearing an apron that might have been white once. “Looks like the cord’s finally been chewed through by the mice.”
    “Did you finish reheating the breakfast pizzas?” She opened the oven, bent down to peer inside. When she stooped, the curvature of her back became much more exaggerated, almost like her spine had been snapped and healed at an impossible angle. “Dear me. The cheese isn’t even melted. We’ll need to get more food.”
    The cook looked pained. “We don’t have money for more food.”
    Mary patted at her robes. “I could have sworn…ah, here we go.” She produced a few crumpled dollar bills. “Can you get muffins, maybe?”
    “No time to get to Sack and Save. I’ll grab Pop-Tarts or something at the gas station,” the cook said.
    Pop-Tarts and breakfast pizzas for the homeless. Nourishing.
    “Do you have any cash?” Mary asked, turning to me.
    I did. I always kept a hundred on hand for emergencies. But I wasn’t contributing to those kinds of shopping habits, especially when those handouts were going to people who couldn’t bother to hold a job down. “No, sorry. I don’t have anything.”
    Judging by Mary’s knowing look, she could tell I was lying. Don’t ask me how. She just did.
    “Get whatever you can, Quinn,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do about this oven.”
    The cook tossed his apron aside and hurried out.
    I was sweltering. Needed to get out fast. “Mary, my name is Agent Cèsar Hawke. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and I’m here to talk about a volunteer named Jay Brandon.” I tugged on my collar to try to get a little oxygen. “Do you know him?”
    “Oh, I only work at this soup kitchen one or two days a month. I spread my time between so many charities. Maybe too many.”
    Her embarrassed smile was kind of charming. I wouldn’t have ever called her pretty, but she was definitely striking with her strong jaw, bright eyes, and straight nose. She must have been a looker before the years slapped her around.
    “He was a well-built Caucasian man in his thirties with blond hair, blue eyes,” I said. “Probably came in with his mother most of the time.”
    Mary’s hand flew to her heart. Her fingernails were gnarled and tobacco stained. “He was ?” Now she was staring at my fake badge.
    “Do you remember him?”
    “I don’t,” she said. “I’m sorry. Help me pull this oven away from the wall so that I can look at the power cord.”
    She sounded so authoritative about it that I moved to obey instantly. My Abuelita had conditioned me to respond to that sharp old lady voice from an early age.
    I dragged the oven out a few inches. Mary checked behind it. “Definitely the power cord,” she said with a disapproving headshake. “The mice weren’t a problem before the health department made us get rid of our cats.”
    “Jay Brandon had an altercation with one of the bums that comes here for food. You might have heard about that.”
    “Parishioners,” she said, searching through the drawers.
    “What?”
    “They aren’t ‘bums.’ They’re members of our church, and we feed them.”
    Whatever. “Did you hear about the fight?”
    “Yes, sad thing,” Mary said. She pulled a roll of black electrical tape out of one of the drawers and shuffled back toward me. I hadn’t noticed before, but she had a pretty bad limp. “It was Matt. He’s been struggling this year. Really struggling. Incredibly desperate. I wish there was more we could do for him than fill his belly and pray for his soul, but…well, we’re lucky on the days we can keep half of our parishioners from leaving hungry.”
    “Matt? Is that a nickname