Strings of Fate (Mistresses of Fate) by Deirdre Dore Read Free Book Online

leading down to the next level to her door. She’d put a mirror on the wall to catch the light from the tall, narrow windows on each floor.
    Chris had met plenty of FBI agents, usually when leads that they’d turned in had been crucial pieces of evidence in one case or another. Mostly they’d seemed to regard their little group, dubbed the Mistresses of Fate on a local blog, as a pain in the ass.
    These men seemed likely to agree. They were looking at her suspiciously, their bodies tense, hands near their weapons.
    “Ma’am, you want to put down the knife?”
    Chris looked at the knife in her hands. “Shit. Yeah. Sorry.” She looked around for a place to put it. “Should I just . . .” She waved with the knife toward the kitchen.
    “Just put it on the floor,” the Fed—the younger one—ordered, “and take a step back.”
    “Okay, okay.” Chris bent down and set the knife on the rug at the entrance and stepped away from it.
    He came through the door, a tall, broad-shouldered man with freckles, sandy red hair, big dark glasses like Buddy Holly, fantastic cheekbones, and a strong, well-defined jaw. He was the nerd who got even with the popular crowd by becoming a Fed, the skinny, freckled dork who’d hit a growth spurt and now carried a gun and towered over people. He picked up the knife and looked for a place to set it down in her messy apartment.
    Chris backed deeper into her living room. The floor plan of her apartment was fairly open. The door to the interior staircase opened to her living room, but there was another door, just to the right as you came in, that opened to a wrought-iron balcony and the same switchback staircase that the girls had used to leave the yoga studio. The other side of the apartment housed the kitchen, which didn’t have a wall separating it from the living room, next to it the bathroom, and then her bedroom, which was just down a narrow hall toward the back of the building.
    “Ms. Christina Pascal?” The other Fed, also a big guy, older, kind of looked like he’d played one of the extras in Goodfellas . He had a broad face, olive skin, and thick, fleshy lips. He was interesting-looking, that was for sure. Freckle-Face was less intimidating; she’d bet he played good cop. She looked at them expectantly, waiting for their opening line.
    The Fed rephrased, “ Are you Ms. Christina Pascal?”
    “That’s what it says on my driver’s license.”
    “Is that your name or not?” The young one sounded like he’d rather slap a pair of handcuffs on her than make nice. Guess she was wrong about the good-cop thing.
    “Yeah, jeez. That’s my name. Like you didn’t know that already.” Chris shrugged and stretched out a little, pulling her right arm across her chest and stretching out her shoulder blade.
    “What are you doing?” Freckles asked, but the other cop made a face, sniffing.
    “Is something—”
    Chris whirled and jumped toward the kitchen. “Shit, the mac!”
    Freckles moved his hands toward his weapon when she turned, but she ignored him, dashing into the kitchen.
    The plastic spoon she’d been using to stir it had melted into a chemical-accident-smelling mess, but, even worse, the mac was ruined.
    She turned off the burner and dumped the whole thing in the sink, which was conveniently next to the stove. Right next to the stove. Her kitchen was certifiably tiny.
    The Feds had followed Chris onto the tile that separated the kitchen area from the living room and seemed to be examining the exposed brick wall, the ancient appliances, and the large window that opened to a view of the town circle below. She’d shoved a tiny table and two chairs under it and decorated it with a vase she’d made in seventh-grade pottery class that was, in a word, hideous.
    She went to the window, pushing the table as far out of the way as she could, struggling a little because the window was finicky, and tried to lift it open to clear the smoke from the room before it set off the fire