The Experimental Murders (Elysium #2)

Chapter Twelve

 After cleaning up the house a bit, ashamed of having fallen so far behind in her work, Trinket donned her coat and gloves and made her way back to the city center.

Mr. Wotton's body had been taken down from the lamp post, but the image of him swaying in the wind would not leave her mind. And then the eyeballs left on their front door. These actions didn't feel like warnings; they felt like threats.

As she glanced up at the lamp post, she saw Booker hanging there, his body lifeless, the passion and brilliance gone from his eyes.

She stopped dead in her tracks and clutched her chest.

No. No, it wasn't real. It was a figment of her broken mind.

It could be real.

And you know it.

It's only a matter of time.

Finally catching her breath, she shook her and head squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, his body was gone. It had never been there to begin with; she knew that. Still, her heart was in her throat.

Continuing on her way, she mulled over the horrifying vision. Or perhaps it had been an omen. What if he was next? He claimed he was too clever to be caught by the Mice, but he was foolish to think that. Everyone had their weakness, even the great Booker Larkin. And Scales was just the sort of person who would be able to ferret those weaknesses out and use them to his benefit.

Use them to hurt Booker.

So lost in her thoughts, she passed the tea shop and had to backtrack. As she neared the storefront, she peeked through the display window to be sure it wasn't too crowded. The more people that were inside, the less likely Emma would be to talk. Luckily, there was only a single customer—a young man who looked like he had skipped shaving that morning. He and Emma were behind the counter, their backs turned to her as they busied themselves with something out of sight.

Something didn't seem right about the scene. Maybe it was the way Emma's shoulders tensed every time the customer moved. Or perhaps it was how the young man kept his hands hidden in his pockets.

She should move on. It wasn't any of her business what Emma and the young man were doing.

And yet . . .

Slowly, Trinket opened the door a crack, reaching her hand in to grab hold of the bells in order to keep them from announcing her presence. She slipped inside and gently released them without a sound. She glanced at Emma and her visitor, but they hadn't noticed her. Moving silently into the shadows, she tried to catch a snippet of their conversation.

". . . all I have now, but I can mix more," Emma said.

The young man was a bit of a mumbler, making it difficult to understand him. ". . . something to . . ."

"Yes, it will do the same as that batch, but there are . . ."

Trinket couldn't catch the last few words. The young man laughed, and the sound was like stone grating against stone. "I'll take my chances," he said as he snatched something from Emma's hand and tossed what sounded like coins onto the floor.

He turned and caught sight of Trinket. Pausing, he looked her up and down, then grunted. As he passed by, he tipped his ratty hat at her.

"Morning, miss," he said, grinning to show off his very white teeth.

Considering everything about him was grimy—particularly his nails, which were absolutely filthy, with thick bits of dirt beneath them—she hadn't been expecting his oral hygiene to be so superb.