The Numbered Corpses (Elysium #4)

Chapter Thirty

They checked on Daphne before dealing with the dead woman downstairs. By the time they entered her bedroom, Daphne was able to move her fingers and toes and greeted them with a tiny wave of her forefinger.

Trinket gave her friend a relieved smile as she sat on the edge of the mattress. "Well, at least it was nothing permanent," she said, reaching out for Daphne's hand and squeezing it gently.

"Daphne, I am so sorry," Booker said, kneeling beside the bed. "I pray you'll forgive me."

Rolling her eyes, Daphne tried to wave away his apology, though the gesture came out more like an arm flop.

"Progress, at least," Booker said hopefully.

Poor Daphne. As if it wasn't bad enough that someone in her past had taken her ability to speak; now she had lost her only other means of communication. Although, it was temporary. And she was still able to make a variety of facial expressions. Like the wrinkled-nosed grimace as she stared up at the ceiling.

"Don't be mad at Booker, Daphne," Trinket pleaded. "He didn't invite her here."

Daphne shook her head and jerked it towards the door. Booker furrowed his brow and glanced at Trinket.

"I think she's saying she's mad at Frieda?" she tried.

With an emphatic nod, Daphne let out a short huff and pinched her lips together.

"Yes, well, I'm none too pleased with her, either," Booker said, shifting a bit so he was sitting on the floor, his arm resting on the bed. "Aside from breaking into my house and drugging my friends, she also gave me absolutely no useful information."

A smile tugged at Daphne's mouth when Booker referred to her as a friend, and Trinket couldn't resist a smile of her own. "Do you mean she had no information, or she just refused to give it?" she asked Booker, trying to school her expression into something more serious.

"It's hard to tell with her. She likes to toy with people, so it's difficult to get a straight answer."

Thinking about the calling card Frieda had left, Trinket asked, "Are you going to go talk to her again tonight? At the Clocktower?"

Booker scoffed and shook his head. "Lord, no. I'm not stupid enough to visit her in a cheap rented room. I know her too well to do that."

Yes, yes he did, and that truth was still a tad unnerving. Almost as if reading her thoughts, Booker's head shot towards her, and he gave a slight wince. However, before he could speak, Trinket changed the subject. "It's just as well. We really should do something about that corpse."

Although he looked concerned, Booker nodded slowly. "Yes, we should. Not sure what, though."

"We ought to think these things through before dragging dead bodies into the house."

"Oh, what fun would life be if we did that?"

Trinket turned back to Daphne and laid a hand on her knee. "I think you should rest some more. We don't know what sort of drug she used, so we can't take any chances."

Sighing, Daphne nodded reluctantly and managed to wave her away properly.

Satisfied that their friend's condition was quickly improving, Trinket and Booker got to their feet and made their way downstairs. As they passed the parlour, Trinket couldn't help but check to be sure Frieda wasn't there.

No, no one at all. But she'd be back. No doubt she'd be back.

They returned to the laboratory, and they were welcomed by the heavy stench of rotting flesh. "We can't just walk it outside," Booker said, propping his elbows up on a nearby workbench as he stared at the body.