How in Hades could a three-headed dog escape the Underworld, cross the river Styx, and enter the world of the living without me immediately hearing about it? But Cerberus has managed it somehow. So here I am, calling his name like an idiot in the middle of New York City at what must be the busiest time of the year.
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“You want to marry me?”
Aba gave me a sad little smile. “Aye, my beauty detective. Want, but cannot.”
The first set of words I’d longed to hear since I’d laid eyes on him nearly six months ago. The second set made me want to strangle him.
It was 7:00 p.m. on a muggy summer Sunday—a time when any sane man would’ve been at home with a cold one, but there’d been word that the gangster known as Jitters was bringing in a shipment that night—and I was at the station, trying to find somebody who knew something.
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“What the hell are you doing here?”
Neal was surprised that Lena, who was staring down his reflection in the vanity’s mirror, hadn’t asked the more obvious question: why was Neal aiming the gun at her back? Or maybe it was the right question; he still hadn’t pulled the trigger.
Lance sat his lanky self on a stool at the end of the outdoor bar and watched the Cadillac parked at the end of the deserted beach. A September breeze pushed off the lake and chilled the air. Perched on the car’s hood, Myrna flirted with one of those no-good Bearfoot boys.
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Holding my dress up so I wouldn’t trip, I dashed toward the door. I could already hear the bridal anthem. Of course, Samara Spade would be late for her own wedding. But the church kept slipping farther and farther away.
I woke up and groaned.
Standing atop a hill at least half a mile from the amphitheater, the distant 80’s classics thrum through my head. The band isn’t overly popular, but they’re free, so the place is packed. The outskirts are the perfect place for an introvert like me. This is shaping up to be an extraordinary evening.
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I haven’t killed anyone, I swear.
But everyone else thinks otherwise. Even my defense attorney isn’t sold. Now that I’m on the defendant stand, it feels like the whole world has turned on me.
“Blake Lawrence,” Judge McGrath booms, “you are on trial for the murder of your girlfriend, Lillian Torsten. How do you plead?”
No hesitation. “Innocent, Your Honor.”
I laid the photos out on the little café table in front of Marianne. “Can you tell me anything about any of these people?”
She ran her fingers over the faces. “They all look familiar, but I can’t say I actually know any of them.” She peered up at me.
“Whoever’s stealing from this factory won’t get away with it!” The accountant slammed his palm on his desk. A small mountain of spreadsheets fluttered to the floor.
I raised an eyebrow and sketched a hissing cat on my notepad.
“Now, Pete, calm down,” the foreman soothed.
“I am calm!” Spittle flew from Pete’s mouth.
Name’s Spade, Samara Spade. And much to Mom’s chagrin, I’m following in my Dod’s—dear old dad’s—footsteps.
Or at least attempting to. After my fiasco with the lion, I wondered if Dod would give me another case. For weeks, I did paperwork. Yawn.
Dod was off on another case when he came in. “I didn’t do it!”
She turns as I approach. Girl in a tan hoodie with wisps of long blond hair. The way her hood is up, I assume she’s wearing an IdentMask, and I’m right. Black haze conceals her face. Her eyes are red, glowing Xs, and her mouth a sewn-shut line. It’s a cheap, basic mask,
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