The Experimental Murders (Elysium #2)

Chapter Seventeen

 They chased him down the street. He turned left, and they followed after him. He was fast. Trinket's lungs burned as Booker increased his speed to keep up with him. They went down Gainsborough Avenue. He took a sharp turn down Lark Street. Booker turned as well. Trinket's legs ached as she tried to match his pace.

The man reached the end of the street and took a right. By the time they did the same, he had disappeared around another corner. As they took the same road, they found him already at the end, taking another right. Was he leading them in circles?

He was gone when they made it back to Gainsborough. Not even a trace of him remained. Trinket gasped for breath while Booker leaned against his knees, doing the same. He muttered a string of curses before standing up straight.

"So close," he said. "Blasted fellow is quick. Did he climb onto a roof or something?"

He looked up as if hoping his hypothesis was correct, but the moonless night made it impossible to see past the inky blackness. Trinket gulped down air, and when she thought she could manage full sentences, she tugged on Booker's coat sleeve. He turned to her expectantly.

"His fingernails," she said.

"Yes, what about them?"

"They had dirt packed under them. Like the young man Emma had been talking to."

"The tea shop girl?"

She nodded. "If he's been doing shady business with Emma and meeting up late at night with strange people, there is a chance—"

"That he is indeed our man. Well done, Trinket."

He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a tight squeeze. Her cheeks warmed at his praise, but she wouldn't allow herself to get excited just yet. "It doesn't confirm anything, though. It only suggests that the man Emma was speaking with engages in suspicious activities. I mean, anyone could have dirt under their nails, so it may not be him."

It was an awful lot of dirt, though, even for this filthy city.

Booker waved away her doubts. "It's a small city. The chances that he's the one we're looking for are high."

"Do you think he's involved with that trafficking Grace was talking about?"

"Possibly. He could be the one Benedict is going through to get his test subjects."

A chill went through her body at hearing him call these poor women "test subjects." She pulled her coat tighter and rubbed her arms. Booker noticed and held her a little closer as they made their way back down the street.

"At least the night was not a complete waste," he said as they strolled past the shops. "We may not have discovered any new bodies, but we have a lead. And neither of us got arrested. So there's that as well."

"Yes, but how are we going to follow this lead? Are we going to stake out the apartment building every night? The police will certainly take notice if we do that."

"Maybe not every night, but we might try for tomorrow. And I'll case the place during the day, too, perhaps talk to some of the neighbors. Use my charm to our benefit."

He flashed her a flirty grin, and she shook her head. "Maybe you'd do better to leave me behind. I'm clearly a hindrance when it comes to chases, and if you're going to make eyes at women, my presence may be unwanted."

"Well, maybe with the women you would be, but you could only help when it comes to the men." He waggled his eyebrows but then laughed it off. "No, you're not a hindrance at all. You're vital to the investigation. And your company is not objected to, either. It makes the waiting go by that much faster."

She nearly smiled at his compliment, but the cold had chapped her lips, and they were threatening to split if she stretched them too far.

He turned back to look at her. "Unless you don't want to go. I have been keeping you up at all hours of the night, so I'd completely understand."

Blast her chapped lips, she couldn't keep from smiling. Leaning into him a bit more, she glanced up at the overcast sky. "As long as you don't mind the house being a tad messy, I'll be right by your side. I am your assistant, after all."

His grip on her shoulder tightened for just a moment. "And an excellent one at that."

~

Trinket went straight to bed that night and woke late in the morning. As she sat up, she shielded her eyes from the sun streaming in through the curtains. Colorful butterflies were floating through the room, as if riding the sunbeams. Rubbing her eyes, she threw back her covers and went to wash her face in the basin. The water was cold, but it helped to wake her up. As she patted her cheeks dry, she watched one of the butterflies land on her mirror. Its shimmering wings shuddered, as though the creature were unsure about whether or not it wished to remain there.

"It's too cold for butterflies," she whispered to the hallucination.

After donning her work clothes and pinning up her hair, she left the butterflies behind and made her way to the kitchen. The entire house was rather still for how late in the morning it was. Had Booker already left to watch the apartment?

The kettle was cold on the stovetop, and since she knew Booker would never start the day without a cup of tea, she was certain he had left hours ago. Fetching a match, she lit the firebox and then took the kettle into the scullery to refill it.

As she set it back on the stove, she thought about the young man with the dirty fingernails. While it seemed like a stretch to assume that he could be involved simply because he had been speaking with Emma, she could not get him out of her mind. Why? He hadn't been any more suspicious than the rest of the city. It was just something about that dirt that felt significant.

"Trinket."

Her head shot up. Was someone in the house? Leaving her teacup on the table, she peeked out the door. But no one was there.

"Trinket!"

"Booker?" she called out.

There was no response. Her heart raced anxiously, but she stepped into the hallway nonetheless. She walked carefully, listening for a voice or a creak of a floorboard, anything that might tell her where the intruder was.

"Trinket! Where are you?"

She spun around, searching for the voice she was certain had been behind her. But again, nothing.

As it slowly began to dawn on her what was happening, a high-pitched laugh filled the air. Stumbling back and clutching at her chest, she collided with the laboratory door. The laughter grew louder and louder, surrounding her. She covered her ears and slid to the floor, squeezing her eyes shut as she started muttering that familiar old song.

"Ah, poor bird, take thy flight," she said, trying her best to drown out the laughter, just like he had taught her, "above the sorrows of this sad night."

She sang it over and over again, perhaps for hours. The panic rose in her chest until it completely engulfed her, taking her somewhere black and confining.

And empty. So very empty.

It was only herself, the laughter, and the music. The same verses over and over and over, until the words no longer made sense.

And then a bell.

Ringing and ringing and ringing.

Reality pulled her back, and she remembered where she was. Booker's house. The hallway. And that ringing.

The door. Someone was ringing the bell at the front door.

Rising to her feet, she dusted herself off and hurried to answer it. Expecting Gin or one of the other urchins, she was shocked to instead see Emma. The tea shop girl was leaning against the doorpost, cradling her right hand.

"Emma, what—"

But before the shopkeeper could respond, Trinket noticed the index finger of the hand she was favoring. Her eyes widened when she realized it was sitting, not upright as it should be, but at a ninety-degree angle.