Waking The Serpent. Jane Kindred
her, too close to the feeling of helplessness she’d experienced in the early days of hosting step-ins.
In the beginning, when she hadn’t been careful about setting boundaries, she’d been paralyzed by the emotions of shades. If their deaths had been sudden and unexpected, they were often awash in anguish over what they’d lost and drowning in fear of the unknown. To force them to move on before they were ready was like holding their heads under water—killing them all over again. It was a prime example of the Covent’s arrogance, and why Phoebe was willing to let the shades in. Someone had to speak for them. But letting them in had also meant opening herself up to an intimacy that wasn’t entirely consensual.
She shivered, trying to dispel the feeling of violation, and swept her bag off the seat as she hopped out of the Wrangler. The leather briefcase seemed light. Son of a—Phoebe opened it, knowing full well what the missing weight was. She’d been so flustered, she’d left her tablet at the county jail. It had an encrypted password, at least, but what were the odds she’d ever see that thing again? It had all of her recent case notes, along with personal files—photos and videos she hadn’t uploaded to the cloud for backup yet. A quick call to the jail confirmed the worst. The tablet was long gone.
It was definitely time for a drink.
Inside, Phoebe opened a bottle of Côtes du Rhône and poured herself an oversized glass, ready to curl up on the papasan chair and do nothing but sip wine and listen to the rain as the sky brooded with storm-induced dusk. Her head still pounded from the incident with the step-in; she might as well earn the hangover. Besides, tomorrow was Sunday and she could sleep in.
Halfway to the living room, her phone vibrated in her pocket. Maybe someone had found the tablet, after all.
“This is Phoebe Carlisle.” She assumed every call was professional. Wherever she happened to be at any given moment functioned as her “office” much of the time.
“Phoebe, it’s Di.” Ione’s given name was actually Dione. She’d dropped the D when she was younger, but the nickname had stuck.
Phoebe’s thumb hovered over End Call.
“Don’t hang up, Phoebes, I need to explain.”
“Don’t call me Phoebes like we’re BFFs. We’re not children anymore. And we’re most certainly not friends.”
Ione sighed into the phone. “I don’t blame you for being angry, but that wasn’t my call. Diamante Senior hired his own counsel for Rafe and he wanted it to go through the Covent so Rafe wouldn’t refuse. And you have to recognize you would have been in over your head, anyway. The evidence is pretty damning, and there are a lot of people in the valley who’d love to see a wealthy business owner like Rafe take a fall. It’s going to be a media circus.”
“And you don’t think I can handle a serious case. I get it. Thanks for calling.”
“Phoebe. Do not hang up this phone.”
“Oh, my God. You really think I’m twelve.” Phoebe decided to act like it and clicked the button.
Predictably, the phone rang again. She put it in do-not-disturb mode and took her wine to the papasan chair, kicking off her heels and sinking into the soft cushion. The voice mail notification popped up a moment later. With a sigh, Phoebe played the message.
“Listen, Phoebe. This is about Rafe. I gave him your card when he started messing around with this step-in business. We may not see eye to eye, but I know you believe in what you do, and I think you can help him. Just...don’t get too tangled up with him. He can be very charming.”
Phoebe laughed out loud as the message ended. Right. Mr. Charm. It was exactly the nickname she would have given him. She couldn’t decide what offended her more, Ione’s dismissal of her as a serious attorney or assuming Phoebe was so gullible—or so desperate—she’d fall for any good-looking guy who said two words to her. Though, to be fair, Diamante was slightly more than just good-looking.
She was half considering calling Ione back to tell her off when the doorbell rang followed by a rap on the frame of the screen door. She took another big swallow of wine before opening the door and choked on the mouthful, coughing gracelessly as she stared at her unexpected visitor. Speak of the devil.
Rafe Diamante, looking like Heathcliff out on the moors, narrowed his eyes with concern, reaching for the handle of the screen door. “Are you all right?”
“Am I all right?” Phoebe continued coughing up a lung. “Weren’t you just in jail on a murder charge? How do you even know where I live?”
He held up her business card. “I promise I’m not stalking you, Ms. Carlisle. Your sister gave it to me.”
Right. Ione. The jerk. The rain was coming down in sheets and Diamante was soaked to the skin.
“Sorry to show up unannounced. I called first, but your phone kept going straight to voice mail.”
Phoebe unlocked the screen door and held it open. “Better come in before you drown.”
Mr. Charm stepped in, wiping his boots on the welcome mat to avoid tracking red desert mud inside. “Before you go calling the cops to report a fugitive, they can’t officially charge me with murder until the coroner’s report comes back. My lawyer challenged the police on holding me without cause.”
“Right. That serious lawyer.” Phoebe took another sip, trying not to stare at Diamante’s pecs through the white tee plastered to them. Beneath the shirt, some kind of dark, patterned tattoo swirled over his heart beside the pentacle. She mimicked the motion of the art with her wine. “Can I get you a glass?” She took his shrug for ascent and headed to the kitchen.
When he remained standing, Phoebe waved the bottle at the rustic wood-frame couch in the living room. “Have a seat.”
He cast a doubtful glance at the couch. “It’s leather. I’m soaking wet.”
Phoebe snorted as she came around the bar with his glass. “It’s pleather. Don’t worry about it. I can’t afford anything real on my salary.” She took the matching chair kitty-corner to the couch while Diamante sat on the edge of a cushion. “My sister said you needed my help with the step-ins. Why did you call me from county? Why not call your family? You can’t really have wanted my representation.”
“I wanted to deal with this myself. Without my father or the Covent using their influence to sweep things under the rug.”
“What would there be to sweep under the rug?” Phoebe’s eyebrows drew together. “You didn’t actually kill Barbara Fisher?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I’m...fuzzy on what actually happened. I remember driving to her house for the appointment last night, and I have a vague idea we argued. I can’t remember what about. She gave me a cup of tea and I guess it must have been drugged. The next thing I can recall clearly is waking up feeling sluggish, like I’d been in a trance—with Barbara dead on the floor beside me and the cops breaking down the door.”
“A trance. So you think maybe one of the shades...?”
“Stepped in and took over? I don’t know. It’s possible.” His expression was pained. “I find it difficult to believe I could do something so completely against my nature under the influence of a step-in, but it’s what the Covent has always argued. And someone had been controlling the shades—using them to control their hosts. So it could have been me they used this time.”
“Do the police have any evidence? Besides circumstantial, I mean. Were there any prints on the body? Your hair?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can find out for you. I mean, your lawyer