The Dirt on Ninth Grave

  “Prepare to be blown away.”

  I bounced around and lolled my head from side to side like a prizefighter. “Okay, totally prepared.”

  “Erin’s great-aunt killed her own daughter, then spent the rest of her life in an insane asylum, telling everyone who would listen that the doll was her deceased kid. How’s that for creepy?”

  “I’d give it a solid 9.8.” The thought of a mother killing her own child disturbed me way more than I let on. I knew it happened. I just liked to be kept in the dark about it. “Okay, does Erin have anything of Novalee’s? Perhaps a piece of jewelry or a blanket? Anything?”

  “Besides those pictures, I’m not sure. Wait. Now that she’s told me the story, I wonder if that doll in the attic was hers.”

  “What doll?”

  “There’s this really creepy doll in the attic. Come to think of it, it does look like the one from the picture.”

  “There wasn’t one in the picture.”

  “Not in the drawing, but there is in the picture Erin used to draw it.”

  I perked up. “And Erin has it? What does it look like?”

  “You know, one of those old dolls that looks dead. Its face is cracked, and its eyes are solid white.”

  “Billy, can you get to it?”

  “I guess. I think it’s still in the attic. Why?”

  “I need you to get it out of your house.”

  “And do what with it?”

  “I’m not sure. For now, just bring it to me. I’m at the café.”

  “I’ll try. I’m not sure how I’ll do it without Erin finding out.”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  “Is it the doll?” he asked, as though it suddenly all made sense. “Janey, Erin’s aunt Noreen gave her that doll the very first time she got pregnant. Noreen had tried to have kids for years but miscarried several times. Then when she finally did carry all the way, her baby died two weeks later in its sleep.”

  “Just like Erin’s.”

  “Exactly.”

  That fact only reinforced my belief that this was somehow connected to that doll. “Billy, get that doll out of the house. Now. I’ll wait for you here.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  We hung up, and I started a new Google. Good thing they were free. This time I looked up how to destroy a possessed item. From what I could tell, I’d need holy water, the heart of a dragon, and the nail clippings from a canonized saint.

  17

  Ahhh, Friday…

  My second favorite F-word.

  —T-SHIRT

  A little while later, Billy knocked on the office door.

  “Come in,” I said as though I had a right to.

  He walked in with a brown paper bag. “It’s in here. You think this will stop her?”

  I took it. Opened it. Shivered. “I hope so. What did Erin say?”

  “Nothing. I told her I was meeting my mistress. She told me to make sure I wore clean underwear, ’cause she’d rigged the brakes and it would be awkward if the EMTs had to cut off dirty boxers.”

  “She plans ahead. I like that.”

  He nodded, suddenly nervous. “What if this doesn’t work?”

  “Then we’ll keep looking. I won’t give up, Billy.”

  “Thanks. I can’t imagine why Erin hates you so much.”

  “Boggles the mind, right?”

  Billy left, and I let myself acknowledge the heat that I’d begun to associate with all things Reyes Farrow. I tucked the bowl I’d used to confiscate a sample of his posole against my side and hurried to the kitchen sink.

  I rinsed it out, hiding the evidence, then turned toward him. “You’re here again.”

  “You’re here again,” he said. He was leaning against the prep table, watching me.

  I was busy thinking, My God, that man defines the word “smoldering,” when he asked, “What’d you think of it?”

  With a snort, I said, “It was freaking awesome. Seriously. Like, mind-blowing. What are we talking about?”

  Humor deepened the dimples he sported whenever he wanted any woman within a fifty-foot radius to melt into a quivering puddle of girl jelly. His dimples were just too sexy, too delicious, not to have an ulterior motive.

  “The posole,” he said.

  “What? I didn’t take any of your posole. I have my own posole at home. Like, a gallon.”

  “Ah. So, that hint of red chile on your blouse?”

  I gasped and checked out the front of my shirt.

  A breathy laugh escaped him. “Busted.”

  After closing my lids, I said, “For the record, it was incredible. You should become a chef. Or buy a restaurant. You’d make a killing. And only partly because you draw crowds of ovulating women.”

  He sobered and dropped his gaze. “I don’t mean to.”

  I’d meant it as a compliment. Apparently it wasn’t one. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It doesn’t suit you.”

  Having no idea what he meant by that, I went back to my earlier thoughts of all the words in the English language that he defined. Beautiful. Alluring. Provocative. Captivating. Charming. Sensuous. Dark. Brooding. And somewhere in there, as always, the word bad popped up. I got the feeling that when Reyes Farrow wanted to be, he could be very, very bad.

  I realized he was letting me take him in. Giving me a moment, as it were. I dropped my gaze and asked, “Want to go for round two?”

  I felt the tension in the air tighten like a bowstring being pulled between us.

  “With the same rules?” I added.

  “And what rules were those again?”

  “Can I have you? For fifteen minutes?” Humiliation surged through me. He was a tad angry the last time we did this. It would serve me right for him to say no.

  “Right,” he said softly. “I remember now. I can’t touch you for fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes.”

  He was in front of me. I felt his heat but could not bring myself to look at him. “And what happens after fifteen minutes?”

  The arrogance I’d used to my advantage last time had fled me. I had no clever comeback. No promise of what I could do to him in that fifteen minutes. I just knew that I wanted him. Plain and simple.

  “After fifteen minutes, all bets are off.”

  “And I can touch you?”

  A warmth washed over me. The prospect of him touching me caused both excitement and anxiety. The mere thought made me feel vulnerable. Exposed. At his mercy. But a deal was a deal.

  “Yes.”

  “And no thoughts of running a blade across your throat while I’m tied up?”

  I looked up at him at last. “Like it would do me any good.”

  “Exactly.”

  He reached behind himself, took off his apron, and ripped off its strap. “If we do this, will you finish what you start?”

  He asked it while holding the strap out to me, giving me permission to tie him up. For some reason, the thought of him tied up gave me a hit of confidence, even though I knew it would do absolutely nothing to stop him should he want out.

  “And if I don’t?” I asked. I wasn’t a tease. I was pretty sure about that, but if something happened… I wanted a guarantee of some kind that he would not become the bad boy I knew he could be.

  “Like I said before, Dutch, I’m not pubescent. I’ll survive if you want to stop, but just barely. I might need CPR.”

  I let out a soft laugh.

  He showed me those dimples again, then fetched the chair, sliding it to the center of the room. He sat down and crossed his wrists at his back, a challenge glittering in his eyes. The width of his shoulders became all the more evident in that position, and I had to take in his form for a moment before walking around to the back of him.

  I knelt down and wrapped the strap over his wrists. He let his fingers slide over my hands as I tied. The movement, so small and seemingly inconsequential, sent tiny shivers up my arms. When I finished, I bent forward and kissed
his palms. His long fingers glided over my cheek and neck.

  When I stood, I walked to the timer, set it, then turned back to him. “I only have fifteen minutes,” I explained as I peeled off my boots, jeans, and underwear. I had to save every second I could.

  The sweater I wore hung past my hips, so he didn’t really see anything, but he gave a low growl and let his head fall back as though he now regretted being tied up.

  I straddled him like last time and drove my fingers into his hair. He focused on me, his glistening gaze sharp, his sleek muscles hard. I kissed him, softly this time, the act unhurried and intoxicating. When he opened to me, he tasted like storm clouds and rain. I settled on him, and he drew in a cool breath of air between our mouths. His erection teased and tempted me, and I pushed into him a little harder. A whispery moan escaped him, and he tilted his hips into me. The friction caused a jolt of electricity. I clutched his shoulders, and he did it again, rubbing my clitoris, sparking a fire deep inside me.

  Unable to hold the swirl of arousal in check any longer, I reached between our hips and yanked up his T-shirt to reveal the rungs of his stomach, before returning to his face. His fire had grown even brighter, but I focused. Saw past it. Concentrated on the man behind the inferno.

  Scooting back, I brushed my mouth over the smooth skin of his chest. Grazed my teeth over a nipple. Flitted my tongue and suckled.

  The strap creaked against the strain of his hold, but he kept his word. He stayed tied to the chair, but I felt the struggle raging inside him. The rise of temperature. The tightening of muscle.

  I let the shirt fall and turned my attention to his jeans.

  Every move I made caused a burst of adrenaline to spike inside him. That, in turn, caused the exact same reaction in me. Every point of contact, every nuance of desire sent a ripple of ecstasy shooting to my core.

  After I unfastened his jeans, I pushed them over his hips. He lifted off the chair for me, and I slowly lowered them to reveal his erection, swollen and rigid. To say I was impressed would have been an understatement. I pushed his jeans past his knees and wedged myself between them. I wanted to taste him. To graze my teeth over the length of him. To swallow his excitement until need gripped him so hard he had no choice but to come in my mouth.

  But I didn’t. I wanted him inside me even more, and I was running out of time.

  Instead, I leaned forward and ran my tongue from the base of his cock to the tip. He stiffened, his muscles tensed to the consistency of marble. When I crawled onto his lap, took his erection into my hand, and slid the entire length of it inside me in one smooth effort, his groan caressed my senses. Pushed me higher.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck, grabbed handfuls of his hair, and moved. Slowly at first. Rocking my hips ever so slightly. Stoking the embers inside me, giving them time to ignite. Then faster. Letting the pressure in my abdomen grow with each stroke. With each driving thrust.

  Then I felt it. The first quiver of orgasm. Just a tiny tremor, a spark in the deepest nether regions of my body like a white-hot pinpoint of energy.

  He felt it, too. I could tell when he stilled. When he closed his eyes. When he clenched his jaw.

  It grew with the speed of a lightning strike. Spread. Pooled in my abdomen like molten lava until the pressure exploded and spilled over me with the sweetest sensation known to mankind.

  The strap broke, but Reyes kept his word. He wrapped his hands around the back of the chair, his knuckles solid white as his own orgasm rocketed through him. He groaned as the sting washed over him. Bucked as the last remnants pulsed through him.

  I held him to me so tightly I feared he might suffocate, but he didn’t seem to mind. Then I realized I’d heard a sharp crack. I leaned back. He’d broken the chair. The metal chair. That was going to be difficult to explain.

  The timer dinged, and he dropped the back of the chair and wrapped his arms around me. It surprised me at first. His hold was tight but tender, his breaths hoarse and ragged. I held his head to my chest for a long time, and I didn’t want to let go. I never wanted to let go.

  If not for Sumi sneaking in to turn the slow cooker down as we sat entwined in the broken chair, then leaving without making a sound, pretending she didn’t see us, I might never have. But we both started laughing when she left, and the time had come for me to let him breathe again. I shimmied off him, scooped up my things, and headed to the bathroom to clean up while he pulled his jeans over his hips.

  After grabbing his jacket, I waited as he turned off the kitchen lights. We walked out the back door, locking it behind us.

  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as he walked me to Mable’s car. He slipped his fingers into mine and we walked like high school sweethearts, hand in hand.

  He had what I realized was his black truck parked across the street or I would’ve offered him a ride.

  “Why didn’t you want me to touch you?” he asked, his voice sincere.

  Even though it was embarrassing, I told him the truth. “Partly because that would be giving you too much control over me.”

  He nodded, not the least bit offended. “And the other part?”

  “Because I don’t deserve your touch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I dismissed it with a laugh. “Never mind. I don’t know.”

  “Please, tell me.”

  Even more embarrassed, I scraped my foot along the pavement. “I think I’m a bad person.” When he started to argue, I said, “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I can tell when a person is bad just by looking at them. I don’t know why and I don’t understand how and I don’t expect you to believe me, but I can tell when a person is bad. And trust me when I say I’m a bad person.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “You know I’m not. You have good instincts as well. You have to sense what kind of person I am. Why else would I be here? Why else would I forget everything if not because I’d done something very bad?”

  When we got to Mable’s car, he turned me to him. “You’re wrong.”

  I was about to argue again, but he dipped his head and kissed me. It was soft and demanded nothing, and I fell another notch.

  I heard yelling in the distance. High pitched. Angry. The tone telescoped until it was right in my face. I was back in my apartment and had jumped Denzel the minute I got home. So was I dreaming? Having another nightmare? I pried my lids apart to see an elderly woman in my face, a decomposing elderly woman, her eyes solid white, her mouth open as she screamed at me.

  “Where’s my baby?” she asked over and over.

  Bolting upright, I scrambled to get away from her and fell out of bed. The wooden crate that served as my nightstand slammed into my shoulder. Before I could get up, a coffee cup whizzed past my head and shattered against the wall on my right.

  I crawled on my hands and knees to stay clear of the flying debris. My apartment had exploded, and at the epicenter was a very angry, and very powerful, lady.

  The bathroom seemed like the safest place. I army-crawled to it and tried to kick the door closed. Instead, I cut my foot on shards of broken glass. I lifted my gaze to see hundreds of pieces of broken glass hanging in the air around me.

  She’d shattered the mirror, and what little moonlight there was glinted off each hovering piece. The second she dropped them, I dived out of the bathroom. They showered the floor with tiny, musical clinks.

  Since she was using Denzel as a battering ram and aimed him straight for my head, I scrambled to the living room. My bed crashed into the wall, shaking the whole house. I stood and started for the door and was busy praying Mr. Kubrick wasn’t taking pictures when a glass rocketed past me. It swam through Irma’s head and struck the wall on the opposite side. Pieces of it hit Satana, who’d been hiding under Irma’s feet. She hissed and darted off.

  Anger exploded inside me. I bit down and glared at the woman destroying my most prized possessions, like the glass. It was my only real glass.

  I glanced at I
rma. “Stay put. I have this.” Then I was in front of her. I grabbed the woman’s throat mid-scream. I could barely understand her anyway. All I knew was that she wanted her baby.

  “First of all,” I said, pointing in the direction Satana had run, “that is my cat.” She tried to blind me with her nails, so I grabbed her hand with my free one and pulled her closer. “Second of all, I’m not as easy to kill as an infant, but keep trying. We’ll see how many babies you kill after tonight.”

  She calmed instantly and blinked. “What?”

  I blinked back.

  “Why would I kill you?” she asked, her voice suddenly soft. Confused. “Why would I kill a baby?”

  I blinked again. “Because that’s what you do?”

  “I have never!” she said, appalled. She slapped my hands away.

  I dropped them and stepped back.

  “I would never do something like that. I’ve tried to stop him every time.”

  A dread the weight of the planet crept over me. “Who, Novalee?”

  She pressed her lips together. “The man who killed my daughter. The one who had me locked away in an asylum for the rest of my life when I tried to tell people he’d done it. My husband, Delbert Smeets.”

  An eerie silence settled about the room. Novalee’s blank eyes watered as she thought back.

  “He killed my precious Rose and told everyone I’d done it.”

  “And they just believed him?”

  “He was The Mayor,” she said, matter-of-fact. “No one questioned The Mayor. He had half the town in his pocket.”

  I crunched over to a rickety dining chair, cursing when I stepped on a Lego. No idea. “Novalee, I don’t know what to say. We thought it was you.”

  “No.” She sat in the other dining room chair.

  If only I had a dining room. Or a dining table, for that matter. As it was, we just sat in the chairs, facing each other.

  “I would never harm a child.”

  “But a grown woman?” I asked, indicating my poor apartment with a nod. What was I going to tell my landlord?

  “No. Never. I was just trying to scare you.”

  “Well, it worked. Holy rusted metal, Batman.”