Particles of Murder (A Shadow of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 1) by Charlotte Raine Page B
Authors: Charlotte Raine
Ads: Link
my mother's arms."
I clapped with the rest of the audience as the young man finished his poem. He grinned as he stepped off the stage, and a few people shook his hand or clapped him on the back.
I stared down at my own poem, the piece of paper feeling extraordinarily thin in my hands. It was open mic, but I couldn't follow his act. My poem was decent, certainly, but his was much better and twice as long.
He walked over to me. "Hey, aren't you in my Intro to Ethics class?"
"Um, I don't know. It's a big class."
"There's only one class, so you must be," he says. "How do you think that test went?"
I shrugged. "It was...hard as they always are. I can't believe he expects us to memorize the answers nearly word-for-word, but we're not allowed to quote the answers word-for-word."
He laughed. "Yeah, it's a pain. I just memorize the answers as well as I can and I know by the time the test is in front of me, my mind will have warped it enough that it won't be an exact match to the answers he gave us."
"Yeah," I said. "That sounds like a good plan. Um. I liked your poem. It's rare to hear a poem that's honoring somebody without anger or resentment."
He sighed. "God, I know. It's hard to find a poem that isn't depressing as hell...but that's how I write them anyway. But if you liked my poem, you should check out my band. We're called The Bungalows and we're playing here tomorrow. It'll be a lot of fun. Bring your friends, too."
He walked away from me and struck up a conversation with the people at the next table. I realized that was why he had begun talking to me—he was trying to charm me enough to go see his band.
I was such an idiot—so easily conned that he skipped straight to the purpose of the conversation in less than a minute.
I turned around and look at Everett Pine's plaid shirt that clung to his body in a way that was usually only seen on a model.
He had a band, a writing career that was already beginning to take off, and he likely had a girlfriend...there was a man who needed absolutely nothing, but still felt the need to take things from others. He took their trust and turned it into a profit.
I envied him and I detested him, which created so much turmoil in my chest that it felt like my heart was being ripped to shreds.
Chapter Four
Mira
M y apartment is small and undecorated. It’s a place where I sleep and, occasionally, eat. The kitchenette has rarely had anything cooked in it more complicated than a grilled cheese sandwich and the living room has a TV that still has a VCR attached. It’s not a place of comfort for me, but a touchstone. It’s a reminder that my life could be more than my job.
I scribble Victoria’s and Everett’s names in my notebook. I may not be allowed to investigate, but I can still figure out what connected these two. I begin to jot down ideas.
Same class?
Same dorm?
Connection through roommates?
School club?
Same job?
Victoria’s boyfriend knew Everett?
Dr. Pierce—knew Everett through award given
Maybe this is obsessive. It’s a miracle that I wasn’t fired after the Blackman case and I shouldn’t be pushing my luck, but I can’t get this case out of my head.
How are these students dying?
Could it be a drug? Maybe there’s someone purposely giving them a recreational drug that was created to not be detectable in a toxicology screen. But that doesn’t seem like a normal drug dealer, especially not one on a college campus. They aren’t criminal masterminds.
Clearly, someone is.
I trace the curves of my plastic bracelet. I have to remember what apathy can lead to, but it keeps getting clouded by obligation and grasping the idea of responsibility. My mind is all messed up and I can only think of one person who can put it back on right, but Andre is an asshole with an affinity for accidentally ruining my life.
I stare at my list. I jot down one more word.
John.
* * *
D etective Macmillan and Stolz have circumstantial evidence that Senator Holden was
I clapped with the rest of the audience as the young man finished his poem. He grinned as he stepped off the stage, and a few people shook his hand or clapped him on the back.
I stared down at my own poem, the piece of paper feeling extraordinarily thin in my hands. It was open mic, but I couldn't follow his act. My poem was decent, certainly, but his was much better and twice as long.
He walked over to me. "Hey, aren't you in my Intro to Ethics class?"
"Um, I don't know. It's a big class."
"There's only one class, so you must be," he says. "How do you think that test went?"
I shrugged. "It was...hard as they always are. I can't believe he expects us to memorize the answers nearly word-for-word, but we're not allowed to quote the answers word-for-word."
He laughed. "Yeah, it's a pain. I just memorize the answers as well as I can and I know by the time the test is in front of me, my mind will have warped it enough that it won't be an exact match to the answers he gave us."
"Yeah," I said. "That sounds like a good plan. Um. I liked your poem. It's rare to hear a poem that's honoring somebody without anger or resentment."
He sighed. "God, I know. It's hard to find a poem that isn't depressing as hell...but that's how I write them anyway. But if you liked my poem, you should check out my band. We're called The Bungalows and we're playing here tomorrow. It'll be a lot of fun. Bring your friends, too."
He walked away from me and struck up a conversation with the people at the next table. I realized that was why he had begun talking to me—he was trying to charm me enough to go see his band.
I was such an idiot—so easily conned that he skipped straight to the purpose of the conversation in less than a minute.
I turned around and look at Everett Pine's plaid shirt that clung to his body in a way that was usually only seen on a model.
He had a band, a writing career that was already beginning to take off, and he likely had a girlfriend...there was a man who needed absolutely nothing, but still felt the need to take things from others. He took their trust and turned it into a profit.
I envied him and I detested him, which created so much turmoil in my chest that it felt like my heart was being ripped to shreds.
Chapter Four
Mira
M y apartment is small and undecorated. It’s a place where I sleep and, occasionally, eat. The kitchenette has rarely had anything cooked in it more complicated than a grilled cheese sandwich and the living room has a TV that still has a VCR attached. It’s not a place of comfort for me, but a touchstone. It’s a reminder that my life could be more than my job.
I scribble Victoria’s and Everett’s names in my notebook. I may not be allowed to investigate, but I can still figure out what connected these two. I begin to jot down ideas.
Same class?
Same dorm?
Connection through roommates?
School club?
Same job?
Victoria’s boyfriend knew Everett?
Dr. Pierce—knew Everett through award given
Maybe this is obsessive. It’s a miracle that I wasn’t fired after the Blackman case and I shouldn’t be pushing my luck, but I can’t get this case out of my head.
How are these students dying?
Could it be a drug? Maybe there’s someone purposely giving them a recreational drug that was created to not be detectable in a toxicology screen. But that doesn’t seem like a normal drug dealer, especially not one on a college campus. They aren’t criminal masterminds.
Clearly, someone is.
I trace the curves of my plastic bracelet. I have to remember what apathy can lead to, but it keeps getting clouded by obligation and grasping the idea of responsibility. My mind is all messed up and I can only think of one person who can put it back on right, but Andre is an asshole with an affinity for accidentally ruining my life.
I stare at my list. I jot down one more word.
John.
* * *
D etective Macmillan and Stolz have circumstantial evidence that Senator Holden was
Similar Books
