Dead Spots (Scarlett Bernard #1)(46)

“Thanks,” I said to Kirsten, who was standing in the doorway.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. She gave me a sympathetic smile. “First one, right? It gets easier.”

But I don’t want it to get easier, I thought. I’m not supposed to be moving dead bodies; I’m supposed to be a regular person.

“Scarlett, get back in here,” Olivia barked. She sounded furious. “I can’t use you if you’re going to go to pieces at every little thing.”

I froze. I’d never displeased her before. Kirsten frowned, checking my face, but I managed to give her a shaky smile and a shrug. Then I got up and hurried back to Olivia.


We arrived at the comic book store just before 4:00 a.m., and Cruz came around the van to open my door for me, which I thought was incredibly cheesy. We circled around to the back of the building, where a bunch of that yellow crime scene tape segregated the section of the parking lot between the dumpster and the store. Even from thirty feet away, I could see the rust-colored blood still oozing sluggishly down the sides of the dumpster. We weaved through the parked police vehicles and approached the scene.

Before I could worry too much about his plan, Cruz took my hand in his warm brown one and led me straight over to a squat, nerdy-looking guy in his late twenties who was painstakingly cleaning the lens of an enormous camera.

“Hey, Dale? Have you got a second?”

The heavyset guy looked up, wrinkling his nose in a squint at us. “Hey, Jesse. What’s up?”

“Dale, this is my girlfriend, Scarlett.”

I smiled winningly. Or tried to.

“She’s studying photography at the U. I was hoping maybe you could show her around the scene a little, say she’s your apprentice.”

Dale looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know, Jesse. They’re pretty careful about who gets across the tape these days.”

“Aw, come on, man. Don’t make me look bad.” He leaned in, and I heard him murmur to Dale, “You know that new Kate Beckinsale movie? How’d you like to go to the premiere?”

Dale’s eyes bugged out. “Really? You can do that?”

“My dad’s working on the set, man. He can do anything. You think you can help me out?”

“Sure, yeah.” Dale nodded his head enthusiastically.

“Thanks, Dale.” Cruz squeezed my hand and turned toward me. “You go on home when you’re done, baby. I’ll have somebody drop me off at my car when I get done. It might be late.” He gave me a mischievous grin, then reached over and patted my ass. “Go get ‘em.”

I glared at him behind Dale’s back, but he just smiled sweetly.

He trotted off to join the other cops who were milling around the tape line, and Dale looked me over with interest, taking an extra-close look at Molly’s leather pants. Never borrowing these again, I thought.

“Wow, you’re pretty. Okay, so how far are you in your classes? Have you taken two forty-five with Crawford yet?”

We started walking toward the yellow tape ourselves.

“Um, no. I just declared my major,” I said lamely. Undercover is not exactly my thing. I had explained to Cruz that my only understanding of cameras was how to push the big green—sometimes red—button, but he’d just shrugged and told me to fake it. Thanks, Jesse. Very helpful.

“Okay, well, we’ll just go over the basics, then. Police photography is straightforward, not much for artistry or technique.” He frowned disapprovingly at the justice system’s obvious artistic ignorance, but continued. “The cops drop a numbered marker near anything they think is important, and you take three shots of each marker—close-up, mid-shot, and wide shot.” He flashed an ID at the cop guarding the scene and briefly introduced me as his new assistant. The cop nodded, and we ducked under the tape, just like that. Dale kept on talking, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I was too busy looking at the dead werewolf.

Ronnie had been tied up with glittery silver chains, bound at the hands and feet. He was tipped over on his side, shoulders against the dumpster, and his mouth and eyes were wide open in a scream. Little white things were scattered across his torn clothing. I resisted the urge to walk over, squat down, and look closer. This was supposed to be my first scene, so I tried to look squeamish.

“Scarlett? Are you hearing me? Oh,” Dale said, looking from me to the body. “Yeah, sorry, I probably should have warned you. You have to have a strong stomach for this sort of thing.” He patted my shoulder awkwardly. “Just give it a second. I’ll grab a few shots.”

I followed Dale blindly around to different markers, never taking my eyes off the body. I noticed two things: first, that there were welts under those chains, and second, that all the teeth had been taken out of his mouth. I took one step toward the body. The little white things were teeth, but not human teeth. They were way too long.

I’d cleaned up werewolf teeth after fights, and I knew what I was looking at. It didn’t make any sense, though. Why had Ronnie made the change? Why let his teeth get ripped out and then change back?

There was, of course, only one possible answer.

When there was nothing more for me to learn, I made a weak excuse to Dale—“Oh, I’m so nauseous. I’m really not cut out for this at all. I better go,”—and left for the van. As quickly as I could, I pulled away from the crowd of cops and turned the car back toward home, feeling as if I’d just gotten away with something naughty. One hand on the wheel, I pulled out my phone and speed-dialed Will. I told him what I’d found at the comic book shop.