The Clocktower was filled with the smells of cheap ale and nearly spoiled stew. It was unusually quiet, especially considering the events that had taken place earlier that day. There was no boisterous laughter or raucous singing, and any conversations were spoken in anxious whispers.

"Not exactly lively, is it?" Booker asked as he and Trinket sat at a table in the corner where they could observe the rest of the room.

"Strange. I would have expected all sorts of talk about the old man's death," she said.

"Could it be possible no one has heard?"

"I doubt it. There was a very large crowd gathered when it happened."

A serving girl approached their table with a strained smile. "Good evening, Mr. Larkin. What can I get for you tonight?"

"We're just aching for some of that delectable stew," Booker said with a charming grin.

The girl gave a terse nod. "Very good. I'll fetch it right away."

She made her way into the back, her movements stiff and tense. As she disappeared behind the creaking kitchen door, Trinket turned to Booker.

"She seemed rather nervous," she said.

"Yes, she and everyone else," he muttered, glancing about the room again.

"Could the old man's death have scared them that much?"

"This city's witnessed worse deaths than that. I mean, the police found human parts amidst roasts and bacon at the butcher's shop. A man bleeding to death on the street shouldn't be all that unnerving."

The memory of a human jaw tumbling out of that burlap sack flashed through Trinket's mind. She suppressed a shiver and drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "Yes, the butcher. Have you come up with any ideas to help him?"

Leaning back in his chair, Booker twisted his mouth into a frown. "I did send a message to Jewkes, but he has yet to respond."

"He's probably preoccupied with more recent morbid happenings."

The serving girl returned and placed two bowls in front of them. "Enjoy your meal," she said as she made to leave.

"Ah, one moment, if you will," Booker called out.

The girl stopped. Her shoulders heaved, and then she turned back to them and took slow steps towards their table. "Is there anything else you require, Mr. Larkin?"

Brow furrowed, he looked her up and down. "Are you all right?"

"Of course, sir."

"You look as though you're afraid I'll bite if you come any closer."

The serving girl flinched at the mention of biting, but she took a deep breath and pasted on a smile. "I'm well aware you won't bite, Mr. Larkin. I simply have my hands full with other matters and other customers."

Booker's eyes darted about the room and then settled back on her. "Doesn't seem all that busy. Did you run out of ale?"

She let out a rigid laugh. "No, of course not. It's just a quiet night. We have them on occasion."

Trinket and Booker exchanged a glance. "I'm sure," he said, returning his gaze to the serving girl. "Tell me, have you heard about that old bloke dropping dead in front of his apartment building?"

Though the girl was still smiling, the muscles in her throat flexed as she swallowed. "I think I may have heard something in passing," she said quickly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Larkin, but I am quite busy. So unless you need anything pertaining to food or drink, I must be off."

Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and hurried back towards the kitchen, disappearing behind the door.

Booker turned to Trinket, his eyebrows raised, and she returned the gesture. "Something is most definitely amiss," he said as he lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth.

She stirred her own meal. "What about this death could be more disturbing than the last string of corpses?"

Shaking his head, he gazed down at his food. "I have absolutely no idea. But without gossip to listen in on, dining here isn't really worth it."

Grimacing at a mysterious lump in her stew, she set her spoon back on the table. "I'd have to agree. Should we go home? I'm certain Daphne could cook up something far more appetizing than this."

Letting his gaze pass over the room one last time, Booker tried to make eye contact with the other patrons. However, the second someone noticed his stare, they averted their eyes or busied themselves in conversation.

Heaving a heavy sigh, he pushed his bowl aside and tossed some coins onto the table. "Might as well. Without the raucous merrymaking, this place is rather depressing."

They both rose to their feet and made their way to the door. Every person they passed quickly looked away, as if afraid to be the subject of their attention. It was somewhat baffling considering how eager most of them had been to feed Booker information only days ago. What had changed?

"Is it possible they think I'm responsible for the old man's death since I was the one who treated him?" Booker asked as he and Trinket walked arm in arm down the street.

"Maybe? Although I can't see why they would assume such a thing. What could you have done to make him suddenly bleed to death like that?"

"Poison, internal injury. There are many possibilities."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "That's not very reassuring. Nor will it help your case should the police come knocking on your door. I suggest you not lead with that when they interrogate you."

"Hmm. The police. Perhaps they know the whereabouts of the young woman you saw at the apartment building. They may still be questioning her."

Watching him carefully, she noticed that gleam in his eyes and the subtle way the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. "Booker, what are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking that you really do come up with the best ideas. Let's go."

He pulled her in the opposite direction of home, and she stumbled a bit to keep up. "What idea did I have exactly?"

"The police. Why wait for them to come to me?"

Dread settled in her stomach as she tried to match Booker's wide steps. "Do you think it's wise to pester the police while they're dealing with two recent and gruesome deaths?"

"That's why it's the perfect time to pester them. The events will be fresh in their minds. As fresh as the corpses."

Frowning at that last part, she gripped his arm as he sped up, turning the corner onto Angel Road. The police station was just in sight, dark but for the soft glowing light coming from the windows. The last time she had been there was to examine the mutilated corpse of the woman with the bird talons. And before that, it had been Delmar and the Lipstick Woman. Death tainted every image she had of this place. And the last time Booker had been there—

"Booker, wait," she said, pulling on his arm and digging her heels into the ground.

Complying, he glanced back at her, his forehead wrinkled in concern. They were only feet away from the wrought-iron fence. As she stared at Booker standing before her, she couldn't help but remember that night the police had arrested him and dragged him off to the station. Staged though it may have been, her fear had been very real. And so was the fear she was experiencing now.

They'll take him.

Lock him up.

Hang him.

You'll lose him.

You'll lose everything.

Just like before.

"Trinket, what's wrong?" he asked, taking a step towards her and placing the back of his hand on her head. "Are you feeling ill? Was it the stew?"

His gentle touch was both comforting and maddening. The voices whispered unintelligible words in her ears as tingling electricity ran through her veins. Giving her head a soft shake, she forced herself to ignore the voices and to focus on him. The look of concern in his eyes made it difficult to concentrate.

"No, I'm fine. It's just . . ."

Oh, those eyes. When he looked at her like that, words would not come easily.

Ridiculous.

Sickening.

So pathetic.

She swallowed down her agitation. "It's just that the last time you were at the police station, you were being hauled in as a murder suspect. Are you sure it's such a good idea to waltz in there now with there being two more suspicious deaths and you having had a connection to both of the victims?"

A smile slowly spread over his face, and he put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close and nearly sending her heart pounding out of her chest. "I made those charges up. The police have no real evidence to sentence me to the gallows."

"But I also went to Jewkes suggesting you might be the culprit, remember? What if that added to their suspicions?"

"I'm sure it did, but again, they have no evidence."

"Is evidence all that important with a reputation like yours?"

There was an amused glimmer in his eyes. "Are you really that worried about me?"
Pursing her lips together, she turned her eyes away. "Someone has to worry about you, seeing as you won't do it yourself."

He gave her shoulder a squeeze and let out a soft laugh. "If you're that concerned, we can go back home."

She scoffed. "Yes, so that you can sneak out when I've gone to bed and come here all on your own with even more of a chance of incriminating yourself."

He feigned hurt. "You think me so deceitful?"

"I've seen you play cards. You know how to hide your hand."

That hint of warm amusement was back in his eyes. "True. But I'm not as good at hiding it from you, my dear. Not that I want to."

Her heart fluttered, and she glanced up at him curiously. "Are you saying there are no secrets between us, Mr. Larkin?"

The warmth vanished, and a strange darkness fell over his expression. Clearing his throat, he turned his gaze back to the station. "We don't have to go to the station. And I promise you I will not go without you, either." A teasing smile pulled at his lips. "You can even stay up all night and watch me carefully if you'd like. I may no longer have any sort of drugs to keep us awake, but I think a generous helping of tea and crumpets might do the trick."

Though suspicious of his refusal to answer her question, she gave a smile and nodded. "I could arrange that. Not that I'm encouraging your sleepless nights."

Turning back in the direction of home, they began walking once more. "They're not so much a choice anymore," he said.

With every step carrying them further from the police station, the tension in Trinket's shoulders eased. "You're still experiencing the effects of the withdrawal?"

"Yes, though they seem to be getting better. At the very least, the tremors in my hands have ceased."

"That's a relief."

"However, some feelings of anxiety remain. And of course, the sleeplessness."

"Well, with death and potential vampires popping up throughout the city, I think it may be reasonable to be experiencing some anxiety."

"For me, though?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Come, now, even the great Booker Larkin has human feelings like the rest of us."

He grinned. "True. Pesky things, aren't they?"

With the electricity still running through her veins and the warmth radiating from where his arm was around her shoulders, she couldn't help but agree with that sentiment.

"Lovely new shawl, by the way," he said, eyeing the blue shawl.

She glanced down at it and fingered the fringe. "I thought it would be good to get something lighter, considering the rising temperatures. Winter coats are a bit much for spring weather."

"Oh, you're so practical. But I was thinking more about how I like the way it brings out your eyes."

He flashed her a smile, and she both loved and hated the way it made her stomach twist and flutter. Curse him and his intoxicating gaze.

If you hate it that much, you could always bore his eyes out.

You're good at hurting those you love . . .

She clenched her jaw but ignored the voices' words, painfully truthful though they were.

As Booker's house came into view, Trinket noticed a dark figure standing on the doorstep. There was a small light that appeared to be from a cigarette held in the stranger's hand. Trinket immediately slipped her hand into her purse to clutch her faux perfume bottle, and she saw Booker reach into his jacket for his pistol.

The figure must have heard them approach, as it turned to face them, releasing a puff of acrid smoke in their direction. Trinket gave a cough and tried to shield her eyes from the stinging vapor, but Booker refused to look away.

"Apologies," said a rough voice as the stranger tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with the toe of their boot. "Don't mean to be rude, but it eases my nerves. And believe me, coming to you for help certainly does a number on my nerves."

Trinket recognized the voice even before the stranger stepped into the moonlight.

Jewkes flashed them both a twisted smile. "Evening, Larkin. Mind if we chat?"