“What’s wrong?”
Instead of answering, I pointed with a shaky finger. I’d never been this close to a dead body before, except for my brief Slip earlier. Even with Mamá, Papá had never let me see her body.
Detective Atwood’s expression fell into a study of grim lines, and he moved to the body. He knelt next to the corpse, careful not to touch her.
“I need to call this in.” He pulled a small, square walkie-talkie from his belt and held it to his mouth. The aether battery glowed blue, glinting off the brass pipes and wires and giving his face an eerie hue.
“May the aether guide your soul,” I whispered reverentially to the woman.
“Don’t touch the body.” Detective Atwood gripped my arm.
“Right. Of course. Sorry.” I folded my arms across my chest and took a step back.
Detective Atwood requested backup and provided his location.
A scrap of paper on the ground caught my eye. It was thick and creamy but blank. I shoved it in my pocket and focused on the victim. She seemed extra pale compared to the vibrant woman I’d seen when Slipping, as if the mist had leeched all the color from her except for the congealed pool of blood staining her clothes.
“Perhaps a robbery gone wrong,” he said almost to himself. He tilted his head and studied the woman in the walkie-talkie’s blue light. “The city is being overrun by thieves.”
“Maybe not.” I knelt next to him, staring at the woman’s bare wrist.
“I mean I’d like to believe so too, it’d mean we’re doing our job, but—”
“I mean I don’t think it was a robbery.” That still didn’t sit right. Not with the way they’d interacted.
“They aren’t uncommon in the Sootworks,” he said, using the slang term for the First Chime. “There are clear signs she was wearing valuables. Maybe she simply attracted the wrong sort of attention. Look, there.” He pointed to a faint line around her neck, still careful not to touch anything. “It looks like a necklace was pulled off.”
I hesitated a moment, then pulled the bracelet from my pocket and held it out to him. Considering I had an alibi for the whole night, there was no real risk of him thinking I was involved. “This was hers.”
“If that’s true”—he cleared his throat and shot me a shrewd glance—“then why would you have it? Did you know this woman?”
“No.” I swallowed down my nerves. “My friend found this in a fountain in the Eleventh Chime. She saw the woman wearing it and recognized it.”
“Your friend. Right.” He accepted the bracelet and gave me a long look. “If it wasn’t a robbery like you say, why did the man kill her?”
“I don’t know, but if it was one, why would he throw away something so valuable?”
“Fair question.” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “If we want any answers, we first need to figure out her identity. Then we can work on finding the killer and his motive. I’ll have some officers canvass the area and question locals about anything unusual that happened this evening. Once we have the body examined, we’ll have an approximate time of death to compare with the details you provided.” His eyes were dark as he stared at the woman, and his jaw clenched, revealing that dimple again. As if he sensed me studying him, he looked up at me. “With this being an active case now, I’ll have to verify your alibi.”
I tensed, even though I had nothing to lose. He already knew my identity.
“It’s just protocol. I don’t think you’re involved,” he said. “There weren’t many chances for you to sneak off during the time frame. And even if you had, I see little reason for you to orchestrate a murder only to come and very poorly report it”—he flashed me a small smile—“a little while later.”
“Can you check my alibi without alerting my father?”
He cocked his head to the side. “Yes, I can do that.”
I turned away and stared at the woman, my hands shaking. I’d accomplished exactly what I’d set out to do, but the victim’s soulless eyes called to me. I couldn’t help but hear her scream from my vision.
“So, what do we do now?”
“Now the Blue Capes find the person who did this, and I get you a steamcab to take you home.”
I let out a long breath, and the crushing weight of witnessing a murder lightened in my chest. This case was in more than capable hands. I’d done my part and been a little like Mamá.
Detective Atwood placed a hand on my shoulder. “There is one other thing.”
“What?” My heart raced at the serious look in his eyes.
“I’m going to need to talk to your friend myself.” A glint of challenge coated his words, as if he still didn’t believe my story.
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible.” My words came out in a rush.
Hs eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
“I told you, she’s too scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“Of getting involved,” I said softly.
A beat of tension passed, settling between us like the mist that rolled in again and hid the woman’s body. I shuddered and turned away.
He sighed and chased a hand through his hair before his eyes met mine. “I’ll get that steamcab.”
Needing to beat Papá home, I didn’t argue with him any further. Less than an hour later, I was safely home and tucked into bed with a steaming cup of whistle mint tea Cogsley had brought. Thankfully, I’d beaten Papá back so no one was around to disturb me as I held the blank scrap of paper from the crime scene in my hand, absently running a finger along the torn edge.
Even without my gloves on, I didn’t Slip. The odds had been low, but I’d hoped to find some sort of clue to track down the killer. Maybe it wasn’t related to the case at all, but it seemed unusual to find paper this nice in the First Chime. I brought it closer to study it, careful to hold my tea beneath it so I wouldn’t spill. But no matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t make out anything. Maybe I’d been wrong, and the paper really was just a bit of trash.
Words shimmered on the surface and I squinted at it and brought it closer. They faded, making me doubt if I’d seen them at all. I put it back where I had it, took another sip of tea, then lowered my cup. Steam wafted around the paper, and an outline and a few words glimmered.
I froze, then held the paper closer to my cup of tea. The longer I did, the bolder the words and the design became until I could finally make out what it said. The heat from the steam revealed the hidden message on the scrap. Despite the soothing scent of the mint, my stomach tied itself into knots.
Even though I only held a corner of the paper, the design made it obvious. Someone had used thermochromic ink—or ember’s ink, as it was more commonly called—to make a copy of my engagement party invitation that would only be visible when held over heat. It was the exact design as those that had been sent out, and the only visible words were Gideon Annand—
Papá.