Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [72]
“Looking for my sister?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?” It wasn’t quite a question. It was more of an accusation. “Who are you really, besides some very pale woman named Raylene?”
“I’m not a cop, but I am an investigator,” I said.
“What kind of investigator? And why won’t you tell me what you know about my sister?” Something funny in her tone made me wish I was a stronger psychic; I wanted to surreptitiously poke around in her mind while we talked, but I’m not good enough to get away with it. It’s not like walking and chewing gum at the same time. It’s like patting your head and tying your shoes.
“You’ve already expressed some hate for the government. Was that because they had your sister’s case closed?” The scowl I received wasn’t a satisfying response, so I kept pushing. “Someone went to great lengths to seal your sister’s case. Were you aware of this?” I asked, which pretty much exhausted my guesses and credible suspicions.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And what?” She drummed a set of flawless acrylic nails on the vanity table and pretended to adjust the dress around her knees.
“And you know more than that, don’t you?” I only realized it as I said it. “It’s more complicated than that, isn’t it?” I had this moment of epiphany, and there was almost nothing I could do about it, because a knock on the door interrupted us. It wasn’t the firm, secure knock of I Totally Belong Here; it was a knock of Jesus Christ Get Your Ass Out Here.
This was heartily confirmed by a bitchy tirade on the other side of the door. “Honey, all God’s children need that goddamn dressing room, and Dave’s screaming about the electric lemonade. You going to get out here and set the bar, or am I going to tell him you’re holed up with a date?”
“Fuck off, Fanny,” Rose growled—all man, all of a sudden.
Rose swiveled, stood, and leaned the two steps across the dressing room to the door. Whipping it open, the drag queen added, “I’m having a little conversation with the police right now, if you don’t mind. I’ll be done here when I’m done here, and until then, you can piss right off, do you understand me?”
Fanny got it, but Fanny made a scene about it. “Oh fine, sir. You big scary bastard, you. I’ll pass it along, you giant fucking cock-up.”
Rose slammed the door, and under the makeup I was having a hard time not seeing Adrian, who was big and angry, and rather startlingly masculine. I questioned my pronouns as well as my personal security, for all that this was silly, I was undead, and what was he going to do, scratch my eyes out?
This stupid thought made me think of Ian, and I almost thinked myself into a panic spiral.
Rose was still standing there, hand on the back of the door, either holding it shut or holding herself upright with it. The performer was pondering something, analyzing something. Evaluating something—me, I guessed—and I was worried about where the roulette ball was going to settle.
On Rose’s left biceps I saw a shadow that had a funny shape to it, and it took me a second to figure out that I was looking at a tattoo covered in makeup. I wondered what it looked like when it was unhidden.
I wondered what Rose was going to say, and then she started talking.
“Fanny will be back in under a minute. I swear to God, I don’t have time for this.” There was no softness, feigned or otherwise in what Rose was saying. If I hadn’t been staring at her, I would’ve assumed she was a thirty-year-old man who was royally pissed and ready to punch something.
“For what? For me?”
“For you. For this conversation. For right now. The doors open soon and I have to start the night working the bar, because our guy is out sick and there’s no one else who can do it, and if I don’t do it, I’ll blow this gig. This cover,” Rose added, almost as an afterthought.
Footsteps came clipping down the hall, and it was the sound of high heels on carpet that didn’t have any padding under it.
Rose said quickly, “Here she comes now, fresh from tattling. Look, you have