She flicked her eyebrows at him and walked back to the victim. “Do we have identification?”
“Elizabeth Harwood,” he said. “Age thirty-two. Pretty. Dressed for a party.” He shrugged, letting out a breath through his pursed lips. “Don’t have much more than that.”
“We know how she died,” Paige said, her tone grim as she knelt beside the victim. She needed whatever the demon had left for her. “Broken neck.”
“Always good to witness keen observation.” Steve Barnsworth was the coroner, well, at least on this beat. He didn’t look up from his examination of the victim’s nails. “Good to see you back, Whiskey.”
“Good to see you, too, Barn.” Paige studied the victim’s nails without touching. Had she really seen what she thought she did? Had the woman been some sort of demon as well? Paige knew about demons and ghosts. Other paranormal creatures? They were just myth. Weren’t they?
Tony knelt beside Barn. “Broken neck? How do you come up with this crap, Whiskey? Visions?”
She ignored him and leaned down as if examining the victim’s arm.
“Without your hands,” Barn reminded.
When she’d first come to Denver, Barn wouldn’t let her anywhere near the body until he was done. Procedure. That’s how things were supposed to be. However, she’d befriended him, somewhat. She knew his favorite sandwich, his favorite soccer team, that he loathed American football, and she knew his favorite ice cream. She also followed protocol on everything else, so he trusted her.
Which was good. There were times when she needed that. Like now.
She slipped her fingertips under the victim’s bare arm and pulled out the card as inconspicuously as she could. “Hey, Barn. What do you make of this mark?”
He hrmphed and shrugged. “I’ll have to get her to my lab, run some tests. Fake tattoo, maybe?”
She bit her lip, the card in her palm, and sat on her heels.
Tony narrowed his eyes at her, glancing significantly down at her hand.
Shit. Tony had always been a good detective, but did it seem like he was seeing more now? Or was it simply that she had something to hide? The real world, where she worked, didn’t believe in the supernatural. A whiff of magick, of “precognition,” of visions, or anything like that, and she’d be shipped out of the unit on a mental health release.
She needed to be super careful with him.
“We’ve got the killer’s DNA.” Barn held up the victim’s hand. “Scrapings under the finger nails.”
“That’s good,” Tony said, his voice tight, his lips pulled down, his brow furrowed.
Why did it feel as though Tony were thinking what she was? Having the killer’s DNA wasn’t good. The person who owned the DNA under those nails was not the thing that killed the woman.
Did Tony know that?
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