She sighed with relief. “The animals must’ve escaped. Well, that’s one good thing, I guess.”
“Totally. Any luck inside the house?”
“I only took a glance around before I realized you hadn’t come in with me.”
Had she come to check on me? Aw. “Figured I’d start out here. Where did the Muppet go?”
“Who?”
“Shane,” I clarified. “Do you think he has a tall, skinny sidekick back at his lab who speaks exclusively in meeps?”
“He’s more of a lone wolf, Kit.”
“That was a Muppet joke.” Maybe I needed to switch up my material. Puppet-based humor could only be stretched so far.
“I know.” Another eye roll. “I’m telling you that Shane Davila doesn’t have a sidekick. He doesn’t even belong to a guild.”
“What? How’s that possible? Does Blythe know?”
“He’s so good at what he does that the MPD head office awarded him special status, giving him more freedom to take on big cases.”
“Like a mysterious countryside murder that reeks of dark magic?”
“It would seem so.”
Another voice echoed through the barn. “Agent Shen? Are you here?”
Speak of the devil. Shane climbed over the door, somehow achieving even more awkwardness than I had. Seriously, this guy was a famous bounty hunter with MPD-awarded special status? I didn’t get it.
Dusting his gloved hands off, he joined us. “Agent Shen, Captain Blythe would like your opinion on something.”
I’d bet my measly MPD paycheck that she hadn’t asked that nicely.
“On it,” Lienna replied quickly. And she was off, vaulting over the blocked exit with ease while we watched bemusedly. She disappeared outside, and the scorched barn seemed imperceptibly darker and colder without her presence.
Shane observed the dimly lit interior. “Tragic,” he remarked. “Why kill the horses?”
“I was wondering that myself.”
He tugged off a glove and placed his bare hand on the nearest stall. Ash crumbled beneath his fingers. He hurriedly donned his glove again and peered at me through his dorky round glasses. “What do you think happened here, Agent Morris?”
I almost replied with a flippant comeback about figuring it out himself, but the somber attentiveness in his question quashed my usual smartassery. Mouth thinning, I crossed the barn and scrambled over the door. Out in the chill wind, I let my gaze travel from the scorched fields to the crumpled house.
With a clatter, Shane stumbled to my side and straightened his jacket. He looked at me expectantly.
“You mentioned the level of destruction.” I waved a hand vaguely around the valley. “A dark arts practitioner squashing some poor, unprepared shmuck would’ve left one smoking crater and nothing more. What’s-her-face, the forensic alchemist, found signs of black magic all over the place. Does that mean this farm belongs to a black-magic user, and another one showed up for an apocalyptic showdown? Is this the result of a no-holds-barred battle?”
“That’s what Blythe thinks,” Shane murmured, not quite hiding his surprise that I actually had a brain. “Am I wrong to think you aren’t sold on that theory?”
My attention slid over to the house. “The woman died near the front porch …”
“And?”
“She was just … there, like she’d walked out the door to see what the ruckus was and got obliterated in an instant.” A shiver ran over me. “Where’s Lienna?”
He gestured across the field, and I squinted. The rest of the team was gathered around a random patch of burnt ground. They looked busy.
“I suspect you’re right,” Shane said unexpectedly. “I don’t think this was a dark arts showdown either.”
With a fussy little nod, he strode away. Curious, I followed him. Bypassing the dirt path that would’ve led us to the others, he headed to the house. The body was now zipped up in a black bag for transport. Shane moved around it and entered the charred threshold.
I hesitated, then stepped inside. The small vestibule faced a staircase to the second floor that looked moments away from collapsing. Shane removed a glove, placed his hand on the crumbling railing, paused thoughtfully, then turned away from the stairs. I trailed after him into the kitchen, recognizable by the fire-damaged appliances. He scrutinized the room, then cautiously touched the fridge.
I waited again as he stood there, eyes glazed like he’d stubbed his toe and was desperately trying not to openly weep from the pain. Toe-stubbing was the worst.
Weirded out, I crunched past the island to the far end of the kitchen. Judging by the heaps of burnt and broken glass lying against the wall, there had been shelves here. I opened the nearest cupboard and found mostly intact plates. Lots of plates. Enough to serve dinner to Willy Wonka’s entire Oompa Loompa workforce.
“How many people lived here?” I muttered. “Or did this gal love entertaining?”
“Many people.”
I jumped at Shane’s sudden mutter.
He pulled his hand off the fridge. “Many people lived here, but I’m getting a read on only three long-term occupants. Two men and a woman.”
“You’re getting a what now?”
He tugged his glove back on. “I’m a psychometric.”
Cue the lightbulb above my head. “So you can read an object’s past by touching it?”
I’d bet that came in handy (pardon the pun) in the world of forensics. You want to know who shot this gun last? Get a psychometric to rub their magical paws on it and they’ll tell you. What better dude to invite to a mysterious crime scene?
“Is that why you wear the gloves?” I asked.
He nodded. “I don’t need to know every mouth that’s drunk from my mug.”
“What about every ass that’s sat on your toilet?”
He frowned. “My powers only extend to my hands.”
“You flush, don’t you?”
His frown deepened.
I shrugged. “What did you get from the fridge?”
“Kitchens are the heart of a home,” he replied cryptically. “I need to read more of the house.”
I followed him as he wandered through the wreckage. Some rooms were burnt beyond recognition, but we found two bedrooms with multiple bunk beds. Shane did his creepy touching thing while I moseyed around uselessly, my brain churning through the facts and a whole lot of nonsensical theorizing.
Maybe if I had one of those Sherlock Holmes hats, I could deduce my way into an “Elementary, dear Watson” breakthrough.
“So…” I prompted Shane as he pawed through a pile of thrift-store clothes that had escaped the fire by means of an indestructible tote. What name brand was that? Because I had about seventeen dollars in a savings account I was ready to invest. “Figured out anything?”
He tossed aside a jean jacket. “Have you?”
“Maybe. You first.”
Shane sat back on his heels and looked up at me. “The woman who died outside lived here, but she didn’t own this property.”
My eyebrows arched. “How’d you get that?”
“Ownership leaves a different feel.” He threw a pair of sweats out of the tote. “What did you figure out?”