Arcanum (Tales from the Tarot)

2. Chris

Chapter two

Chris

A s much as I loved the sun and being outside, working night shift came with a few unexpected perks. It was a hell of a lot easier to get your grocery shopping done super late or super early, rather than going during the day like a normal person. Traffic was practically nonexistent. And even though you mostly worked in the dark, it was quiet and usually pretty peaceful.

But the absolute worst thing about being a night shifter? When you were trying to sleep during the day and your loud-ass neighbors didn’t give a shit because they had their own lives to live.

I’d tried ignoring the banging and thumping and clattering but it was still there, beneath the comforting hum of the fan as it blew back and forth through my nearly pitch-black room. Blackout curtains and some well-placed strips of tinfoil ensured I got a good four hours of sleep on work days, as long as I didn’t mind roasting like a chicken in the stuffy room. That was the downside of living in an older house. Even with the AC on blast, it failed to sufficiently cool the second floor—hence the fan. The fact it doubled as a source of white noise usually helped, but not today.

Throwing back the sheet, I stumbled to the window and pushed open the curtain. Hissing like a vampire in an old movie, one hand flung up to shield my eyes even though I’d already seared my retinas.

Behind me, a displeased groan sounded from the floor. Nitro, my K9, stood up in his state-of-the-art, luxury memory foam dog bed, turned in a circle, and flopped down in basically the same position he’d been in.

Once I could see again, I squinted with bleary eyes to figure out what the hell was making so much noise.

“What the…?”

The sight of a moving truck in the neighbor’s driveway next door wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, except my grandmother was the last person who’d lived there and she died over a year ago. My dad owned the house and he hadn’t mentioned anything to me about new occupants.

I trudged back to bed and grabbed my phone off the nightstand, dialing his number quickly.

“Dad,” I said as soon as he answered. “Why is there a moving truck at Grandma’s house?”

“Oh! Must be the new tenant moving in.”

“Tenant? What tenant? Since when are you renting it?”

“Since yesterday. Maybe it was the day before. Anyway, I posted it online and got a call an hour later. It was like magic. I said it was more or less move-in ready and he accepted.”

“He who , Dad? Do you even know this person?” I groaned as the movers rolled a refrigerator down the ramp, metal banging on metal the entire way.

“Greyson something. I don’t remember. Nothing came back on the Googles, so stop worrying. He’s not a serial killer.”

I rubbed a hand over my face, biting back what I really wanted to say. As much as I also relied on “the Googles” for my job, it wasn’t the be-all-end-all of background checks. If he’d called me before giving this guy the stamp of approval, I could have had his life history—his real life history, not what “the Googles” may or may not have access to, in just a few clicks. Then I’d know exactly who was living next to me and that they weren’t going to trash the house or turn into one of those psycho squatters.

“Hey, while I’ve got you on the phone, do me a favor, would you?” Dad continued, unfazed by my silent disapproval. “Run a key over there? I gave him the garage door code but he’s going to need a key.”

“I really wish you would have told me sooner,” I sighed.

“I know. But you were working and it all happened so fast. It’ll be fine. No criminal is going to move in next to a cop.”

“How would he know I’m a cop?” I side-eyed the phone. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“Oh! It’s my turn to putt. Talk to you later, kid.”

“Dad! Did you—”

The line went dead.

“Goddamn it.”

I glared at the phone for a minute until another bang sounded from inside the moving truck.

Grumbling to myself, I threw on a t-shirt and shorts and made my way downstairs. Nitro was hot on my heels. I let him outside in the backyard before grabbing the spare key and heading out the front door into the blazing August sun.

Halfway across the front yard, I realized I probably had bedhead so I ran a hand over the short, dark strands, hoping the crazy ones would cooperate without gel for the two seconds the conversation was going to take.

I wandered into the garage, following the movers as they hauled a dark blue couch inside.

“Hello?” I called out, peeling off from the hallway and ducking into the kitchen. Other than piles of neatly-labeled boxes, no one was there. I turned to go back to the hallway and almost crashed into someone. I danced back a step, steadying myself by gripping the edge of the counter. “Jesus! Sorry!”

A guy about my age stood in the doorway, blond eyebrows raised slightly, like he was waiting for the answer to an unspoken question. As cool as a cucumber, dressed in khakis and a white button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he looked like some Old World aristocrat returning from a trip down the Nile, not someone in the process of moving into a hundred-year-old house. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Greyson?” I asked, reclaiming the step I’d taken and trying to recover some semblance of confidence too. We were about the same height, but I had him beat size-wise. Even if I didn’t work out as much as I did, his willowy physique wasn’t the slightest bit intimidating, which made me relax just a smidge. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t end up being a pain in the ass as a tenant, but at least he wasn’t some burly biker guy I might have to physically deal with one day.

“I am. You must be Chris.” He also took a step forward, extending a hand. It wasn’t exactly dainty compared to mine but it was warm and soft and one more indication of that aristocratic lifestyle I imagined for him. He’d probably never had a blister or a callus in his life.

“Chris Brandt,” I confirmed, giving his hand a firm squeeze. “I didn’t catch your last name.”

“I didn’t give it.” A coy smile spread over his face. “But since you’re wondering, it’s Darkholme.”

I nearly snorted until my brain-to-mouth filter kicked in. “Huh. Interesting.” That name sounded so fake I couldn’t believe my dad, a retired teacher, fell for it. No wonder the “Googles” couldn’t find anything on him. He was either an actor refusing to break character or a con man. Neither was a plus in my book since they were both liars.

“Do you really think so?” His brows raised again. They were darker than his golden hair, which had been combed perfectly to the side, like an old film star. Not a single strand was out of place, yet it didn’t look like it had been shellacked into submission, either. He probably had a cabinet full of things like mousse and pomade, though. All that overpriced smelly crap they sold at hair salons because guys like him didn’t go to a barbershop.

“One of the more interesting names I’ve heard,” I admitted, though I still thought he was full of shit.

“I imagine you hear a lot of different names in your line of work.”

I gritted my teeth into something of a smile. So Dad did tell him. Or he’d figured it out from the squad parked in my driveway. I mean, it wasn’t a secret that I was a cop but it also wasn’t something I advertised every time I opened my mouth. It was hard enough living in the same town I worked in, like when I ran into people I’d arrested at the grocery store—or worse, restaurants where they had control over my food. I didn’t need my dad using my career as a feature for new tenants like I was some kind of built-in home security system.

“I hear all kinds of things in my line of work,” I replied. I couldn’t tell if he knew I was on to his bullshit alias or not, so I decided to push a little harder and see where it got me. “Part of the job is sorting out the good guys from the bad guys.”

His head tilted to one side ever so slightly, as if he was considering what I said. Probably planning his next lie. “Do you see the whole world in black and white or only when it comes to your job?”

I shook my head, suddenly feeling the need to defend myself against his judgment. “Nothing is black and white. Everything is gray, even law enforcement.”

“On that, we agree.” His disarming smile was back and I could almost feel my hackles lowering. Almost. I doubled down on my suspicion as his pale gaze swept along my body, drifting lower until I was fairly certain he was staring at my dick. “Is that for me?”

“What?” A nervous flutter shot through me.

His pale gaze returned to mine and he blinked serenely. “The key?”

“The—oh! Yeah.” For a moment, I’d forgotten that was the reason I was even there. The end of the lanyard hung on the outside of my pocket, which explained his question and eliminated the fear that a little key was printing through my shorts, along with the other thing. Snagging the lanyard, I pulled the key out the rest of the way and held it out to him. “The doors are all keyed the same. And if you want to change the garage door code, I can show you how.”

“Your father said you were rather handy.”

“I try.” I glanced up as the movers brought in another dolly full of boxes. “Well, I’ll get out of your way. Just wanted to give you that.”

“Thank you.” He moved out of the kitchen doorway and gestured toward the door to the garage. “Stay dry tonight, officer.”

“They’re not calling for rain until the weekend.”

When I glanced over my shoulder to see if he heard me, that coy smile of his was back. “It never hurts to be prepared.”

As soon as he was safely behind me, I rolled my eyes. I turned the knob on the door and twisted but it didn’t open. Frowning, I scanned the locks to make sure they weren’t engaged. Trying the knob again, I tugged harder, hoping to unstick the wood, probably swollen from humidity.

“Allow me,” Greyson said behind me. His body brushed along mine as he squeezed past in the narrow hall. Reaching around me, his fingertips skimmed the back of my hand as I jerked it out of the way and laid claim to the doorknob I’d just released. With barely a turn of his wrist, the door swung open as intended.

“Thanks.” I stole a glance at him, momentarily rooted to the spot by confusion. I’d come and gone through that door a hundred times over my lifetime. How was it possible he knew the house better than I did in the hour that he’d been there?

“Stop by any time, officer. My door is always open for you.”

Giving a curt nod, I forced my feet to move and strode through the garage, narrowly avoiding the movers on their way in with another load of boxes.

It was around midnight when Nitro and I finally made it back to the PD for our “lunch” break. Normally we went home to eat but my shift mates had decided we were eating together, which was A-OK with me. It saved me the hassle of cooking, which I could technically do but generally despised, and it meant Nitro got to chill for a while with his beloved rope toy.

While I waited for Luke to return with the pizza, I logged into one of the computers in the patrol room and started in on my side project: Greyson Darkholme.

Running a full background check on him without a legal reason was technically a no-no but there were workarounds. I could still scope him out with any one of the numerous programs we used to gather information without getting myself into hot water with the state auditors.

Our in-house record program didn’t have any information on him, which was a good thing. He’d never had any documented contact with police in Mapleton or Belmont County. I expanded the search to all of the other agencies in the state who used the same program. Nada. So far, so good. But still totally convinced he was using an alias.

The next database proved that theory wrong as soon as the list of his previous addresses loaded on the screen, of which there were plenty in and around the Chicago area. The longest residency appeared to be his childhood home on the north side. According to the records, it was also where Harlan and Isidora Darkholme resided as well, which sadly ruled out my alias theory.

Once Greyson moved out, his longest stay anywhere was only six months. It could have been rising rent costs forcing him to move or job relocation, but in the last year, it looked like he changed addresses more than people changed their underwear.

It was the same with his vehicles. He’d gone through all manner of cars and SUVs over the past three years. According to the computer, he sold his black Rav-4 three months ago and hadn’t repurchased anything, except when I went to work, a brand new silver Camry was sitting in his driveway. So either the database hadn’t been updated (always possible with a state-run agency) or he wasn’t on the title (also possible but impractical).

A slew of cell phone numbers were listed under his name but he had no social media presence to speak of. He was only twenty-seven. What twenty-seven-year-old didn’t have social media? I was three years older and even I had it, although, to be fair, I didn’t post anything. I used it to track people down for work and funny animal videos that Luke sent me.

Turning to the “Googles” itself, I typed in Greyson’s name and waited for the results to load.

The first hit was not what I was expecting.

FAMILY FOUND DEAD IN HOME ON NORTHSIDE, OFFICIALS SAY

I never clicked a link so fast in my life.

CHICAGO, Illinois — A family of three was reported deceased in their home early Tuesday morning, according to police officials. Harlan Darkholme, a prominent attorney, and his wife, Isidora, a doctor, were located deceased inside the bedroom of their Northside home. Their 22-year-old daughter, Violet, was found by responders in the living room.

According to sources, it was the couple’s son, 27-year-old Greyson Darkholme, who made the discovery and notified police shortly before 5 a.m. He had not been living at the house and the reason for his early visit is unknown.

The cause of death for the family is also unknown. Police confirmed it is an ongoing investigation and refused to provide any further comments, pending the outcome, though they did state that it appears to be an isolated incident.

Attempts to reach Greyson Darkholme for a comment were unsuccessful.

I sat back in my chair, exhaling a slow breath. That was almost three weeks ago. Holy shit! His entire family died and he up and moved to some small town in the middle of nowhere less than a month later?

I mean… grief did some strange things to people. I knew that firsthand. But he seemed so put together when I met him. Maybe a little smug but not like someone whose whole family had been wiped out in one night!

An uncomfortable thought crept into the back of my mind. Maybe he was so smug because he was getting away with murder. Given what his parents did for a living, they probably had loads of money. Why wouldn’t he move away from the scene of the crime? As soon as probate was done, he’d be living like a king, especially since he took out his sister too and probably didn’t have to squabble with anyone over inheritance.

Except, I could think of way cooler places to live than Mapleton… Like, the Caribbean. Not the capital of cornfields and pumpkins.

So much for Dad’s assertion that he wasn’t a serial killer.

Leaning forward again, I resumed my internet search with a renewed interest. There hadn’t been any follow-up articles on the investigation, which meant it was still underway. But there weren’t any obituaries, either. For any of the Darkholmes. And certainly no mention of funeral arrangements. Did he not have a funeral for his family? That was strange, especially for wealthy people. However, it wouldn’t be the first time a police investigation had delayed funerals. With how backed up Cook County was on autopsies and toxicology reports, I gave him the teensiest benefit of the doubt.

Based on what the “Googles” had to say about his family members, they seemed well-liked and well-connected in their respective fields, winning various awards and participating in charities and outreach programs all over the city and even the world. But not him… Not a peep about Greyson.

Violet, true to her age, had a very active social media presence and was all over her university’s newspaper. She was a track star, apparently, and was often featured for her humanitarian work. According to the news articles and student interviews, she wanted to be a doctor like her mother.

Other than the occasional picture Violet posted of him, Greyson seemed to be completely absent from the internet. Those pictures didn’t show a murderer in the making, though. They showed a supportive big brother and a loving little sister. She documented his graduation from some obscure university in Massachusetts that I’d never heard of with a picture of them hugging, her in a dress and him in his black cap and gown. The caption proclaimed, “So happy for you, G! Your future students are so lucky!”

Another picture of them was when she won an event at a track meet. Greyson had grabbed her around the middle and hoisted her in the air. The picture was taken mid-spin, with Violet screaming and Greyson grinning from ear to ear.

The obligatory holiday picture from last year featured all four of them in front of a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, dressed to the nines with matching megawatt smiles. Of all the pictures Violet posted of her brother, that was the only one that made me do a double-take. Yes, he was smiling. Yes, he was immaculately groomed and looked amazing in an emerald sweater, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. At a glance, most people probably wouldn’t have even noticed. I couldn’t help it, though. In my job, reading faces and body language was an invaluable tool and something about his eyes was off in that picture.

I scrolled through Violet’s timeline again, looking for anything else that seemed out of place.

It didn’t take long.

All of the early pictures showed a happy, glowing Greyson. But about two years ago, he practically vanished from her feed. On the rare occasions he did show up, like in the Christmas photo, it was obvious to anyone who frequently dealt with liars that he was putting on an act. The stretched-thin smiles did nothing to hide the dark circles under his eyes or the fact he’d steadily lost weight, weight that a person his size couldn’t afford to lose.

The last picture Violet ever posted with her brother in it was in July. It wasn’t even of him specifically—it was her and her mom, but Greyson happened to be in the background. The most surprising part was how downright menacing he looked. The light in his eyes from an earlier time had been replaced with a darkness I’d seen one too many times in my job. The cruel twist of his lips, the hard glare as he looked at his mom and sister. Maybe he was capable of killing them and now I had a murderer living next door. A murderer who knew I was a cop.

“Fuck…”

The sound of a heavy metal door slamming got my attention. Nitro jumped to his feet, head tilted and big ears perked. Boots clod down the tiled hallway, keys jangling. I could smell the pizza before Luke turned the corner. Nitro could too since he started licking his chops.

“Where’s Tom?” Luke asked as he sauntered into the patrol room, dancing around Nitro who was sniffing the air like crazy, nearly succeeding in knocking the box out of Luke’s hands. He tossed the pizza box on the desk beside me and scratched the dog behind his pointy ears with both hands. “Who’s a good boy? Is Daddy being nice to you today? Did you get a treat? Huh? Do you want a treat? Do you want some pizza? Uncle Luke will share his pizza! You know he will!”

“On his way in,” I replied in answer to the first question. “He just cleared that keys call. And do not give my dog any pizza!” I hurriedly closed out of the search window and pulled up the report I should have been working on instead of stalking my neighbor.

“Keys call? Oh, shit. I think my radio died.” Luke cringed and fiddled with the knobs before pulling it out of its holster and setting it in the charger on the desk that butted up against mine. “Dispatch wasn’t trying to get ahold of me, were they?”

“Nope. You’re good.”

“Still working on that accident report?” He flipped open the cardboard lid and grabbed a slice of pizza before flopping into the chair across from me with a contented groan. Nitro stood at Luke’s side, tail swishing lightly, his focus trained on the pizza.

“Yeah. Almost finished.” I snapped my fingers at Nitro and gave him the hand signal to come back to me. With all the reluctance I expected out of him, he abandoned his chance at pizza and returned to my side. “ Good boy ,” I said quietly in German, scratching under his chin. He snorted but leaned into my hand anyway. Affection was a far cry from pizza.

The metal door down the hallway slammed again and a moment later our sergeant appeared, drenched from head to toe. “It’s fucking pouring out there! Came out of nowhere!”

An alarm bell rang in the back of my head, right about the time Greyson’s parting words echoed.

Stay dry tonight, officer.

My brow furrowed as I glanced from my soaked sergeant to the windows. The blinds were shut, but once I paid attention, I could hear the plinking of rain against the glass.

Getting to my feet, I crossed over to the wall of windows and pulled the blinds up, staring at the world beyond like a dolt. Tom was right. It was fucking pouring. Sheets of rain fell with a steadiness that didn’t seem like it would let up anytime soon.

“Didn’t believe me?” Tom asked with a laugh, drying his glasses off with the ever-present red handkerchief he’d pulled from his back pocket.

“Just didn’t think it was supposed to rain tonight,” I replied distractedly, resuming my seat.

“Me either,” Luke said around a bite of pizza. “Guess that means our night is going to be even longer now.”

“Good thing we have food.” Tom smirked at Luke and helped himself to a piece of pizza. “And since you have time on your hands, you can work on your recertifications. I need ‘em by Monday.”

Luke groaned but didn’t say anything. I snickered but refrained from commenting as I grabbed some pizza. Nitro knew better than to beg me for anything, so he retreated under the desk with his rope toy and a dejected huff. However, it also put him in a prime position to helpfully clean up any pieces of pepperoni that “accidentally” fell from Luke’s pizza on the other side.

“Heard your old man rented out your grandmother’s house,” Tom said, taking a seat next to me and saving Luke from my warning glare. “It’s about time. The thing was just sitting there, might as well make some money off of it.”

“Yeah. I thought he was going to hold on to it a little longer and try to sell it when the market picks up again, but I guess he decided to rent it out instead.”

“Did you meet the renter?”

I nodded, stealing a glance at my computer screen to make sure Greyson’s information wasn’t plastered all over it. “Earlier today. Had to drop off the key.”

“Anyone we know?”

“No. Some guy from the city. Darkholme, something.” I tried to sound disinterested, hoping we’d move on to another topic.

I should have known better. All it did was make Tom suspicious. “Are we going to have problems?”

“I hope not. I didn’t get that vibe, but who knows?” I replied with a shrug. I honestly didn’t know how to take Greyson. In person, he was nice enough. But the shit I saw online? I had no idea what any of it meant, although I had a feeling I’d be keeping a closer eye on him while he was around.

Tom hmphed, but without any way to pry potential gossip out of me, he let me off the hook and tucked into his pizza.

I turned my attention to the window again, listening to the rain and wondering how the hell I missed a storm cell that big on the radar before work. Guess I was more tired than I thought. Nothing that a pot of coffee or two couldn’t fix.