Central air conditioning, tile floors, carefully-arranged desert flora, a few native arrowheads mounted on the wall. All hallmarks of a wealthy family.
Perfect.
Rich held his hand out again, feeling through the empty air in the foyer. Stepping forward, he peeked through the living room—fireplace with glass stones, steer skull over the mantle, leather couches—and then the guest bathroom.
There were no family photos anywhere. Marital strife? Just as he expected.
“Honey,” James called.
A woman stepped through the other doorway. The swinging doors gusted the warm, chocolatey smell of baking cookies into the foyer.
Rich tipped back his fedora to appraise Mrs. Faulkner. She wore a baggy pink t-shirt with a glittery heart on the chest, and it was long enough to conceal all but the bottommost hem of her denim shorts. It made her legs look very long and very bare. Her pillowy blue oven mitts had flowers on the thumbs.
It took him a moment to get from the curve of her thighs up to her face, and he realized with a jolt that she had seen him staring. And he also realized, much too late, that she was not the kind of woman that men should stare at. Her right eyebrow was split by a scar, the bridge of her nose was bent as though it had healed badly after a break, and her frizzy curls were barely contained in a thick ponytail hanging over one shoulder. Her narrowed eyes looked unsettlingly like those of an angry hawk.
“This is my wife, Elise,” James said, and her gaze flicked to him instead, much to Rich’s relief. Her brow furrowed. Rich was sensitive to these tiny gestures; being able to read his customers’ moods was integral to separating them from their money. And Elise Faulkner was not a happy lady.
“Pleasure to meet you, Elise,” Rich said, extending a hand to shake. “I’m the exorcist.”
The wife’s responding smile was very thin. She remained silent until James nudged her.
“Pleasure to meet you.” She offered an oven mitt to him. He hesitated, and then shook it delicately.
Brushing his fingers over the material sent a shock through his arm. Pain cramped in his heart, and Rich grimaced and gripped his chest.
Elise was still staring at him.
“Are you all right?” she asked, a little too intently.
He gave a small laugh. “Must be the heat,” he said, taking off his fedora and swiping a sleeve over his forehead. “It’s almost eighty today.”
The couple exchanged significant looks. “Have a seat,” James said, sweeping a hand toward the living room.
Rich settled into one of the couches. The leather sighed around him. The cool material was a relief on his burning skin, and he fanned himself with the fedora as he gasped for air. Even with the pain, he wouldn’t let himself be distracted from his goal, and he watched Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner closely as they entered.
They were both extremely athletic, healthy people. Probably yuppies imported from SoCal for government employment. Or maybe performers—they were graceful and approached him almost like they were preparing to dance.
If there was trouble in the marital bed, it didn’t show when they sat on the opposite couch. Their knees and shoulders touched, and they were angled toward each other, showing a clear attraction. That was weird. All of his clients had been having marriage issues. There must have been something he wasn’t seeing.
Rich definitely didn’t like the way the wife was looking at him. It wasn’t normal for a girl to stare like that.
He blew out a breath, mopped his forehead down again, and opened the notebook. It was already getting easier to breathe. Must have been a blip.
“What was the first indication of a problem?” he asked, clicking the pen.
James clasped his hands together. “Well, probably the pictures falling off of the walls. When was that, darling?”
Elise gave him a cold look.
“Christmas,” she said, voice flat. “Darling.”
He gave a small laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Right.
Perfect.
Rich held his hand out again, feeling through the empty air in the foyer. Stepping forward, he peeked through the living room—fireplace with glass stones, steer skull over the mantle, leather couches—and then the guest bathroom.
There were no family photos anywhere. Marital strife? Just as he expected.
“Honey,” James called.
A woman stepped through the other doorway. The swinging doors gusted the warm, chocolatey smell of baking cookies into the foyer.
Rich tipped back his fedora to appraise Mrs. Faulkner. She wore a baggy pink t-shirt with a glittery heart on the chest, and it was long enough to conceal all but the bottommost hem of her denim shorts. It made her legs look very long and very bare. Her pillowy blue oven mitts had flowers on the thumbs.
It took him a moment to get from the curve of her thighs up to her face, and he realized with a jolt that she had seen him staring. And he also realized, much too late, that she was not the kind of woman that men should stare at. Her right eyebrow was split by a scar, the bridge of her nose was bent as though it had healed badly after a break, and her frizzy curls were barely contained in a thick ponytail hanging over one shoulder. Her narrowed eyes looked unsettlingly like those of an angry hawk.
“This is my wife, Elise,” James said, and her gaze flicked to him instead, much to Rich’s relief. Her brow furrowed. Rich was sensitive to these tiny gestures; being able to read his customers’ moods was integral to separating them from their money. And Elise Faulkner was not a happy lady.
“Pleasure to meet you, Elise,” Rich said, extending a hand to shake. “I’m the exorcist.”
The wife’s responding smile was very thin. She remained silent until James nudged her.
“Pleasure to meet you.” She offered an oven mitt to him. He hesitated, and then shook it delicately.
Brushing his fingers over the material sent a shock through his arm. Pain cramped in his heart, and Rich grimaced and gripped his chest.
Elise was still staring at him.
“Are you all right?” she asked, a little too intently.
He gave a small laugh. “Must be the heat,” he said, taking off his fedora and swiping a sleeve over his forehead. “It’s almost eighty today.”
The couple exchanged significant looks. “Have a seat,” James said, sweeping a hand toward the living room.
Rich settled into one of the couches. The leather sighed around him. The cool material was a relief on his burning skin, and he fanned himself with the fedora as he gasped for air. Even with the pain, he wouldn’t let himself be distracted from his goal, and he watched Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner closely as they entered.
They were both extremely athletic, healthy people. Probably yuppies imported from SoCal for government employment. Or maybe performers—they were graceful and approached him almost like they were preparing to dance.
If there was trouble in the marital bed, it didn’t show when they sat on the opposite couch. Their knees and shoulders touched, and they were angled toward each other, showing a clear attraction. That was weird. All of his clients had been having marriage issues. There must have been something he wasn’t seeing.
Rich definitely didn’t like the way the wife was looking at him. It wasn’t normal for a girl to stare like that.
He blew out a breath, mopped his forehead down again, and opened the notebook. It was already getting easier to breathe. Must have been a blip.
“What was the first indication of a problem?” he asked, clicking the pen.
James clasped his hands together. “Well, probably the pictures falling off of the walls. When was that, darling?”
Elise gave him a cold look.
“Christmas,” she said, voice flat. “Darling.”
He gave a small laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Right.
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