Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

with casting spells and tarot cards and all of that. Next to her is Norland Match. He’s the guy who was in Vietnam—he grows marijuana in his bathtub. Don’t try to arrest him, though. Norland’s got one of those medical permits.”
    It felt good to talk like this. People passed by in a leisurely but steady stream, and as she told the histories of Silverton’s citizens, Cameryn felt her insides unkink. Although Silverton had become a tourist haven, eccentrics were still part of the town’s fabric—from Leather Ed, who never bathed, to the madams and hookers buried in Hillside Cemetery. Watching the crowd, she thought about the fact that she was part of something bigger than herself, like . . . humanity. Her problems were just one part of an overall tapestry. She guessed each of these people had their own hidden stories from their pasts; even the strangers wearing candy-apple grins had secrets. For some reason it made her feel lighter inside, because she’d heard the worst about her mother, and she . . . Camer yn . . . was still standing.
    “You look different, Cammie,” Justin said. “Something in your eyes.”
    With a swift movement, Justin unbuckled his seat belt so he could turn toward her. Reaching out, his hand rested lightly on hers. It was strong, calloused, and warm. “Cammie, I never know when it’s going to be the right time, but I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” Once again she sensed the current she’d felt before, like something moving underwater. “I know how hard it’s been since . . . Kyle.”
    “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to go there. Did I tell you the dean of CU’s forensic college saw me in the newspaper? She e-mailed when she read about how I worked that case. She says I’m a genius.”
    He smiled, and she noticed again how white his teeth were, how perfectly straight. “You told me.”
    “It sounds like I may get a scholarship, so it’s all good.”
    Justin pushed his hair back from his eyes, exposing his arched brows. His lashes, so thick they made her jealous, closed together as he took a deep breath. When he opened them, he looked not at Cameryn but at a point beyond. “That’s not the reason I brought up Kyle,” he said. “I want to say this the right way.” He looked down, touching each of her knuckles with his fingertips. “Before, I tried to say something about us—about you and me. When we worked the case together, at Brad Oakes’s house. Remember?”
    “Yeah. I remember.” Oh, she thought, here it comes . Justin had asked her out at the exact moment Kyle had entered her life and she, though tempted, had said no. Her reasons had been rational, logical. At twenty-one, Justin was too old, her father objected, her grandmother threatened to send him to jail, her mother had reentered her life. Now that Kyle was gone, Cameryn was, for all intents and purposes, free. All this played through her mind as she braced herself, half-wanting, half-fearing what Justin was about to say.
    “Man, I’ve run this through my head a thousand times, but . . .” He looked at her, his eyes growing soft with appeal. He moved closer and in that moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blue Pinto chugging past the booth that sold hot chocolate and chili dogs. Inside the car was Hannah, her posture ramrod straight. What surprised Cameryn, though, was the fact that Hannah was not alone. A second person, someone with golden hair, was seated in the passenger side. A girl. Cameryn’s gaze followed the car as it turned onto Fourteenth Street before it disappeared.
    "Cameryn?” Justin squeezed her hand, bringing her back. “I think I lost you there.”
    “Sorry. It’s just . . .” She shook herself. “Sorry, I’m listening. ”
    Justin cleared his throat. “Right,” he said. His face flushed, which made her pulse kick faster, and she was, once again, in the moment. “So, after that day I talked to you again at the Grand. That’s when you said you just wanted to be friends. . . .” He paused and Cameryn focused, waiting. Nothing would distract her now.
    "What?” she asked softly.
    She leaned near him, aware they were sharing the same air, their mingled breath creating the barest of clouds against the window. Outside she heard the Silverton Choir warming up, but inside there was only the sound of his shallow breath and the scent of leather— from his Timberline boots or his leather bomber jacket, she couldn’t tell.
    Well, why not? she asked