Page 82 of The Diamond in the Rough

“But people are soawful,” she’d replied.

Sam had nodded. “Yeah, they are, but nobody who matters.”

I thought about that sometimes. The fact that some people’s opinions matter to you and some people’s don’t. ForSam, his family mattered. We mattered. If anybody else didn’t like him, well, that was their problem, not his.

I supposed that it was a way to keep your sanity in a world that otherwise treated you as a third-class citizen, somewhere behind Arc-humans and witches.

It was also, I thought—although I knew enough not to ever say so out loud to Sam or even Melissa—a way to end up dead. Because if you didn’t let the people who belittled you or oppressed you change your actions, then they were more likely to escalate. To become violent. To act out against you for simply trying to exist in the world.

I could keep my magic to myself. So could Melissa, most of the time. We could pass as ordinary humans.

Sam couldn’t.

I worried about that, sometimes. When my news feed popped up a story about a Magic-Free Movement protest or an anti-Arcanid hate crime. When someone said something rude at work about Mason.

I worried about Melissa, too, but she worried about herself far more than Sam ever worried—or seemed to—about himself. I knew she’d be careful. Maybe more careful then she needed to be, but at least I knew she was trying to stay safe.

“Hi, Sam,” I said to the grinning ghoul.

“How’s things?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Busy. I’ve been helping with a case.”

“Really?” He sounded excited by this. “What kind of case?”

I frowned. “I don’t think I’m allowed to talk about it,” I answered, realizing that I probably wasn’t supposed to, since it was both ongoing and a really big deal. My news feed had contained at least one story—or non-story—a day about the Gates-Adams murder, the senator’s response,proposed legislation about anti-Arcanid violence, or reactions from anti-Arcanid groups like the MFM explaining that this was exactly why we shouldn’t trust shifters—because clearly if a woman was murdered in a hotel room, it had to be her fault and she was undoubtedly a prostitute.

I hated to think what they’d say about it if they found out that she’d been paying a blackmailer.

I certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone.

“Oh,” came Sam’s response as Melissa opened the door to let us in. “Why?”

“Why what?” she asked.

“Because in an ongoing criminal investigation,” I replied, deliberately avoiding using the wordmurder, “you’re not supposed to talk about the details.”

“You’re involved in a criminal investigation?” Unlike Sam, who had seemed almost excited by this, Melissa sounded horrified.

“I’m not the one being investigated,” I replied. “I’m helping investigate.”

She still looked scandalized as she mounted the top step of the stairs leading up to her apartment. “Are you safe?” she asked, sounding nervous.

“I don’t think anyone other than people at work know I’m involved, so I don’t know why I wouldn’t be.” It wasn’t something I’d actually thought about. I supposed it was possible for someone to have figured out that I was involved, or that someone had followed us to the crime scene and seen me, but I didn’t think so.

“It’s exciting!” Sam said as Melissa let us into the apartment itself. I sniffed appreciatively, noticing the thick aroma of garlic, tomato sauce, onions, and bread. “Ooooh,” he said. “Pizza’s already here!”

Melissa flushed a little. “Yeah, I preordered. Should still be hot, though.”

Sam had made his way over to the table and opened one of the five boxes. “Mmmm. Breadsticks.”

I put the ice cream in the freezer and whipped cream in the fridge, and we loaded up our plates—Melissa kept one of mine in her cupboard that I washed and put away every time—and settled around the other end of the table from the pizza, where she’d dumped out the puzzle pieces.

I had a moment of worry about this—the last time we’d done a puzzle night, I hadn’t been nearly as sensitive as I’d become, and I wondered if Melissa and Sam touching the pieces, however briefly, would be enough to trigger impressions on the laser-cut cardboard.

My concern must have shown on my face.

“What is it, Rayn?” Melissa asked.