The Experimental Murders (Elysium #2)

The Judgemental One

"What sort of information?"

"Just some delicate details about the gentleman's private affairs. It turns out he left a wife behind in Noxbury when he fled here to Tinkerfall in order to partake in the scandalous activities our fair city offers. His wife was more than willing to give up what information I needed in exchange for the tidbits I gave her. And it seems she told her husband's father who is now cutting him out of the inheritance. Somehow he blames me for that."

Gin snickered. "It is kinda your fault."

"I am not responsible for his inability to hold his liquor and tongue."

He fished the house key from his pocket and unlocked the front door. "I hope the information you got was worth it," Gin said, following him inside.

His lips twisted into a frown as he headed down to the laboratory. "All information is valuable."

This was a belief he stood by. Regardless, the information he'd gathered had not helped him get any closer to his goal. The drunk man's wife had been a neighbor to a very odd doctor who disappeared only months ago. While she fed Booker plenty of gossip and speculations about what had become of the mad doctor and his young protégé, all of it led to dead ends.

Grabbing his medical kit from the desk in the corner, he headed back up the stairs. Still, as a scientist, he knew that even apparent failures weren't truly a waste of time. At the very least, they showed him what was most assuredly not right, which would bring him one step closer to the truth.

"I hope you might stick around," he called to Gin as he resurfaced. "Just in case I need assistance stitching this up. I can walk you through it."

Gin was standing in the parlour, her mouth agape as she gazed about the room. "Booker, what the heck happened here?"

He furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

She waved at the room. "This place is a mess!"

Booker took a glance at the parlour himself. It was indeed a little worse for wear. There were stacks of dirty plates on the low table by the settee, as well as piles of books and newspapers. Some of the dishes even had bits of moldy food that he did not remember making. There were teacups on the mantel above the fireplace, all empty but stained by the strong black tea he drank on a regular basis. In addition to the kitchenware, there were several torn dress shirts tossed onto the floor and settee, most covered with machine oil and blood. Gears and small rivets were scattered across the floor, and he winced when he noticed a stray finger peeking out from beneath the settee.

"I suppose it is a tad worn," he said, using the toe of his shoe to push the finger out of sight.

"A tad? This place is a disaster! And that's coming from someone who lives on the street."

"I'm a busy man, I don't have time for tidying up," Booker said as he sat on the settee and opened his bag. "It's not like I have guests. Only patients, and they're usually too delirious from pain to notice the state of my house."

Gin sat beside him and watched as he lit a candle and ran the pointed end of a needle through the flame. "But you paid a lot of money to make your house look nice. Do you really want its inside to match the outside?"

He cleaned his wound out with some alcohol and then threaded the needle. "As I said, I'm a busy man. I have more pressing matters than cleaning. Such as this. Would you mind squeezing the sides together?"

The urchin pinched the cut together, and Booker pushed the needle through his own skin, hissing at the pain. But he gritted his teeth and finished the stitch, moving on to the next and the next until the gash was patched up, albeit somewhat sloppily.