“La haine de la diablesse” by Rajendra Shepherd
We never give up being wanted . . .
We never give up being wanted . . .
Detective Mercer wasn’t all that sure the man he had bound in the trunk of his cruiser was the right guy, but he was sure enough that he’d risk his badge over it . . .
Brigid Quinlan clutched the corduroy sleeve of Russell Townsend’s blazer and sneered at the herd of journalists being restrained by two burly policemen. She smiled smugly as she and Townsend breezed past them. “Fuck you all,” she whispered under her breath . . .
Albert was cross with himself. He had left Annabelle’s home far too late, at 9:30 in the evening and now faced the long ride back to St. Joseph from Arima in the dark . . .
Marlowe felt his life crumbling around him. He had recently been called before the Privy Counsel, a combination grand jury, federal prosecutor and Supreme Court. His friend and roommate, the playwright Thomas Kyd, had been arrested for treason . . .
Soaking rain had stopped, typical of an August afternoon. It hadn’t cooled things off, only made the air more steamy and humid . . .
“J’Ouvert morning is when the angels and demons dance,” PaPa had said. His words were on a loop in Viv’s head as she made her way through the crowds on Back Street in Kingstown. Daylight had caught the night, melting dark tendrils until they turned grey . . .
Cold permeated. I’d been shaking uncontrollably, teeth rattling, for the better part of an hour; every time I’d try to make myself stop, the shaking would multiply by an exponent and my mind would wander off somewhere else . . .