Hopper House (The Jenkins Cycle Book 3) by John L. Monk Page A

for lunch.
    A few hours later, the news was still talking about District Attorney Rachael Anderson and her alleged accomplice, Andre Murphy. They also talked about the dead maid, and “one other body believed to be Ricardo Spilotro, nephew of suspected mob boss Lenny Carpino.” Viewers also got to see the maid’s grieving family crying in the hotel lobby four times an hour. The news didn’t show anyone crying for Ricky.
    I thought I heard the creaking of floorboards above. Quietly, I climbed the stairs and listened at the landing. She’d switched rooms. I heard her say something, but couldn’t make it out. I tiptoed over to the door and listened.
    “I know the cops are looking for us,” she said.
    Several seconds passed where she didn’t say anything.
    “Don’t worry,” she said. “Nobody knows we’re here.”
    More silence.
    “Don’t worry about him. He’s not like the others.”
    More silence. Then, about a minute later: “You wouldn’t dare! ”
    She sounded angry, possibly frightened. I wondered what in the world could frighten an immortal like Rose.
    The sound of her slamming down the phone carried loudly into the hall, causing me to flinch.
    Quickly, I tiptoed away, cursing the squeaky floors, then turned at the last second and faced the room as if that’s where I’d been headed.
    “Hey, Rose,” I said when she came out. “I thought I heard you up and about.”
    Rose gasped in surprise, but recovered quickly. “I was just … um, checking to see if you were in there.” She pointed behind her.
    “I was just coming to check on you.”
    Rose affected an embarrassed expression. “I’m sorry about that … snapping at you earlier. And your poor hand. You surprised me is all.”
    “My ride’s German-Irish,” I said.
    “What?”
    “Nothing.”
    Rose declined dinner again and wished me a good night, then shut the bedroom door behind her.
    When I came up for bed later, sometime after midnight, I noticed Rose had hogged all the covers and pillows. I happen to be a big fan of covers and pillows, so I chose another room. Before turning in for the night, I ducked into the room where she’d assured someone I wasn’t like the others . A study or a library, or perhaps a reading room. Comfortable chair, bookcases with old novels lined up, a desk with a computer and printer, and a house phone next to it. I wondered if the internet worked, and turned the computer on to find out. It booted up, and wonder of all wonders, it brought me to a desktop with no password.
    When I clicked the browser, it opened to an updated news site. Briefly, I checked my free email account, which I’d managed to regain through a recovery process a few rides back. After deleting the accumulated spam that had slipped past the default filters, I clicked a note the minister had sent the day before. More stuff on the Book of Enoch, with links to various Internet sources proving I was “almost certainly a demon.”
    Between the minister slowly losing his mind and Rose whispering behind my back with people she probably thought were aliens, I’d never felt so alone.

Chapter Eleven
    T he next day , Rose got up before I did. When I arrived downstairs, it was to the scene of a hearty breakfast in the making.
    “Morning,” I said.
    “You too,” she said, mixing pancake batter in a bowl. “Have a seat.”
    Impulsively, I came around and tried to give her a kiss on the cheek. Rose turned away.
    Still mixing, she said, “About that. Um … I’m sorry, Dan. You’re a nice guy and all, but let’s just be friends, okay?”
    Wow …
    Somehow, after all I’d been through, the rejection still stung.
    Time to dust off the ol’ teflon exterior.
    “Does that mean my fishing privileges have been restored?”
    Rose didn’t reply. She finished the pancakes, stacked them up high, and sat down across the table from me.
    “Aren’t you hungry?” I said, reaching for the syrup.
    “Nope.”
    That was surprising, considering the way she’d