The Shadows of Pike Place (A Thomas Austin Crime Thriller #2)

by D.D. Black

Hansville was pretty out of the way—a tiny peninsula jutting out from the larger Kitsap Peninsula, which itself extended from the Olympic Peninsula. The Triple Peninsula. People sometimes joked that you couldn’t get to Hansville from where you were. No matter where you were. He rarely got spontaneous visitors.

There was something in the smell of the place that triggered his synesthesia. It was the only place he’d ever been that brought the feeling on this strong. It was a feeling that not only was she not gone, but she’d never left.

“Creative writing? I thought about trying that, but decided on something ‘practical.’ Journalism. Got out of school in the early 2000s, right as the whole industry went into upheaval because of the internet and social media.”

He didn’t want to share all this with Anna. At least not yet. He shook out his head like he was erasing an etch-a-sketch. “Sorry,” he said. “I always thought it was the beginning of a novel. Puts me in a weird place to think about it.”

Austin tasted a bitter-sweetness with a soft mouthfeel, like marshmallows made of grapefruit rind. Embarrassment.

“Older I get, the more I realize nothing is better than having someone to spend time with, someone you love and like, family, people you want to be better for, someone you want to grow old with.”

Amakazes. Made from espresso, sake, maple syrup and fresh ginger, they were like nothing Austin had ever tasted. Bitter and sweet, spicy and cold, it made him feel like he was being drugged with sleeping pills and splashed with ice cold water at the same time.

His synesthesia had never come on in this way. The flavors he experienced were usually strong, striking. Tart cherries and lemon zest. Even the bad ones, usually associated with negative emotions like disgust or sorrow, were usually accompanied by similarly negative flavors. This was something else.

“I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll go to the beach.” When she heard the word ‘beach,’ Run leapt off him and bolted for the door.

Austin tasted pennies and pencil lead. He recognized the familiar taste of regret.

Austin smelled hot tar. It filtered down into his mouth, as though his face were being pressed into fresh blacktop on a hundred-degree day in Virginia. It was pure hatred. “What the hell are you talking about?”