Rhiannon’s mouth twisted downward at the idea of burnt flesh on a door knob. It sounded god-awful and that unique odor was one the slayer got exposed to on the regular. No matter how quickly vampires went up in flames, they stank to high heaven like any ordinary human. But it lent an interesting angle to the building’s story: that kind of haunting bore striking resemblance to a poltergeist getting its rocks off. She had read newspaper clippings about the original fire and its cause: friction-damaged wires sparking in the kitchen wall.

Sure. Likely culprit.

She was drawn back to the moment by the blonde’s question.

Rhiannon watched the bartender debating his next move. On the one hand, he wanted to keep the women around for a chance at a better tip. On the other, this gruesome conversation was a hell of a lot more entertaining than wiping dishes. He opened his mouth. Clamped it shut. Leaned over the counter between them and muttered, “Yeah, but you didn’t hear it from me. It wasn’t last week, it was in July. They said she bled out in the stairwell. I heard somebody stole her wallet and cut her throat, but— ” He jerked his head. “Sounded like B.S. to me, you know why? No cleaning crew. A mess like that, they’d have to bring in professionals.”

“Soooo… use the elevator is what you’re saying.” Rhiannon gave him a thumbs-up and clucked. “Got it.”