 
# MEET THE EXTRASENSORY AGENTS

A Short Story Collection

LESLIE A. KELLY
Copyright © 2020 Leslie Kelly

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved

Please do not reproduce this book in full or in part without the author's permission

## TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Page

1. Julia Harrington

2. Derek Monahan

3. Olivia Wainwright

4. Aidan McConnell

5. Mick Tanner

Excerpts from Previous Extrasensory Agents Novels

Excerpt from BRAND NEW Extrasensory Agent Novel: COLD HEART

## JULIA HARRINGTON

An Extrasensory Agents Short Story

At first glance, it looked like it would be just another drug bust. Two guys with their heads together, both wearing dark clothes, stood huddled in the shadows of an old boarded-up tenement in east Charleston. It was perfectly normal, just another night in the rough side of the city. In fact, it was very likely she'd busted these two before, maybe even last week, and they were back on the street courtesy of the revolving door criminal justice system.

But Julia's skin was prickling.

Her heart was thumping.

All her nerve endings were on alert, the hairs on her arms standing up, her breath rasping from between her lips. The very air in the squad car seemed to crackle with a strange energy.

"Dispatch, this is unit 18, we have eyes on the suspects," said her partner, speaking into the car radio.

"Proceed with caution. Caller advises that at least one of the suspects might be armed."

"10-4." Sully, her partner, glanced over at her. "Another lovely night on the job, interacting with the high society of Charleston."

There was nothing lovely about this night. Nothing normal about it, either. All her senses flashed, her inner voice whispering, "Watch yourself. Careful, careful."

Julia had never been the type to listen to voices in her head, but lately, her instincts had been steering her pretty well. And right now, they were screaming this wouldn't be a standard bust. She wasn't sure how she could possibly know that, but she was sure of it.

Every unexpected confrontation put a cop on high alert.

This one had had her at DEFCON one before she'd even seen the suspects' faces.

"Something's wrong," she murmured.

"What'sa matter, Rook? Since when do your feet get cold? You've been a one-woman wrecking squad since you got back on the streets."

Maybe so. Recently, her zeal in going after criminal scum had been instinctual and relentless. She had been on a one-woman mission to bring in a collar every single night that she went out on patrol.

Some of her colleagues said she had a death wish.

At times, she wondered if they were right.

But no, she didn't really believe that. She was careful, never took excessive risks, not now when she was determined to live, at least for a while. Tonight, especially, she was completely focused on the job, her nerves pinging and her attention laser focused on the situation.

"Harrington?" Sully nudged. "What is it?"

"I dunno. My gut tells me this is something different."

Julia leaned forward, peering through the windshield down the dark street toward the two shadowy figures. They hadn't yet realized that a marked Charleston P.D. vehicle was parked a block away. There was nothing to tip them off; no lights, no sirens, just two cops responding to a neighbor's call about some dirty dealing going on.

They'd played this routine scene a dozen times in the last month alone. Every cop had. Julia and her partner, though, seemed to find more trouble than most. That was just the way she liked it, and Russ Sully seemed to like it, too.

"Okay, I trust your gut."

Sully got back on the radio, reporting what they were seeing and offering descriptions of the perps in case things went sideways.

_And things are gonna go sideways_.

She couldn't say where her certainty came from, but it was undeniable.

After he finished the radio call, Russ said, "Ready, Iron Maiden?"

She just grunted. The rest of the squad had given her the name after she survived a brush with a Teflon-coated bullet, a so-called cop killer. It wasn't, not really, not when a police officer was on duty and properly vested.

But Morgan hadn't been. He'd been off-duty, taking her to dinner. _Proposing_ to her.

Not dreaming anyone would be gunning for him, he'd worn no vest. No protection.

His human body had been no match for the slugs that tore his chest apart.

So that night, yeah, the ammunition had lived up to its nickname.

"Careful, careful," she whispered out loud, repeating the words zinging through her brain.

Russ, who she'd been assigned to work with after she recovered and returned to the force a few months ago, nodded and straightened in his seat. He was a pretty good partner, all things considered. Brave and constant, solid. But he wasn't the one she wanted beside her, day and night. Nobody ever could be again.

"You up for a run, just in case?" he asked.

"Yep. Are you, Hostess Head?" trying desperately to keep this normal, even though she doubted it would be.

Her cupcake loving colleague shrugged. "Ten pounds of stomach just gives me more heft to land on anybody I have to chase down."

"Yeah, you stick with that."

Julia would stick with sheer muscle, speed, and strength. Every day, she worked herself to the bone at the gym and at the range, determined to become the best version of herself that she could be.

She hadn't really needed much time to recover physically from the bullet that left a long, thin scar across her side. But she'd needed some serious psychological recovery. It had been a challenge to move past the death of her partner. Correction, the cold-blooded murder of her partner. Correction, the cold-blooded murder of the man she loved.

Amazing, wonderful, sexy, adorable Morgan had been gunned down in the night, minutes after they'd gotten engaged. He had died on the cold, wet sidewalk right outside their favorite restaurant, his blood—his life—drifting away with every weakening pump of his heart.

Julia still mourned down to the deepest fiber of her being. At first, she'd wanted to die, too. The one thing that kept her going, and had made her return to some semblance of normalcy, as well as top physical condition, was her vow to find out who had killed him and why.

Morgan's death had been an assassination, not a random act. She was determined to figure out who had hired someone to carry it out and bring that person to justice.

Or just kill them.

She wasn't placing bets on which way it would go when she came face to face with whoever was responsible for the death of the best person she'd ever known.

After that? Well, she'd like to say she had something else to live for. She could only count those things on one hand, though: her parents and her job. That was about it. Maybe once this was over, once the raw wound had healed a bit, that would be enough. But she wasn't making any promises.

"Here we go."

Russ flipped on the headlights and gunned the engine as Julia switched on the rooftop light and the sirens. They roared up the block, covering it in mere seconds. They'd barely skidded to a stop when both of them leapt out of the car, facing the suspects, their weapons drawn.

"Charleston Police! Stop and put your hands in the air!"

Julia's heart raced with adrenaline as her partner tried to get the two to give up, counting on their confusion and surprise to halt any resistance. One—young, thin, with the wasted look of a junkie—turned and ran.

Julia could have run after him, leaving her partner to handle the other perp. She didn't. Her instincts glued her feet in place as they confronted the truly dangerous one, the dealer who was almost certainly carrying a weapon.

His tats said he was gang-connected. The rough scars carved into his neck—four of them—said he'd done _something_ four times to impress his gang family. She had her suspicions what those four things had been.

Watch him, watch him!

Before Russ could repeat his order, a soft bang split the silence.

The gun had been small—a .22 maybe—and it had been hidden in the long, loose sleeve of the perp's hoody. He'd slid it out and fired it without saying a word.

"Fuck!" she yelled, watching out of the corner of her eye as Russ spun on his feet and hit the ground hard. That split-second distraction gave the gang banger enough time to pivot toward her, aiming his weapon right at her head.

Julia was aiming hers right back at him.

A primal duel ensued as they stared into each other's faces, both of them wondering who would shoot first. More importantly, who would survive?

Her partner groaned loudly, mumbling a curse under his breath. Julia didn't spare a glance this time, glad he was alive and sounding pretty strong, but completely focused on making sure they both stayed that way.

"Put it down," Julia said, spitting the words out from her tightly clenched teeth. Her heart was racing, her pulse pounding so hard it nearly deafened her.

But not enough that she didn't hear him bark back, "You first, bitch."

She feigned a hard laugh. "You think I'm scared of that lame-ass gun?"

"Didn't see it, though, didja?" He smirked. "Your partner sure didn't."

"He'll be fine," she retorted, hoping she was right.

Russ was wearing a vest and so was she. The bullet had been a lucky shot; it must have been. But no bullet wound was risk free, as she well knew. She wanted to get help for her partner, but there was this sonofabitch to deal with first.

" _You_ ain't gonna be fine. This lame-ass gun got a bullet wi' your name on it, and I ain't aimin' for that big chest'a yours."

Her vest would protect her central body mass.

It wouldn't help, however, if he fired a shot into her face, as he was implying.

"You about to die, just like your last partner did."

She managed to retain her professional grip on her service weapon, trying not to let him see her shock as she realized he knew who she was. How the hell was that possible? Had this been some kind of a trap?

The gang-banger laughed. "Not expectin' that, were ya, bitch? You done pissed off enough people 'round here. 'Bout time somebody shut you up fo' good."

"And you're willing to die to try it?"

He visibly stiffened. So, he wasn't quite as dedicated to his gang as he'd made out. He didn't want to die for the cause, and he knew this showdown could go either way.

_Either way. Live or die. Shoot or wait_.

She made the decision to fire just as a brilliant bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. Across the street, a dingy bare bulb swinging from an old street light pulsed and then shattered. A strange crackling sound bounced off the nearby buildings. The tension was palpable, and the banger looked away, startled, but Julia kept her focus.

Suddenly, a huge, bright light burst from beside the armed man, and a tall, dark shape appeared inside it. The figure plowed out of the dazzling display and leapt onto the shooter, taking him down to the ground in a clash of fire and fury. The gun skidded out of the dealer's hand, and, shaken from her shock, Julia sprung for it, scooping it up and out of the way.

"What the fuck's goin' on? Who hit me? My arm's broke!"

"Stay where you are!" she yelled, struggling to be heard over the sizzling, crackling noise that nearly deafened her. It was like an all-encompassing static, electrifying the night, making all the hair on her body stand on end.

As quickly as it began, the noise started to fade. The blinding doorway of light dimmed. Above, a hard rain began to pour down, half convincing her that what she'd seen was lighting. Yeah, lightning and a nearby onlooker literally diving into the action. There had been no brilliantly illuminated doorway appearing out of thin air.

Feeling more in control, Julia darted to the injured perp. He continued to roll around and was literally crying about his arm, which was bent at an odd angle. Considering he'd just shot her partner, and would happily have put a bullet into her head, she couldn't muster up much sympathy for him. She didn't even hesitate before rolling him over and quickly cuffing his hands behind his back.

He howled. "Ahh, police brutality! I need help!"

"Shut up," she snapped. "You'll get medical treatment when my partner does."

She got back up, looking around for the onlooker who'd interceded. Part of her wanted to thank him, the other part to tell him he'd been crazy to jump into an armed confrontation.

But he wasn't there. Nobody was. She stood alone in the alley, the gunman lying behind her, her own partner ahead of her.

"What the hell?"

"Julia," a voice whispered. "You're gonna be okay."

She spun around again. "Who said that?"

Nobody.

Or...somebody?

A shadow moved near a crumbling wall. It was cast by nobody she could see. Then slowly, oh, so slowly, it disentangled itself from the ruined building and moved closer. Closer.

The shadow lengthened. But now she perceived the shape making it. A man-sized shape, one made of mist and air.

"What?"

The shape grew and gained mass. It became solid, easily visible.

And suddenly, recognizable.

It was Morgan Raines.

"This can't be happening." Julia's world erupted into a void of confusion. It was a dream. A fantasy. "I've been shot. I'm dying. I'm dead."

She _had_ to be. If not, how could she be seeing the face she'd longed to see for so many anguished days since he'd left her?

"If I'm seeing you, I'm dead, right?"

His eyes widened into circles as he approached her. "Jules, can you see me?"

He sounded as stunned as she felt.

She stepped closer. "I...you...." Looking at the ground, she saw the perp rolling back and forth, ignoring her in favor of ranting over his pained arm and his violated rights. Her partner still lay nearby, a hand clenching his shoulder, blood oozing from beneath his fingers. His eyes were closed, but he was obviously breathing.

She didn't see her own body. Where was her body?

She spun around in a complete circle. "Where am I?"

"You're right where you were," Morgan said, coming closer.

"But I'm dead. I have to be dead."

"No, Glamour Cop." He gave her that crooked, sideways smile. "I'm the only one who's dead around here."

No. No, no, no. If she wasn't dead, she was hallucinating then. This was a dream. A coma-induced fantasy she'd created out of the deepest longings of her heart and mind.

"I can't _believe_ you can see me. You never have before," he said as he reached for her.

He touched her cheek. She saw him do it. But she didn't feel it. There was no brush of skin on skin, just the faintest suggestion of warmth, like a summer breeze fanning her cheek.

He frowned. His hand fell to his side.

"I've been watching you, staying close."

"Waiting for me to die, too?"

He quickly shook his head. "No way, Julia Harrington. You've got a long life to live. I just, well, I guess I stuck around to make sure you went back to living it."

Tears pricked her eyes at his tender expression. They thickened and fell when he tried again to touch her, to draw her into his arms. Though she saw him, as real and solid as the night he'd died, she still felt only the very faintest hint of a breeze where his broad body stood. It confused her senses. She could perceive him, hear him, breathe deeply and smell his unique, salty scent. But she couldn't _feel_ him.

"How can this be happening?"

"I don't know." He thrust a hand through his tousled hair. "I was so angry when I saw him holding a gun on you. So scared. I just reacted like I would have in the old days."

The old days. When he was alive.

"You were protecting me?"

"I know you don't usually need it, but yeah, I guess I was." He looked around, as if seeing clearly for the first time in a while. "I've never been able to come through before."

"Come through?"

"From wherever I was. The _other_ Charleston."

She looked around, seeing the same street, the same buildings, the same city.

_What_ other Charleston?

"I don't understand any of this."

"Ditto."

"Ditto. Like that old movie, _Ghost_? You Patrick Swayze'd your way here tonight when I needed you most?"

He actually laughed. "Maybe."

This was too bizarre to be believed. Too surreal.

"That's it. I'm dead."

From behind her, she heard a stirring. "You ain't dead, partner, you just saved both our asses! Good job!"

Russ. Darting past the figment of her imagination, she raced over to the real, living, breathing man. She segued back to being a cop and no longer the woman struck stupid by the imaginary return of her dead lover. Reaching to the radio clipped on her belt, she barked, "Officer down," and gave the address as she dropped to her knees beside her partner. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I think it's a through and through. Lucky bastard hit me between the top of the vest and the strap."

Frankly, she considered Russ the lucky one.

Oh, and herself. Because how many cops had their own personal guardian ghost ready to blast out of nowhere to protect her when she was in danger?

"Nope, I'm dead," she muttered.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Russ eyed her with concern. "He didn't wing you, did he?"

Feeling stupid, she quickly shook her head. "No, no. A close call, that's it."

"I know my rights! I want a lawyer!" called the banger, now sounding querulous and no longer the tough hood he'd made himself out to be a little while ago.

"Thought you wanted an ambulance," a low voice murmured. Julia jerked her head and saw Morgan still standing there, as big and real as anyone alive. Only dead.

"Did I get hit on the head or something?" Julia rubbed her temple.

"I dunno. Sorry, partner, I guess I was stunned out of it for a minute there."

A siren finally howled from some blocks distant. Julia pressed her hand on her partner's shoulder wound, saying, "Hang on, help is on the way. You're gonna be fine."

She'd said those words before, on another rainy night, to another partner.

They hadn't been true then, but they were going to be now.

Hearing a throat clearing, she looked up and saw Morgan standing above her. Their stares met. He knew what she was thinking and eyed her tenderly.

"There was nothing you could have done. I was doomed before I hit the ground."

She sniffed, determined not to cry again, not in front of her injured partner, who might take her emotions for bad news about his own prospects. Still not entirely sure she wasn't hallucinating, or, indeed, dead, she forced herself to ignore the ghostly—though entirely solid—dead man and focus only on Russ, the perp, the here and the now. There would be time to revisit the past later, when she was sure she wasn't imagining he was here.

When she began to believe Morgan Raines had returned to her.

Three Weeks Later

It took Julia a while to let herself accept that Morgan was really back.

She'd begun to believe she wasn't dead while waiting with her partner for the ambulance to arrive the night it had all happened. She'd begun to believe she wasn't unconscious while waiting with him at the hospital. She'd begun to believe the whole thing had really happened after she went to the preliminary hearing for the gang banger who'd shot Russ and heard him talk about some mysterious force that sent him flying.

And finally, when Morgan showed up in her living room one night while she was eating a half gallon of Rocky Road, she'd begun to believe that his ghost had truly crossed over from some other world into this one.

"I wish I could eat," he said as he watched her making a grilled cheese sandwich one night in her apartment. He was sitting on the counter, his feet dangling, wearing the typical jeans and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up that he'd usually worn when alive. She didn't know how ghosts managed to change clothes, but Morgan Raines did. Then again, he'd always been a unique kind of guy. Funny and tender, strong and protective, sexy and smart. He was everything she'd ever wanted in a man, and had been since the day they'd met at the station her very first day on the job with Charleston P.D.

He still was that man, all rolled up in a handsome, ghostly package.

"You're making me hungry."

"Do ghosts feel hunger?"

He hesitated, thought about it, and finally nodded. "Sort of."

"Sorry. But as I recall, you don't like cheese."

"I love cheese! And I might not even be lactose intolerant anymore now that I'm dead. It really sucks that I can't find out."

His aggrieved expression brought a light laugh to her lips. "Maybe that'll happen one day, just like you showing up did."

She certainly hoped he would discover new things about his existence. The ability to touch her would be the cherry on the whipped sundae of his presence.

"Maybe. Hey, guess who I ran into today."

"Ran into?"

"I mean, saw."

"Who?"

"Edge."

"Captain Edgerton?" She smiled. "How's he doing with his retirement?"

"I asked him, but he didn't answer," he said with a smirk.

If it wouldn't have sailed right through, she'd have thrown a hunk of cheddar at his face. Turning back to the stove, she murmured, "It must be strange seeing these people you knew."

"Yeah, sometimes, especially since I lived here my whole life. I'm always bumping into somebody I know, metaphorically speaking."

She assumed that included his family. Morgan had never talked much about his older brother, with whom he hadn't been close, but he'd had a good relationship with his parents. Julia had only met them once, at his funeral. His family had never even known that she and Morgan were involved, much less that they'd gotten engaged the night he died. It somehow seemed kinder to not add a new layer to the if-only game they probably played whenever they thought about the son who had been taken from them.

Although she hadn't intended it, their conversation lead naturally into a topic she'd wanted to broach with him. She asked, "Would it be easier if you didn't see so many people you know on a regular basis?"

"Maybe. It was really hard at first, especially with you." His voice dropped. "I hated seeing you cry at night."

She didn't anymore. She might not feel him every night, there were times she didn't even see him, but she knew he was close. She always knew. And that filled her heart and brought her more happiness than she'd ever expected to have again.

There was more, though. Since he _was_ still here, in his strange, otherworldly form, she had begun to have faith in the future. His presence confirmed what she'd wondered about for years. There was something after life in this world. Something more. Another place, another existence. She had no doubt Morgan would be waiting for her to join him there when her time on earth was done. Until then, she'd take whatever she could have with him, as strange as their relationship might be.

"I'm fine now," she assured him as she slid her sandwich onto a plate. She stirred the tomato soup and then poured herself a mug. "But how are you, being here, I mean? Do you actually like living—"

"I think you mean un-living."

She rolled her eyes. "I mean, do you want to stay in Charleston?"

"I want to stay where you are, Jules. _Wherever_ you are."

As she'd thought. As she'd hoped.

"So, you wouldn't be terribly sad if I wanted to leave here? Move somewhere else?"

He hopped off the counter and joined her as she took a seat at the small kitchen table, where they used to sit together to share meals in the old days. She always left it out now, since he couldn't pull it out himself. "Are you serious?"

"I am. I've been giving a lot of thought to moving. I'm not from here, like you were, and I really don't have any family ties to this place."

She liked her partner, and some of the cops at the station, but she didn't have any friends who'd miss her that much.

There was more, but she didn't want to tell him _all_ the reasons she had for wanting to move. Mainly, she didn't want Morgan to know that his presence in her life was a complication—though a very welcome one. Here, where everyone knew her story, her background, and all about the partner she'd lost, it would be too easy to slip up. Considering he was such a thriving presence in her day-to-day life, it would be too easy to call him by name, to talk about him as if he were still alive. She might make herself look like a crazy person. Being a female cop was hard enough without also getting the reputation for being slightly off the rails.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Not far. I was thinking Savannah."

Nodding, he said, "Savannah's nice. Lots of people like me there."

"People like...you?"

"Dead folks. Some pretty cool cemeteries in Savannah. I've visited them."

She threw a hand up, palm out. "TMI, Morgan. Don't overload my brain with your travel stories just yet, okay?"

"You got it." He reached for her sandwich, as if sure he could pick it up in his hands. As usual, his fingers moved right through it. He sighed in audible disappointment. "You gonna apply for the S.C.P.D.?"

She could, she supposed. She liked being a police officer, and knew Savannah-Chatham would probably welcome her, especially with her record and commendations. Another one was coming toward her for what had happened in that alley a few weeks ago. Funny, she didn't think she deserved it. She hadn't, after all, been the one who'd saved her partner's life. That had been Morgan.

"Actually, I was thinking of trying something else."

This particular something would give her the freedom and the time to investigate the case she really wanted to solve. She hadn't given up on finding out who was responsible for Morgan's murder. Now that he was back, she was more determined than ever to make that person pay. Staying close, in a nearby city where she could avoid the people she'd known while still keeping an eye on the case seemed like the perfect solution.

Besides, she liked Savannah, too. It was weird. Kinda like her these days.

"Like what?"

"I was considering getting my P.I. license."

As was usual with Morgan, who'd always had vision and had encouraged her in anything she wanted to do, he immediately got on board. "You'd be great."

"Especially if I had the right partner."

He tilted his head in confusion.

"You and me. Imagine the mysteries we could solve."

"A Scooby gang of two?"

"To start. I would like to keep my eye out for others who have, um, unique talents. Maybe we can grow our business. What do you think of the name Extrasensory Agents?"

He barked a laugh. "I think it needs work."

"Well, I don't," she said, sipping her soup. "I think it's the perfect name."

Shaking his head, he crossed his arms over his broad chest. "You're really serious?"

"I really am. Wanna be my partner again?"

He didn't even hesitate. "Hell, Glamour Cop, that sounds like my idea of heaven."

Heaven on earth, at least for as long as she was living on it. After that, they'd be together in the world Morgan had visited after leaving this one. A world of shadow and mist, as he'd described it. She didn't care. Anywhere was fine, as long as they were together, hand in hand, going toward whatever was waiting for them.

"When do we leave?"

"You're really in?"

"Damn right I'm in." He reached for her, as he so often did, forgetting his body wasn't really there. She watched as his hand covered hers and squeezed.

Julia gasped. For the first time, she felt something more than the airy sensation his touch usually invoked. Mouth hanging open, she looked down, wondering how his hand had suddenly gained a hint of mass, the tiniest bit of solidity.

"Do you feel me?" he asked, sounding stunned.

"Yes." She turned her hand, lifting her palm against his, still getting that ever-so-faint sensation of skin on skin.

It was miraculous. Perfect.

"I don't understand."

"I think I do."

It was like the way he'd knocked down the man threatening her in that alley. Morgan's emotions—his anger—had allowed him a firmer presence in this realm. He wasn't angry this time, but his emotions were still heightened because of their conversation. It wasn't just rage that enabled him to make his presence known. It was something much, much better.

"You're happy. That's the reason."

He smiled. So did she.

They simultaneously leaned across the small table until their faces were close together and their lips met in a kiss. It was faint, as wispy as the gossamer wings of a butterfly, but she felt it. She felt him.

It was more than she'd ever dreamed of having on that night when she thought she had lost him forever.

Morgan had returned to her. They would forge a new life together. Not in the way they had once planned, but in this new way that fate had somehow allowed.

It would be a good life.

And it was starting right now.

* * *

## DEREK MONAHAN

An Extrasensory Agents Short Story

A pedestrian had just been plowed down at the intersection of Charlton and Price Streets.

Not looking one way, much less both, the man had stepped right into the path of a monster SUV. The body was dragged several yards as the car careened from side to side until its grisly undercarriage passenger was finally let off his unexpected ride and fell onto the ground.

Derek Monahan was the only one who noticed.

Around him, busy residents of Savannah moved through their day. Drivers honked and yelled. Pedestrians walked through the warm late afternoon sunshine; crowds gathered at city bus stops. All were oblivious to the accident that had left someone dead months—years?—before.

Averting his gaze, Derek kept walking, too. He'd given this pedestrian his attention the first time he came across him, saying the prayer for his soul that he always said for those whose death he eternally witnessed. After that, unless the person had been murdered and Derek's further attention might be warranted, perhaps resulting in an anonymous tip to the police that could help solve the case, he paid no attention. It wasn't, after all, as if he was seeing a tormented ghost. He merely saw reflections, shadows, imprints of violence that their deaths left on the world.

There were plenty of those. Far too many.

He'd learned long ago that the only way he could retain his sanity and still live in the world was if he treated the images like he treated traffic noise or the hum and buzz of white noise. There, always in the periphery, but not something to which he had to pay attention.

That had been damned hard to do in the military. Enlisting had been the biggest mistake of his life and he still wondered what self-loathing instinct had made him do it.

But he was home now, having finished his service to his country and returned to Georgia about eighteen months ago. Moving on had taken some effort, but now he finally felt like he had his shit together, with his own home and fledgling business.

He was fine. Life was fine.

He just had to ignore the dead people.

Seeing the pub where his prospective client had asked him to meet her, he pushed through the dark, scarred wood doors into a crowded, loud, beer-smelling joint in which he felt right at home. No frou-frou happy hour specials here. This was your basic bar that probably served burgers and sandwiches and had ten beers on tap, none of them IPAs.

"Brunette, wearing black," he mumbled to himself, interested in learning more about the woman who wanted to meet him here rather than at her place of business.

He spotted her right away.

She sat alone at a small table in the back. Derek wove through the crowd toward her, trying not to notice that she was fucking hot. Beautiful, in fact.

No messing around with clients.

That was rule number one in his one-man handyman/construction business, and he'd never broken it. But damn, the sexy woman who stood to greet him, with her long, almost-black hair, dark flashing eyes, and hellaciously curved body would be enough to make a saint swear off his work.

She was younger than he'd expected for somebody who wanted to hire a contractor to renovate an office suite. Maybe in her mid-twenties. But her squared shoulders and confident expression told him she was highly competent. Even formidable, he suddenly suspected.

"Mr. Monahan?"

"Yes. Ms. Harrington?"

"Julia please." She put out her hand and shook his firmly, her grip strong and her expression straightforward.

"And I'm Derek."

"Thanks for meeting me here. Take a seat."

He did, putting his leather folder containing references and notes on the pitted, scarred table, noticing the graffiti and bare spots where varnish had long since been worn away.

"Would you like a drink?"

Derek noticed she had a beer. But he was working and considered himself still on the clock until their business was done. So, when a bored-looking server appeared beside their table, he said, "Just water, please."

The server looked at Julia, gesturing silently toward the mug.

"One and done for me," Julia said. "But I would like some water, too."

"Okay. Fries'll be out soon."

She walked away, and then Julia explained, "Hope you don't mind if I have a bite. I skipped lunch. I'll share my fries."

"That's okay." Opening his folder, Derek pulled out a pad of blank paper and a pen. "So, you want some work done on your new office space."

"Yes," she explained, giving him the address. "I'm sure you're wondering why we didn't meet there."

"Actually, I am. I do need to examine the site before giving you a quote."

"I don't actually have full-time access until the first of the month. I'm hoping you can get in right away and lay out the basics for me. I don't need much to start, just a reception area and my office. Everything else can come later."

"Can I at least get in to do a walk through?"

"I'll arrange that," she said, not sounding exactly worried about it. "So, when can you start?"

"I can't give you a concrete estimate until I get in there."

She waved a hand. "It's okay, I need the work done ASAP and you come very highly recommended. I trust you to give me a fair price and would rather get on your calendar right away."

Derek grunted. "That's very trusting."

"Right? Surprises even me. I'm actually pretty skeptical, usually. Ex-cop in me, I guess."

His jaw almost fell open. She was an ex-cop? Despite the fact that she looked and sounded highly competent, he'd never have imagined that, not from a woman who looked maybe twenty-five and could probably be a lingerie model if she wanted to.

"I won't start any work until we agree on a price on day one," he said, hiding his shock.

"That sounds reasonable. But like I said, I have been checking up on you."

He hadn't provided her with any references and was curious about who she'd called. He definitely liked hearing that his name was making its way around Savannah. Business was steady, but he'd like to have even more to do.

Derek didn't really have to worry about money. His parents had left him pretty secure from a very young age. But he preferred to stay busy. Working with his hands kept his mind focused and kept him away from areas of the city he'd rather avoid. He didn't take jobs anywhere near a place where someone had met a violent end. Frankly, he didn't need the distraction of watching someone die every few minutes of the day. Distraction was not a good thing when you were working around heavy tools and equipment. He didn't particularly want to lose a hand because of some shooting that took place during prohibition.

"So, can you start right on the first?"

He consulted his calendar. She was giving him two weeks. Perfect timing considering he had about six more days of work to do on an old mansion in the historic district. "Yeah, that works, as long as I can get the materials."

"We're talking basic walls and doors, to start with. I'm sure it's all the typical stuff."

"Sounds like it. What type of business are you opening, exactly?"

For the first time, she shifted her gaze to the side, not meeting his eye. "It's a consulting business."

Hmm. He sensed there was more to say, but she wasn't sayin' it. He became surer of it when he saw her turn her head slightly and glare at an empty space a few feet away.

Nobody stood there. Nothing moved. Not even a mouse.

So, what the hell was she glaring fire at?

He sipped his water. When she'd finished her stare-off with the invisible entity, she murmured, "I'll be having sign and electrical work done at the same time."

Pretending he hadn't noticed her distraction, he said, "No problem. I can work around other contractors. I've actually done work in that building, in a lawyer's office on the second floor and have a pretty good idea of the layout. I should be able to get you up and running in about 10 days."

She nodded. "Excellent. I'll eventually need a large meeting room, break room, and at least five more small offices."

"Big expansion plans?"

"I'm hopeful. Gonna take some work to bring the kind of people I need on board." Another quick glance to the side, and a tiny smile tugged at her lush mouth. "Fortunately, I'm very persuasive."

He wondered who, exactly, she was trying to persuade now. It felt like her focus was just as much on the empty air as it was on their meeting, as if she were talking to somebody else about a completely different subject than her office expansion.

The server came over, placing a large plate of steaming, greasy-looking fries on the table. "Anything else?"

"Not right now, thanks," Julia replied.

Pushing the plate toward him, she grabbed a fry, blew on it, and then popped the whole thing in her mouth. She washed it down with a deep sip of her beer. She might be a little weird, having stare-offs with walls, but he already kinda liked the woman.

When she rose from her chair and slid into the empty one beside it, though, fully exposing the small back window she'd been blocking with her body, he rethought that and suddenly disliked her a lot. Or, at least, he disliked her need to move for no apparent reason.

Because a body was plunging to the hard ground in the alley behind the bar.

He didn't see the woman hit the alley. He didn't have to. Judging by the speed at which she passed the window, and the terrified look on her face, she'd come from pretty high up and had made a pretty fast landing. Not to mention a hard one.

The alley slid narrowly between a high-rise corporate headquarters and an equally tall hotel. It backed up right to the bar. He imagined it was used only for deliveries and, judging by the overflowing dumpsters, trash pickup. Unless she'd done a back dive, the dead woman had probably fallen from a room high in the hotel. Suicide? Possible. Savannah wasn't exactly the skyscraper capital of the south, boasting only one building that hit twenty stories. But diving off a twelve story one would do the job just fine. Either way, she was definitely dead, and had left a visual imprint on the alley to memorialize the event.

Derek took a deep breath as she fell by the window again, giving his attention to the woman in the final moments of her life and then mentally saying a prayer. He wasn't the religious type, but praying for a lost soul was something he'd done since the first time he'd become aware of the imprints the dead sometimes left behind.

That had been when he was twelve. And the victims constantly replaying their brutal murders in an endless, horrifying loop were his own parents.

Yeah. He'd done a lot of praying after that. Mostly praying that it had merely been a bad dream, and he would wake up to find his mom in the kitchen and his dad in the backyard holding a baseball glove.

Dreams, he had discovered at a very young age, didn't come true.

His time in the military around civilians who strove for a good life while they had no idea when the next bomb would go off had merely reinforced that opinion.

Once his prayer was said, he shifted his chair, angling it toward Julia to try to avoid the head-on view. Seeing the terrified face in his periphery was bad enough.

"Something wrong?" Julia asked with a lifted brow.

"Nope. Anything wrong on your end? Was the sun in your eyes?"

He didn't smirk, even though the question had been a ridiculous one. The bar was dark, the dingy front windows faced east, and the dim light didn't come close to this shadowy back corner. He couldn't think of a single reason for her to move, unless she was watching the entrance for somebody else.

"Got another contractor coming in to give you an estimate?"

"No, you're the one I want, Mr. Monahan."

Derek wished his heart hadn't thudded at that one. Given the way she nibbled her bottom lip, it appeared she realized how it had sounded, and quickly went on.

"I mean, you've already got the job."

"Do you have a date then?"

" _What_?" Another quick glance to the side.

"You obviously switched seats to keep an eye on the front door."

"No, I actually switched seats to give you a better view out the back window."

He barked a laugh. "Of the dirty alley? Thanks for the thought, but I'd just as soon pass. Feel free to go back to your other chair."

"It wasn't just the alley view that caught your attention though, was it?"

Hearing her intensity, Derek stiffened. She sounded as though she'd expected him to see what he had, indeed, seen. But that was ridiculous. Impossible. Very few people in this entire world knew about his unique visions, and every one of them was a family member, or as close as one. "I don't know what you mean."

"Sure you do."

He reached for a few of her fries, waiting for her to make the next move. He wouldn't provide her any more of an opening, much less anything resembling the truth. She'd gotten his attention, now she could follow through on her own, with no help from him.

Shoving the fries into his mouth, he watched and chewed, trying to figure out her angle.

"Why do they linger? The dead, I mean."

The food caught in his throat, and Derek coughed into his fist. _What the fuck?_ Grabbing his glass, he took a deep sip of water, both to clear his throat and to try to figure out what to say.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to spring this on you. I should have taken it slow, waited until you're renovating the office. Once you get to know me—and what I do—it might have been easier for you to trust me and open up to me. That was my intention, anyway." She glanced over her shoulder toward the back window. "But there's no time to do things the normal way. Not that normal is a big part of my life, anyway."

Derek gaped at her. "You see her?"

Julia swung her head back toward him, her eyes gleaming, a triumphant smile widening her sexy mouth. "No. But I take it you do? You really do?"

"To hell with this," he said, pushing his chair back from his table. He'd been lured here under false pretenses. Well, maybe not totally false; it sounded like she did have a job that needed to get done. But he already knew that her real motivation for getting him here had something to do with what had happened in that alley. To that woman.

And he didn't want any part of it.

"Please don't go," she said, quickly standing and reaching out to touch him. "I need you."

Derek hesitated. Her plea went deeper than mere words. He could read the anxiety in her face and feel the trembling of the hand pressed against his forearm. The uber confident woman had receded, and this was someone who was unsure and almost desperate.

"What is it you want from me?" he asked, not sitting back down, but not walking out the door, either.

"Look, you have every right to leave. I wasn't entirely forthcoming about why I wanted to meet you. But I want to be, and I'd appreciate it if you would hear me out."

"No more bullshit games?"

"No more bullshit." She suddenly gasped, "Oh, but it's not all bullshit. I really do need you to do the work on my office!"

At least some of what she'd said had been the truth. Small comfort, but it did make him feel only nine-five percent ambushed rather than one hundred.

"But you need something else from me even more, am I right?"

She nodded.

"What?"

She licked her lips, glanced over her shoulder, and then looked him in the eye. "I need you to help me prove that Angie Franklin didn't commit suicide."

Angie Franklin. Alley woman, he presumed.

He had a million and one questions, mainly concerning how much she knew about him, how she'd found out, and how much she understood about what he could do. But he also found himself curious about the woman who'd died right behind this building. Her tone made it clear that Julia cared about her very much.

"Go on."

"I know that Angie wasn't pushed off one of the hotel room balconies, which was the other prime theory."

That's what Derek had assumed, to be honest. His interest grew. Despite himself, he had to ask. "So, what _did_ happen to her?"

Julia took a step back and dropped down into the chair she'd just vacated. Derek, knowing he should just leave but unable to do it, followed her lead and sat down, too.

Leaning close across the table, she said, "She was an administrative assistant for Jasper Jakes Corp."

The Jasper Jakes company was a major employer around here, and the corporation headquarters towered over this very building. It was the skyscraper on the left, mirroring the hotel. The enterprise was owned by the Jakes family, one of Savannah's oldest and most beloved. Derek wasn't even sure what they did. Something with manufacturing, he believed. Whatever the case, the family was filthy rich.

"Angie worked on the fourteenth floor for the previous CEO. She interacted all the time with the highest-level executives, campaign donors, silent rulers of the city types."

"Oh. Those."

Her frown said she shared his opinions of the Savannah elite. Having worked for some of them, he based his low opinion strictly on experience.

"The police interviewed everyone she worked with. They claimed she was having an affair and that she and her mystery lover used to meet—"

"Let me guess. In the hotel next door?"

"Right."

The woman— _Angie, her name was Angie_ —fell past the window again, reminding him that there had once been a real, living human at the other end of the story he was hearing.

"Who was the lover?"

"Nobody knows."

"So why are you so sure he didn't push her from the hotel?"

"Because I don't think this supposed lover ever really existed."

Interesting. He'd been prepared for her to say that he suspected the lover was one of the Jakes executives. But this was a new twist.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because nobody outside of that office had an inkling she was seeing anyone. By all other accounts, she was a quiet but friendly woman who spent most of her time with her family."

"Husband? Kids?"

"No, she was unmarried, but was very close with her parents, siblings, nieces, nephews, and friends. Not a single one of them knew anything about any kind of romantic relationship."

"Would she have told them if she were involved with someone inappropriate? Married?"

She wrapped her hands together on the table top, twining her fingers, and said, "I had the same thought. A 'nice' woman might not admit to something like that. But I'm telling you, Derek, it just doesn't fit everything I've learned about her. She wasn't the having-an-affair type. Nor was she the having-a-secret-life type."

No, it sounded like she was the falling-off-a-building type.

"Okay, say you're right. Can you be absolutely sure she didn't kill herself?"

"Honestly? That I could almost believe rather than the secret lover. But there was just no reason. No history of depression, nothing going wrong in her job, her health, her personal life. By all accounts, she was incredibly happy, excited about an upcoming trip to Europe, helping to plan her parents' anniversary party. She had everything to live for."

He began to see where she was going. "Not a lover. Not a suicide. Not the hotel."

"Right."

He glanced out the window, this time focusing on the back of the office building that cast a long, dark shadow over the alley. "You think she was killed by somebody she worked with."

Julia nodded, appearing relieved. "He or she threw Angie from her own office window. I'm nearly positive of it."

_Nearly_ positive. Not totally positive. How could she be? How could anyone? Certainly the cops hadn't been.

"The sonofabitch was just lucky enough the buildings were so close together so she could have come from either, and that she landed in a position that made it look like she might have come from the hotel."

"Wouldn't the hotel have proof that she hadn't been there?"

"It's an older one, not a new chain. Their security isn't that great. They're saying she would have been furtive about going up to meet a lover who'd checked into his room under an assumed name."

"Plausible. Enough to throw people off the work angle, anyway."

"Right?

"So, you think whoever did it then cooked up the story of the lover and, what, got everyone else to go along with it?"

She brushed a long strand of dark hair off her cheek. "I know it sounds unlikely."

Derek shrugged. "Not entirely. I mean, if she worked in the executive office, and all of the executives are family members, and the bosses of everyone else in the building, and tight with the local politicians and authorities...."

"Exactly!"

"Having a hotel right next door made it easy to claim she had a reason to be there. The mystery lover."

"Yep."

"The investigators bought it?" As if he needed to ask.

"Well certainly nobody in the ivory tower could be stained by any whiff of a criminal investigation. They focused all their attention on the mystery lover. Case closed."

"Closed?"

"Well, not closed," she said with an eye roll. "But you know what I mean. Their _minds_ are closed. She died two years ago; the case has gone cold. The cops think her mystery lover killed her, or he dumped her and she jumped. Either way, they aren't even trying to get to the truth, especially if it brings them anywhere close to the Jakes family."

Yes, that did sound like the way things in this city were done when it came to anything involving those with a lot of money, especially those with a lot of _old_ money, like the Jakes.

A flash of color caught his eye. He glanced out the window. Down she went, Angie's hair flying straight up toward the sky. It was as if the woman, herself, was asking him to step outside and watch her fall. To see exactly where she'd fallen _from_.

Julia didn't have to tell him what she wanted. He already knew.

"Will you?" she asked, obviously seeing that he understood.

"Will _you_?"

She tilted her head in confusion. "Will I what?"

"Will you tell me what you know about me, and how you know it?"

Nodding, she glanced again toward the corner, toward that same, empty spot where she'd looked several times before.

"And while you're at it, why don't you tell me why the hell you keep looking over there?"

"Let's leave that part for another time," she mumbled, "and focus on Angie."

"Fine. But I want to know exactly what it is you expect me to do...and why you expect it."

She smiled faintly. "I saw you."

"You saw me?"

"Yes. It was completely by chance. I was walking downtown one day a month or two ago and I saw you stop in the middle of a sidewalk, pause, and then step around something that nobody else seemed to even notice."

He thought about it, and put a name—or at least a description—to the site.

Drive-by guy.

"I remembered someone had been shot dead on that spot, and it made me curious about you."

"Curious enough to follow me or something?"

"I didn't follow you."

Another glance in the corner. He really wanted to walk over there and kick a hole in the wall or something.

"I did some research, and yes, maybe had someone I know keep an eye on you."

"Someone you know? Is he the invisible man?"

She gaped.

"You keep looking over there." He jerked a thumb toward the corner. "Is he standing there watching us or something?"

Although he'd been snarky, she actually let out a merry laugh. "I'm not going to answer that, because you'll think I'm totally crazy."

"Lady, look who you're talking to. You wanna compare crazy?"

Her laughter died. "Who _am_ I talking to? I mean, I know who you are, where you're from, all the background stuff."

Great.

"But I don't know exactly what it is you see when you stop and stare into the emptiness of a place where some violence occurred." Her voice lowered into a whisper. "I know you pray for them."

He flinched. How the hell could she or this friend of hers have gotten so close without him ever realizing it?

"You see them, don't you? You see the ghosts of people who've died violent deaths?"

"I don't see ghosts," he countered.

Her face fell and her shoulders slumped. "Well damn. I really thought...."

"You thought wrong. I've never seen a _ghost_ in my life. I don't even know that they exist."

"They do," she mumbled.

She sounded like she spoke from experience. Which might make her more than just a former cop engaged in private investigation. Derek had never met anyone who had abilities like his, or unlike them, for that matter. Might Julia be one?

"Do _you_ see ghosts?"

"One. Just one." Another glance toward the corner.

"You're telling me you're seeing one right now?"

"You're telling me you're _not_ seeing one in that alley?" she countered.

Their stares met and locked. Derek wondered if he looked as unsure but hopeful as she did. He hadn't known who this woman was an hour ago, now he was actually thinking about telling her the truth that he'd never voluntarily told anyone outside his closest circle?

She went first. "My partner is standing right over there." She pointed toward the corner. "He was the one who followed you. That's why you never noticed him."

If he had been a normal person, with no crazy, psychic experiences of his own, he might have assumed she was loco, gotten up, and walked out, writing her off for good.

But he wasn't a normal person.

Nothing about his life had been normal since the day he'd come home from school to his parents' murders and entered the world of the violently dead.

He believed her. It was crazy, but he fucking believed her.

"I wasn't lying when I said I don't see ghosts," he admitted. "What I see are sort of instant replays of violent deaths."

Her brow furrowed. "Replays?"

"Like...movies of the moment of death playing over and over again. Not an actual ghost." He assumed, if he indeed accepted that she really did see a ghost, that whatever spirit or entity had once resided in the dead, was long gone by the time he stumbled across the death scenes. At least, Jesus, he _hoped_ so. "Oh my God," he muttered.

She somehow immediately understood what he was thinking. "No, you're absolutely correct. I should have believed Morgan when he told me there is no ghost in that alley. Angie's not there. Nor was the victim of the drive-by, or any of the others you've stopped to pray for at the site of a violent death."

She looked at the corner. Again. "Fine, you were right all along."

A pause.

"Smart-ass."

Derek flung himself back in his chair, wondering how he could be witnessing this. She was actually talking to a _ghost_.

But was that really so different or bizarre than what he could see right over her shoulder out that window?

"I might not be able to help you get any evidence," he said, drawing out each word. "Nothing that could help you prove it." Taking a deep breath, making a decision that he suspected he could either be eternally glad of, or regret until the end of his days, he went on. "But I can probably tell you where she fell from."

Julie sucked in an audible breath. "Really?"

He nodded. "But don't get your hopes up. That's not evidence."

"No. But it's a start. Something to go on. It will tell me whether I'm on the right track or I completely misread the situation."

"That really matters to you, doesn't it?"

"It really does. If someone threw her out of her office window, that will be Extrasensory Agents very first case to investigate."

"Extra...are you telling me this business of yours is a private investigation firm with, what, ghosts?"

"Yes."

She didn't go on, didn't add a thing, leaving Derek to evaluate the possibilities.

They were, he soon realized, numerous.

If Julia saw ghosts...and Derek saw imprints...what else might others out there see and understand about strange deaths? And who would be in a better position to investigate them?

"It's crazy. But it just might work."

She jerked her head toward the vacant corner. "We're counting on it. So, want to help?"

Derek breathed deeply, his thoughts spinning, his entire body feeling off balance.

Then, something lifted in him. Something dark. Something he'd tried to put weights on as a child, tried to ignore, tried to move past and forget. This ability that had haunted him, seemed to torment him everywhere he went, might suddenly have meaning. Purpose.

The only time Derek had ever used it to help solve a murder was with his own parents. He'd been just a kid, and his grief and rage had made it difficult to see and appreciate what he had helped do once their case had been solved. He'd never even tried it again, merely moving through his life, trying to ignore what he too-often saw. Fighting the psychological ramifications every step of the way, knowing his mind might crack if welcomed-in the experiences.

Now, though...welcoming them in might actually make a difference in this world.

Derek didn't speak. He pushed his chair back and slowly rose to his feet.

Julia watched, silent, wide-eyed.

He walked past her. Around the table and her chair. Toward the back entrance of the bar. The one that was probably used only for deliveries. The one that said Employees Only.

He ignored the sign, turned the knob and pushed open the door.

The late afternoon sun was close to setting, but the day's heat had been trapped in the alley. The air was rank from the nearby dumpsters. Long shadows crossed the cracked and potholed blacktop.

He stepped onto it. Looked up. Waited.

Feeling Julia move beside him, he ignored her and held his breath.

And then _she_ came.

Angie appeared high in the sky above them, her body as visible to him as the moment she'd actually hit the air. Not misty, not ghostly, she was solid and real, exploding into the air and plunging. Plunging and twisting. Twisting and turning. Turning and screaming.

It took forever and a few seconds. The woman landed twenty feet away from where he stood. She died on impact. A blessing.

He stood in silence, taking in what he'd seen. Derek knew he was taking in much more, though. He was about to accept things like commitment and responsibility. A commitment to getting justice. A responsibility to the dead.

Finally, for the first time in his adult life, he was ready for it.

"She didn't fall from the hotel," he murmured, knowing Julia hung on his every word. "And she didn't jump. Judging by the violent way she flew out that window, somebody shoved or threw her...from that window on the top floor of the Jakes building."

Julia had been right. They now knew the truth. Now they just had to prove it and get justice for Angie Franklin.

And perhaps all the others who had been waiting a long time for justice, too.

"You're in," Julia said. It wasn't a question.

Derek didn't even hesitate.

"I'm in.

* * *

## OLIVIA WAINWRIGHT

An Extrasensory Agents Short Story

Olivia Wainwright had never met Virginia Stauton. Never laid eyes on her, never interacted with her at all before today. Considering the elderly Mrs. Stauton was laid out in a dark mahogany coffin, her hands clasped over the lacy front of her rose-patterned dress, Liv couldn't exactly expect an introduction now. And she definitely didn't want to shake hands.

"This was a really bad idea," she whispered, looking down on the peaceful-looking face of the deceased, whose pink cheeks, rosy lips and bluish-tinged hair made her appear as if she were merely sleeping. " _Really_ bad."

Another woman's hand gripped her arm. "Please, Liv. Do this for me?"

Olivia glanced out of the corner of her eye at Grace Stauton, the grieving, black-clothed granddaughter, and Virginia's only living blood relative. Being the heir to the Stauton fortune didn't appear to have changed Grace, who had been a close friend in middle school. That had been more than a decade ago, when Liv had been young and normal, not the poor-little-rich-girl kidnapping victim she was known as now.

Well, she supposed that was better than being known as a freaky-body-toucher, or a murder-obsessed weirdo. She'd much rather keep it that way, Grace's request for a favor notwithstanding. It was only for the sake of that old friendship that she'd agreed to come to this morning's service.

Just to set the record straight—she didn't like touching dead bodies. In fact, she loathed it probably more than anyone else on the planet, given her unique abilities. And second, she most definitely wasn't obsessed with death.

Especially considering she'd once been a murder victim herself.

"Will you at least try?" Grace asked. "I know I don't deserve any favors from you, but I'm desperate. I loved my Nana so much, and I need to know what happened to her."

It was the obvious love Grace had felt for her grandmother—not the old friendship—that made it difficult to turn down the other woman's request.

Grace and Liv had lost touch long ago, when Liv had turned into an outcast while finishing up her freshman year of high school here in Savannah. Unlike some, Grace had never been cruel. Nor, however, had she wanted to risk stepping outside the popular crowd to hang out with someone regularly called Dead Girl Walking. Once Olivia's mom had decided to move Liv and her sister to Tucson, she'd lost touch with Grace and everyone else. Until yesterday, when her phone had rung, and a crying woman had asked for her help. She still didn't know exactly how Grace had learned what Olivia could do, though she had her suspicions.

"Grace," she replied, her tone gentle as she noted the moisture in the pretty brunette's eyes, "your grandmother was seventy-two years old, and you told me yourself that she'd had a heart attack in her sixties."

"That was before she stopped smoking! Since then she's been healthy as a horse."

"Okay, but it's certainly possible that she had another heart attack and died in her sleep."

"But she'd gotten a clean bill of health from her doctor three months ago." Grace's mouth tightened and she glanced past Olivia, toward a small crowd of mourners in the far back corner of the elegantly decorated funeral home parlor in which the viewing was being held. "Look, I know you might be right. But is it so wrong to want to be sure?"

"I suppose it isn't."

"And we're running out of time."

That was true. This afternoon, the casket would be closed permanently, and moved to a local church for this evening's funeral service. If she was ever going to do this, it had to be within the next half-hour. In a room full of witnesses.

"Oh, God," Liv muttered, "this is crazy."

"Look, think about it, okay? If she'd been lying in that bed beside my grandfather, yes, I'd agree it was perfectly normal for her to have simply had a heart attack in her sleep. I would have been just as heartbroken, as would Papa. But _that_ man?"

A laugh came from the back of the room. This widower, Anthony Carter, was _not_ Grace's grandfather. As soon as Olivia had met him during the family visitation last night, she'd felt the need to wash her hands. He was downright sleazy, with his gaudy rings, his too-white smile, and the way he'd crowded in close while they'd talked.

The guy was also half his late wife's age.

They'd married six months ago, after a whirlwind courtship that had shocked Grace and titillated Savannah's old-money, high-society crowd, who'd whispered about the dowager and the gigolo.

"Okay. I'll admit it's suspicious. But come on, murder? What would he have to gain by that? Your family money is all entailed to you, isn't it? Wouldn't it make more sense for him to continue to live like he was? I mean, from the sound of it, he played the playboy husband role like he invented it."

Fancy sports cars—check. A yacht—check. Membership at every exclusive club—check. New wardrobe—check. Life in one of Savannah's finest old mansions—check.

Young mistress?

Well, there _was_ the twentyish redhead who'd been hovering by the grieving widower's side last night and all of this morning. Her dress was black, conceding to tradition, but was also skin tight and low-cut enough to be more appropriate at a rave than a funeral. So, Olivia would have to check that box, too.

"The family money is mine," Grace said. "Which I know irritates him to no end. But you know, Papa's own fortune went to Nana when he died. It was seven million when he passed away four years ago."

Olivia licked her lips, trying to be delicate. But how could one be when talking about money and inheritances? "Umm...do you know who her beneficiary is?"

Grace took no offense at the nosy question, obviously realizing Olivia needed to be convinced to go through with this favor. "It was mostly going to charity. Nana knew I was set for life with her family's trust, so she intended to leave most of Papa's money to education initiatives. I even helped her pick them out when she drew up her will after he died."

"Wouldn't Carter have had to sign a pre-nup?"

"He swept her off her feet so fast, even if she did ask for one, I'm sure he talked her out of it." She slid her hand against the smooth edge of the casket, her voice dropping. "I wasn't here to protect her. If I hadn't been finishing school in New York at the time, I would have been able to talk her out of the whole thing. She was just so lonely."

That was understandable. Olivia would never forget how much her own grandmother had missed her husband, who had predeceased her by a year.

Memories of her grandmother, who'd died when Olivia was sixteen, were what had driven her to at least consider Grace's request. Because it was when she'd touched her father's mother's body that she'd experienced her first...well, she hadn't known what to call it. Shared death experience? Whatever the name, and despite the shock, it had been kind of lovely, actually. Because Grandmother Wainwright _had_ died peacefully in her bed, gazing upon pictures of her loved ones.

Of course, on the two occasions when she'd touched human remains since—both times because her pushy cousin, Richard, had asked her to—she'd realized the gift of seeing her grandmother's peaceful final moments was far outweighed by the horror of murder.

"I would bet every penny I have that he talked her into changing her will in his favor, and then he killed her," Grace said, her voice choked with tears.

Olivia hated to think of the sweet-looking old woman being betrayed so horrifically, but she had to admit, Grace was winning her over. People had murdered for a whole lot less than seven million dollars.

"And the redhead?" she asked, glancing back at the widower, whose arm was now linked with the sexy young woman's.

Grace sneered. "That's supposedly his _niece_ , Terry. Niece my ass."

Niece Olivia's ass, too.

"Tell me one more thing," she said, stepping closer. "How did you find out about me? About what I can do?" Liv hated to think she was the subject of gossip. Been there, done that, and she hoped never to experience it again.

Grace's cheeks pinkened and she licked her lips. "Um...well, from Nana."

That hadn't been the answer she'd expected. Frankly, she'd thought her Senator cousin might be pimping her out for political favors.

"She, uh...was at your grandmother's funeral. She saw what happened—what you did, and what you said when you came to."

Liv frowned. "I don't think I said enough for anybody to realize what had happened."

"You didn't." Grace nibbled her lip. "Nana also was friends with somebody who knows your cousin and..."

"My cousin. Of course." _Damn you, Richard._

"Actually, it was his wife."

Tess? That stone-heart didn't even believe Olivia had any special abilities.

"And I don't think she was bragging about you."

"No, of course, she wouldn't. She was probably telling horror stories about the insane skeleton in the family closet."

Grace flushed. "Well, I thought it sounded at least possible, and I'm desperate, which is why I called you."

Liv thought it over for a moment longer. The fact that her bitchy cousin-in-law was whispering about her made her want to crawl in a hole. But another part, who was damned tired of being that skeleton hanging in the closet, thought she might like to see Tess's face if she heard that Olivia really did have some kind of psychic abilities.

"They're all over there talking." Grace sniffed. "Laughing. Nobody's nearby. Please Liv!"

Olivia looked over at the widower, his oh-so-obvious girlfriend, and the hangers-on who were already sycophant'ing their way around that future seven mill.

Then she looked at the sweet little old southern lady in the casket, with her flowered dress and her pretty hands.

And she knew she had to find out the truth, not just for Grace, but for justice.

For Virginia Stauton.

"Keep them away," she whispered. "I'll need a little more than two minutes."

Grace merely nodded, stepping between Olivia and the others still in the room. Not watching. Probably not _wanting_ to watch.

Olivia took a deep, calming breath, praying this experience would be just as peaceful and quiet as her own grandmother's had been. Not only because Grace would feel better, but because Olivia didn't want to experience another traumatic death. God, she would be happy if she never experienced it again.

Extending her hand into the casket, she took a breath, then gently reached for the dead woman's hand...and touched it.

" _What's happening?"_

A whisper in the darkness. An old woman's querulous voice.

Bed covers shifted as she sat up, peering into the shadows of a nearly-black bedroom. Flashes of lightning provided the only illumination, and the rumble of thunder in the distance said the rain was still far off.

What woke you up? The thunder? Or a creak on the stair, a step in the hall?

The old heart quivered, skipped and jumped, the obvious arrhythmia making her reach for her chest and clutch at it.

Olivia feels the tremors and lifts her own hand, the fear jumping between the old woman's body into hers. _A heart attack. Please, let it be a heart attack._

A sound intruded, low and soft. Someone was breathing. Someone else was in the room.

Lurking. Watching her.

"Anthony dearest? Is...is that you?" Virginia sat up straighter. The covers fell into her lap. "Please say something."

Just breathing. Choppy. Deep.

"Anthony, I know it's you. Tell me you forgive me and that you've come home for good!"

The door creaked as it opened further—all the way, pushed by human hand, not by breeze or draft. She leaned over, narrowing her eyes, then reaching for the eyeglasses on the bedside table. She put them on. And saw not one, but two shadows.

"What are you waiting for? Do it," a voice whispered. Female. Hard.

"Who's there?" Virginia's voice rose both in volume and in pitch. "Who is it? If you're looking for money, I don't have any in the house!"

The first form moved closer, separating itself from shadow. Another flash of lightning.

Anthony's face appeared. His white smile was not at all in evidence. In fact, he looked a little pale, and utterly grim.

"What's going on?" she asked, confusion obvious in her tone. "Who is that with you?"

"Ginny, lay back down my dear, everything is fine."

"Why don't you turn on a light?" The voice was now shaky, growing more frightened.

"Uh...I...I..."

"Oh fer Chrissakes!" a hard-toned woman said. "I'll fucking do it."

She stomped over, the bed practically shaking as she leapt onto it. Virginia cowered, suddenly gasping in pain as the stranger's long, sharp nails dug into her scalp so she could pull her head down onto the pillow. Her heart was a freight train, her stomach churning in terror.

Thirty-six hours later, Olivia feels the same urge to vomit, the same painful breathlessness, the same seizing in her chest—hard now, and excruciating, sending pain down her body.

Virginia Stauton was literally being frightened to death.

Olivia Wainwright shared her fear but tried to control it.

A woman's face appeared in her vision. Pretty and coarse and cold. Red hair.

The _niece_. Terry.

A pillow from the old woman's own bed slowly descended toward her face.

_Oh, God. Oh, no, please_. It is Olivia's thought. But she feels sure Virginia had the same ones when she realized two monsters had come in the night to do murder.

_No breath_. The soft pillow was a relentless barricade between her mouth and life-giving oxygen. She tried to breathe through it, succeeding only in drawing in a feather, which lodged in the back of her throat, adding an itchy pain to the suffocation. The pressure in her chest was now much worse, her heart feeling like a locked muscle, a Charley Horse inside her. The agony of not breathing—the body's demand for air—hit her hard and she struggled, trying to twist her head back and forth.

"Help me, damn it. She's stronger than she looked."

Another person landed on the bed. Another set of hands joined the first pair on the pillow. The loving husband has finally worked up his nerve to follow through on the plan he'd obviously made with his lover.

They pressed. Pressed. Pressed.

Her heart stopped. She felt its final thud. She jerked. Her hands flailed.

A moment of stillness. Then all went black.

Gasping, horrified by the heartless murder of a helpless, elderly woman, Olivia stumbled back from the casket. She felt moisture on her cheeks and knew tears were pouring out of her eyes. Her whole body was shaking, trembling. She clutched at her chest, feeling that phantom heart attack she had just experienced, and drew in deep breaths, a victim of that phantom suffocation.

"Oh my God, Olivia, are you all right?" Grace had swung around and caught her before she could collapse.

"Fine...I'm fine," she whispered, trying to stay steady as Grace helped her over to the nearest chair, a few feet away. She stumbled down onto it. "At least, I _will_ be fine."

They had drawn attention. The murderous groom, his equally murderous paramour, and their friends, were staring. And a very pretty, young, dark-haired woman wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, had entered the room. She cast cautious, curious glances between the group and Olivia and Grace. But she said nothing, not to any of the mourners, and began to walk up the aisle toward the casket.

Grace dropped to her knees in front of Olivia, mindless of her black, designer dress. She clutched Olivia's ice-cold hands and leaned close. "What is it? What did you see?"

A long shudder wracked Olivia's body. She could barely control her shaking as she imagined her heart was still clenching, seizing, stopping. But knowing none of that was true, she whispered, "You need to call the police."

All the blood fell out of Grace's face. She went so white her skin was indistinguishable from the satin lining her grandmother's casket. "You mean..."

"Convince them to stop the burial and do an autopsy."

"So, I was right? My Nana was murdered?" Grace asked, each word sounding forced out of a tight mouth.

Olivia slowly nodded, not having the energy to say more right now. She needed to lie down, needed to recover from this before she could tell Grace everything. Before she could share the horror of it with the old woman's only living relative. Not that she could go into that here, whether she was feeling up to it or not. They needed to be alone when Grace learned the truth.

"I've got to...a couch...something...."

"Of course."

Grace launched up, her expression carefully blank, though her eyes were bright with tears. Good. She was playing it cool, not letting on that anything had changed, although Olivia knew Grace's life would never be the same again. Once violent crime—murder—entered your world, there was no way to ever escape it. And since that evil duo had murdered once, they might very well do it again to cover their crime and hold onto their blood money. So, she and Grace had to remain calm until they could contact the authorities.

"Just hold it together and I'll get you out of here."

"Then we'll talk. Call the police." Olivia only hoped the authorities were convinced by whatever story Grace concocted about why she wanted the burial stalled.

Remembering the pain of Terry-the-not-a-niece's nails just above her hairline— _Virginia's hairline_ —Olivia suddenly realized she'd found an opening for Grace to pursue. She could report the suspicious scratches. In a case like this, with so much money involved and a much younger, cheating husband, who was probably about to inherit millions, the cops would certainly be curious about those claw marks under the hair. It was circumstantial, yes, but those clues, combined with the feather that had lodged in Virginia's throat when she was being smothered by the pillow, should be enough to get the case reclassified as a murder.

God, she prayed it would. Because Virginia Stauton's final minutes had been beyond horrible. That anyone would do such a thing to a lonely old woman asleep in her bed was unthinkable. She deserved justice.

"Come on," Grace said, taking Liv by the elbow and pulling her up. She slipped an arm around her waist and steered her to the aisle between the folding chairs.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" the dark-haired woman at the casket asked. Her eyes were glued to Olivia. "Is she okay?"

"She'll be fine," Grace said. "I'm just going to take her out of here."

The brunette nodded, but continued to watch them, not turning back to the body. Olivia's nervousness leapt. Just how much had the woman seen? The others in the back corner were too busy mentally spending Anthony Carter's probable millions, but this stranger might have come in and watched as Olivia practically launched back from the body, shaking and sobbing.

She'll think I'm mourning the death.

Hopefully.

In any case, there was nothing she could do about it now. Not much she could do about anything, including telling Grace the details of her grandmother's murder. She needed five minutes to remember how to breathe again, to remind her heart to keep beating.

Exiting the viewing room, they walked down a hallway, passing the restrooms, and entered a small parlor in the back of the building. "The funeral director said the family is free to use this room," Grace said, still strangely calm as she led Olivia to an uncomfortable-looking, red-velvet covered, Victorian couch.

"Thank you."

"No. Thank _you_ , Olivia."

Olivia sank down on the couch gratefully and reclined, not caring that her head lay on a wooden armrest. "Just give me a few minutes and I'll tell you everything," she whispered, weariness weighing her down. "Then we'll figure out what to do."

Grace didn't respond. Instead, Olivia heard a click as the door closed. The other woman had left quickly. For a second, Olivia considered going after her, worried Grace's grief and rage might make her do something foolish, like confront Anthony before they could get the police involved. But honestly, she didn't even have the strength to stand up.

"And she wouldn't," she murmured, closing her eyes. "No way."

A few moments later, however, when she heard yelling—a scream of rage—coming from the viewing room, she realized she could be wrong.

"Oh my God, Grace, no!" she said, quickly sitting up, ignoring the spinning in her head and the nausea in her gut. She felt better, but wasn't 100%. Still, she couldn't just stay here. She had to follow the noise and see what was going on. Because if Grace had accused Anthony, the man could bolt with his accomplice—the red-haired witch in the other room, who Grace didn't even know was involved yet.

Standing up, she took one step toward the closed door, then paused as the floor practically lurched beneath her feet. Before she could collect herself enough to continue, however, the door was pushed open and someone stepped inside. She saw dark stockings, the hem of a black dress. "Grace, tell me you didn't confront the two of them. We have to call the police first!"

The woman entered the room completely. It wasn't Grace.

Terry's eyes narrowed as she glared at Olivia. Saying nothing, she pushed the door closed behind her, and reached back to lock the knob.

"I was just feeling sick and was lying down," Olivia mumbled, looking one way, and then the other, searching for another exit. There was none, just a narrow window that looked out onto the porch wrapping around the old Victorian mansion.

"Who the hell are you?" the redhead asked, her eyes narrowed.

Olivia licked her lips, knowing she might be in real trouble here. She had no weapon, of course. She was still weak from her ordeal, still breathless, shaky. And in her mind—in her nearest memories—she'd just been murdered by this evil woman.

She pulled her thoughts into order. _Think. Talk your way out of this_. "I'm just an old school friend of Grace's."

"Bullshit," the woman snapped, stalking closer. "Are you a cop? A fucking private detective? Did that old bitch's granddaughter hire you?"

Olivia took a step back, hitting the couch. Her mind filled with images of this woman's evil eyes looking down at her, of her powerful hands lifting a pillow and pressing it over her nose and mouth. Never before had she come face-to-face with the perpetrator of a murder she'd experienced. Certainly not within moments of it happening. It was surreal, frightening. Terrifying.

"I, uh, don't know what you're talking about."

"I saw you and Grace whispering; I know you were up to something. She dragged you in here so you could tell her what you know. Now she's out there screaming in front of everyone that Anthony killed the old bat." Terry dropped one hand into her purse. "What _else_ do you know? What did you tell her? Does she know about me?"

"No," Olivia said before she could think better of it. Realizing she'd just given Terry another reason to try to get her out of the picture, she clarified. "I mean, no, I didn't tell her anything. I honestly have no idea what you're talking about. I was just saddened about Mrs. Stauton, who I remember being so nice." She'd never met the woman, but details made the lie. "When I started to cry, Grace helped me back here. That's all."

Terry stared into her face. Olivia held her breath, praying her lie would be believed. Unfortunately, she couldn't look into those green eyes for more than a few seconds— _killer, you killed her, you killed us_ —before she had to avert her gaze.

That was all it took.

"You're lying."

The redhead lifted her hand from her purse. There was a gun in it.

Olivia gasped, turning to try to dive behind the couch. But before she went anywhere, something pounded in the hallway. The door crashed open, knocking into the murderess, who stumbled over a chair and fell to her knees, causing her to drop the gun.

"Get down!" the intruder barked. It was the brunette. The one who'd entered late, and stood by the casket alone.

But she was up against a desperate killer who wasn't going to just lie there and be arrested. Anthony Carter's mistress—his partner in crime—launched to her feet, glancing frantically around, probably looking for her weapon.

Olivia could see it beneath an antique writing desk. It was just as close to her as it was to Terry. She was about to dive for it, praying she'd be faster than the desperate criminal, when said criminal launched herself at the woman who'd kicked the door open.

The two staggered against the broken door frame, punches flying. Terry clawed and kicked, but was absolutely no match for the woman in the leather jacket. The brunette, with a few easy moves, kneed Terry to the floor, dropping down to sit right on her back. "Stay still, you murderous bitch, or I'll knock out more of your teeth."

Terry stayed still. Olivia and the stranger locked stares.

"How did you..."

"My partner overheard what you said to Grace. Your friend is out there doing her best to rip the throat out of the man who killed her grandmother. But I noticed _this_ one was acting very suspiciously—guiltily—and I kept my eyes on her. When she slipped away, I followed and saw her coming in here, then overheard your conversation."

Terry bucked, and the brunette thwacked her on the head, hard. "I said stay still."

"You broke my nose!"

"Don't worry, you'll still look good when you get to prison. I'm sure all those other inmates are gonna really like having you around. Especially when they find out you murdered a helpless old lady." To Liv, she said, "Get me that lamp, would you Olivia? I'll tie her up with the cord."

Olivia moved to do as asked, but then paused. "How do you know my name?"

"The lamp?"

Getting it, she handed it over. "Do I know you?"

"Thanks. And no, you don't. I know your name because you're the reason I'm here. I've been watching you."

" _What_?"

"I know a lot about you, Olivia Wainwright," the other woman said as she used the cord to tie the redhead's hands and legs together, curling her into a backbend that had to be terribly painful.

"How could you possibly know anything about me? And who _are_ you?"

The brunette stood up, placing a booted foot on the small of Terry's back, the pointed heel digging in the tiniest bit. "I'm Julia Harrington. I recently started my own detective agency in town, and..."

Everything began to make sense. "And you were looking into Mrs. Stauton's death? Did Grace ask you to?"

"No, like I said, I was watching _you_. From what I've seen here today, and at that Berkley funeral you went to three months ago, you're just as talented as I've heard you are."

The Berkley funeral. Richard, had asked her to attend...and to use her talents on the body. Berkley was a political ally of her senator cousin, and he'd wanted to know if his death had involved foul play.

"I wondered when you were going to hit another funeral," Julia added.

Olivia tried to make sense of the words. Why would a private detective be watching her—following her? And what talent was she talking about?

"I think I know how it works, but I'd love to hear why. When did it start? After you were kidnapped, I'd bet."

The truth suddenly hit her. "You can't know..."

"But I do." Shrugging, Julia added, "Look, I know it's a lot to take in, and we'll need to talk after all this—" she gestured toward the woman on the floor, "—is taken care of.

Olivia, whose strength was coming back, shook her head firmly. "I don't know who you are, or what you want, but you need to leave me alone."

Terry wriggled. That pointy heel dug in a teensy bit deeper. And Olivia realized something—aside from the fact that this stranger was freaking her out, she kind of liked her already. She was blunt, brash, strong and ballsy...and just a little bit vindictive to those who deserved it. Olivia couldn't deny she was at least intrigued.

"Just give me an hour," Julia said, as if sensing she was letting down her guard. "Let's get this hag and her nutless man-child partner in custody, and then go out for a cup of coffee. I'm really impressed by your special _ability_ , and I think you might be a great fit to work with us."

Olivia's jaw actually fell open. "You're offering me a...a job?"

"On a trial basis. We'll see if you like it." She cleared her throat. "You might not—like it, I mean. My company is called Extrasensory Agents."

That was an unusual name for a detective agency. Unusual, but interesting.

The wheels and cogs were turning in Liv's brain. Julia had said she admired Olivia's special _ability_. What else could she have meant but Liv's connection with the dead? Somehow, she knew what Liv could do. She liked it so much she wanted to hire her to work with her oddly-named detective agency.

Oddly-named.

"Oh, God," she whispered. "You run a..."

"Yeah. My partner and I started the agency last year. So far, we only have one other _especially_ talented person working with us. His name's Derek. You'll like him." She sighed. "Every woman ever born likes Derek."

"You say he's...especially talented?"

"Yeah. He's got some unique qualities that really come in handy for crime-solving."

Julia Harrington was choosing her words carefully, apparently trying to keep Terry-the-murdering-non-niece from figuring out what they were talking about. If Olivia's suspicions were correct, what they were talking about was some kind of psychic detective agency. She could hardly wrap her mind around it, and mentally backed up to something Julia had said earlier.

"What about your partner? You said he—she?—overheard my conversation with Grace. I didn't see anyone else who could have. Everybody was on the other side of the room, and you were only halfway up the aisle when I told her Mrs. Stauton had been murdered. Is he, um, especially talented, too?"

"Oh, you wouldn't have seen him," Julia said with a bright smile. Then she continued...and proceeded to blow Olivia's theory that she was trying to be discreet right out of the water. "You see, my partner, Morgan? He's a ghost."

Olivia froze in shock. Terry snickered. Julia's heel dug in.

The world seemed to stop spinning for a second as Olivia adjusted herself to the possibility that there were innumerable things she hadn't seen, hadn't expected, hadn't known about. Like ghosts.

Was it really possible? Seven years ago, on the day she'd touched her grandmother in her casket and had her mind blown wide open with the connection she'd made, she'd have said no way. Now, though, having lived through her own crazy abilities—having danced in the doorway to the dead—she wasn't so sure.

The blare of approaching sirens interrupted her thoughts. Somebody had called the authorities. She wondered if Grace had killed her step-grandfather, or had only maimed him. Olivia just hoped that whatever she'd done didn't disrupt the case. Considering both Olivia and Julia could now testify that Terry had pulled a gun on her after hinting that she and Anthony had killed Mrs. Stauton, she didn't think it would. Once the cops started looking, they'd find the other evidence—the scratches, the feather—and open a proper investigation.

"What do you say?" Julia asked, flashing a grin that was both charming and a little bit cocky. Having been haunted by awful memory for a lot of the past decade, and needing therapy to deal with what had happened to her as a kid, Olivia admired that. She, herself, was quiet, deliberate, thoughtful, and, she had to admit, maybe a bit scared of life. Of living.

This woman, though? Oh, she wasn't a bit afraid of anything.

Not even her ghost of a partner.

"All right," she finally said with a cautious nod. "One hour. Then we'll see what happens next."

Olivia couldn't say for sure, but she suspected that whatever happened next was going to be something she'd never dreamed of. Maybe even something she'd never wanted.

But it might prove to be the most important thing that had ever happened to her.

* * *

## AIDAN MCCONNELL

An Extrasensory Agents Short Story

The missing woman's car was found on a steamy Friday afternoon, several miles from the donut shop where she'd been carjacked the previous weekend. As the investigative team moved in, Aidan McConnell, who'd provided the tip that had led the authorities to this deserted, backwoods spot, had only one burning question: Was she inside?

I guess we're all about to find out.

Staying far out of the action, he watched the scene unfold from a clearing beside a thick tangle of moss-laden, live oak trees. Several members of the Savannah P.D. advanced, encircling the banged-up, dusty vehicle, which stood about fifty yards deeper in the woods. Even from here, a strong sense of foreboding—the unmistakable aura of death—had him on alert. An unnatural silence descended, as if the very birds in the air had been hushed by the darkness of this place, the tension of this moment.

An officer popped the trunk. He stiffened, staggered back. A few others leaned forward to peer inside. And one, a young-looking, uniformed street cop, turned and puked on the ground near the rear passenger side tire.

Aidan's breath escaped in a whoosh. Which was when he realized he'd been holding it.

_Confirmation_. It wasn't just the car. They'd found the victim, too.

Well, they'd found her body, anyway. The rest of her—the faithful daughter, the doting sister, the good-natured friend, whatever had made twenty-year old Maggie Wilshire unique and special and human—was long gone. Now she was just an empty vessel, a derelict ship devoid of its only passenger.

She'd been far too young to end up like this, a young woman with her life spread out before her, ready to be savored. Lived.

Now all of that was gone. Maggie Wilshire was now a name on a crime report, another statistic, all the possibilities of her life gone forever.

The scene remained frozen for a long moment, a necessary pause for the disappointment, not to mention the horror, to sink in. Then all the first responders burst into frenzied activity. One got on a radio, another began staking up a perimeter of bright yellow, too-cheerful-a-color crime scene tape, a third chewed-out the pale-faced rookie who'd gotten sick. And soon it was just another crime scene. The mystery of Maggie Wilshire's disappearance was solved, even if her murder investigation had only just begun.

What an ignominious ending to the week-long drama that had captured the attention of the entire city of Savannah. The media hadn't been tipped-off today; the police had kept this hush-hush. Other than Aidan, there were no other onlookers. A ramshackle ruin that had once sold boiled peanuts and bait to passing fishermen was the only structure within a half-mile. And the only residents of this muck-laden, swampy backwoods hell were the mosquitoes, palmetto bugs and perhaps a few lumbering gators.

The human predators who'd committed this crime were long gone.

Within minutes, another half-dozen official vehicles had ringed the site, along with twice that many officers of the law. Every once in a while, somebody—a tech, the patrolman who'd gotten sick, one of the detectives—would cast a suspicious look in his direction.

Aidan took no offense. He'd grown used to it.

He made no attempt to move closer; not that they would let him. He knew how cops thought. He was a prime suspect since he'd tipped off the location of the body, and they wanted to keep him far away. If he got too close, he could later claim evidence of his presence at the scene had been left there this morning, long after the crime. No way would the police want to give some defense attorney any wiggle room in the future.

Not that there was any evidence of his presence, of course. Until a short time ago, he'd never been here, never seen this place, other than in his mind. And he definitely hadn't killed poor Maggie Wilshire. He was just the guy who knew what had happened to the missing young woman, knew roughly where to find her. The one who had directed the authorities to this old abandoned rut of a road in some back woods not far off the Intracoastal Waterway.

All of which would make any cop worth a damn eye him with suspicion. Even though most knew him, some by reputation, some from his work on previous cases.

"So, how'd you know?"

Aidan barely glanced at the unmarked car that had just pulled up beside him to idle in the small clearing. A familiar detective sat behind the wheel.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," the other man said, his tone less skeptical than it had been this morning when Aidan had walked into a downtown precinct, claiming he had knowledge of the missing girl whose disappearance had dominated the local news all week.

Aidan finally met the other man's even stare, seeing interest beneath the natural belligerence worn like body armor around every cop he'd ever known. He could try to come up with some kind of technical explanation, or else a more mystical one.

Instead, however, he simply offered Detective Gabe Cooper the truth. "The Beach Boys."

Cooper lifted a skeptical brow. "So, Brian Wilson called you up and told you where to find her?"

Patient, Aidan explained. "The song _Fun, Fun, Fun_ kept playing in my head. Has been for the past two days. I couldn't shut it out. Could hardly hear anything else."

The detective shook his head, still not getting it. So Aidan nodded toward the crime scene . . . and the Candy Apple Red, 1967 T-bird sitting right in the middle of it. Maggie Wilshire's restored classic car had reportedly been a high school graduation gift from her parents. Now it was her tomb.

Understanding washed over the other man's face. "Daddy didn't take her T-bird away," he murmured, "and I seriously doubt her last day on this earth was fun."

No, it hadn't been. It had been horrific. Aidan knew that, he'd mentally tapped into the remnants of Maggie Wilshire's final hours of life. The tiny bit of sensory input he'd gotten had been enough to convince him she'd died in agony, and in terror.

"The song—the line about the car—was just the clue that helped me figure out who I'd been having other impressions about. The T-bird was mentioned in every news report."

Cooper slowly leaned back in his seat, nodding, though his expression remained stern. "These other impressions—they're the ones you mentioned at the station? The bullfrogs, extreme heat inside a small, confined space, the smell of boiled peanuts, the water?"

Though he nodded, Aidan didn't point out the deep croaks that had resumed to fill the silence, or the monstrous warmth of the day—he couldn't even imagine what it must have been like inside that trunk last Saturday when the temperature had topped more than one-hundred degrees in the shade. He also didn't have to mention how close they were to the river, or point to the old, closed-up peanut stand. Cooper knew all of that. He didn't understand it, but he knew.

"That all came first. I just didn't know why until the song."

To his credit, Cooper went with it. "Once it clicked, did you know she was . . . that we weren't going to find her alive?"

He'd hoped they would; but he couldn't lie. "I knew." Though he'd wanted one, there had been no miracle save this time. "But I was still hoping I was wrong."

"You and me both," the detective said, shaking his head in quiet disgust. "Everything we've learned about her so far says she was just a really nice person. She'd gone out to get her little brothers some donuts Saturday morning. And now . . . ."

Locked in the trunk of her own vehicle, the girl had likely succumbed to heat stroke before her kidnappers could sexually assault her the way they had intended to. Judging by the burning reek of bourbon Aidan experienced whenever he tried to focus on the perpetrators, the bastards had downed a bottle or two while they drove the stolen car all over the county on that blistering hot day. While they partied, the car's owner slowly broiled in the trunk. By that night, when the thugs had worked up their nerve and pulled into a secluded dirt road to have their fun, Maggie had already been dead.

He'd known that. Yet still, he'd hoped.

"We gotta catch these guys. Fast."

"You will."

"Is that your professional opinion?"

Nodding gravely, Aidan murmured, "I'll do anything I can to help."

Their stares met. The detective looked away first. Then, Cooper, who Aidan respected as a straight shooter and an honest cop in a city where nearly everyone had a little bit of larceny in his soul, ran the back of his hand across his sweaty face. "Gonna be a hot one."

August in Savannah was called sultry by the old-fashioned, upper-crust members of local society. In Aidan's opinion, however, it was hell's steam-room. The kind of thick Georgia day when it hurt to inhale air that smelled like a mildewed jock-strap. Hot didn't even come close.

"We'll need to talk to you back at the station later," Cooper added as he revved his car engine, preparing to leave again. "Come in around four."

It wasn't a request. "Fine."

"You willing to take a lie detector test?"

Aidan knew the detective didn't really suspect him, he just had to cross every T and dot every I. "Aren't I always?"

It was the same everywhere. Whenever he stepped in and got involved in a case, be it here in Savannah, where he lived, or somewhere else across the country, he always had to be cleared as a suspect himself. Didn't matter that he'd worked with various law enforcement agencies for years, that he'd trained as a cop, that he'd lectured on psychic phenomenon and written a few well-received books on the subject. He had to prove himself innocent every single time. If he didn't care so much about what he did, it almost wouldn't be worth the trouble.

It is.

Maggie Wilshire's parents would have answers—even if they were the worst ones. They would have their child's body to bury. That made what he did important. The possibility that his assistance could help the cops capture the killers before they could strike again made it utterly imperative.

"I guess you are," Cooper said. He took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled it. "The song, that was after all the other stuff. The stuff you heard, felt?"

Aidan nodded.

"You, what, shared everything with her?"

Cooper sounded more bothered than skeptical, as if he wasn't as much disbelieving as pitying.

Aidan didn't need anyone's pity. He had long come to terms with what his strange ability meant, what it caused him and what it cost him. Maggie, and so many victims like her, were the ones who were to be pitied. "Not everything."

"You mentioned feeling hot, boiling like a crab in a bucket. Did she...."

"Do you really have to ask?"

Cooper muttered a curse and slammed the palm of his hand against the steering wheel in visible frustration and anger.

Aidan shared his rage. He hadn't experienced one percent of what Maggie had gone through, living just vague impressions, momentary sensations, but it was enough to truly grasp how horrible her death had been. It filled Aidan with an almost inexplicable guilt, as if he should have been able to take on more of what she'd suffered, relieved her of the burden. Instead, all he could do—all it seemed he could _ever_ do—was use his ability to help solve her murder long after it had been committed.

"And you're saying it's always like this? Not that I believe it, mind you, but that's what you're tellin' me?"

Aidan merely shrugged, not necessarily needing to be entirely believed. Not as long as he was _listened_ to.

"You ever think about moving to a place where there's less crime?" asked Cooper. "Savannah ain't exactly the city of brotherly love."

"Neither is Philadelphia."

"Touché," the cop said. "But I mean, if what you say is true, I think I might have to go live on a deserted island or something."

Aidan managed a shallow laugh. "You mean to get away from it all? Sorry, it doesn't work that way. Sometimes I experience connections to victims from other time zones."

Cooper's mouth dropped open. Aidan imagined all of this psychic stuff was a little too-much-too-soon for a hardened cop who'd probably stopped believing in Santa by age seven and had never bought into the Tooth Fairy stuff at all.

Before the detective could reply, he turned his head to look back at another car that was approaching along the dusty, weed-choked, gravel road. "Oh, perfect."

Aidan followed the stare, seeing a bright yellow Jeep Wrangler. Not a police vehicle, obviously. When it drew closer, he made out an attractive, dark-haired woman behind the wheel. She looked familiar for some reason, though he couldn't place her at first.

"Who's that?" he asked.

"You don't know her?"

"I think I've seen her, but I don't recall where."

"Thought you woo-woo types all stuck together."

Woo-woo types. Nice. "I'm afraid there's no local chapter of the Psychics-R-Us union here in Georgia."

Cooper's mouth quirked, then he explained, "Her name's Julia Harrington. Maggie's family hired her to help with the case—against my advice, I might add."

"What a surprise," Aidan mumbled under his breath.

"She owns a paranormal detective agency. I can't remember the name." The hard-boiled detective shook his head and rolled his eyes in disbelief, as if forgetting who he was talking to. "The only reason she hasn't been laughed of town already is because she wore the badge in Charleston and has a damn fine record of service."

Cooper might be correct in thinking those on the police force would sneer at a paranormal detective agency. But, as Aidan well knew, Savannah herself was pretty accepting of the strange and inexplicable. The city was ripe with secrets and mysticism; a more genteel, less bawdy version of New Orleans. It was one thing he liked best about his adopted hometown—far from the small Arkansas one in which he'd been born and raised. If living on a desert island wasn't enough to shield him from a barrage of psychic impressions from anywhere in the world, Savannah wasn't a bad substitute.

"Extrasensory Agents! That's it."

"I think I saw an article about that in the paper," Aidan admitted, though the article wasn't why the woman seemed familiar to him. He suddenly realized he'd seen her in person. In fact, if he wasn't mistaken, he'd swear he'd spotted this Julia Harrington at two other crime scenes in the past month, watching from a distance, as Aidan often did. On both occasions, he'd had the strangest feeling that she'd been just as interested in _him_ as she'd been in the cases. Not personally, but in a detached, assessing way.

The way she kept her stare focused on him as she pulled up beside his car, parked, and hopped down confirmed it.

"Ms. Harrington," Cooper said, sighing at the woman. "I really don't have time for this."

"I'm not here to talk to you, Detective," she said, brusque and focused.

Cooper's brow went up in surprise. "How did you know we found . . ."

The woman waved an unconcerned hand at him. "I just knew." Then she turned her full attention on Aidan. " _You_ found her, didn't you."

Though it hadn't been posed as a question, Aidan answered, anyway. "I had a few ideas. The authorities actually located the car."

"But you knew, somehow, where they should look. Something about a song?"

Aidan couldn't help jerking in surprise, and he noted that, in his car, Detective Cooper did the same. But, unlike Aidan, the other man obviously didn't _want_ to hear any more. He'd let his guard down for a few minutes and let himself accept a little of what Aidan had been saying. But he'd apparently had his fill of the weird and unexplainable for one day. Shaking his head, he mumbled, "Woo woo stuff," then slowly backed up and drove away.

Once they were alone, Aidan asked, "Who _are_ you?" asking about a lot more than her name.

"I'm Julia Harrington, and you're Aidan McConnell." She stuck out her hand, grasping his in a firm shake, then said, "Now, please answer the question—did you tell them where to find the car?"

Aidan nodded, more than a little surprised by the woman's pushy demeanor.

"Okay. You need to come with me."

He gawked. "Excuse me?"

"We've got a lead on the carjackers."

Though his heart thudded in his chest, Aidan cast a quick glance toward the dust rising from the gravel road behind the detective's departing vehicle. "Then shouldn't you report it?"

"No. They won't listen, not yet. Not to me." She frowned. "You've proved yourself once today. They might listen to you. But I don't have enough for you to take to them yet. The others are working on it; with your help we can put the last few pieces in place."

"The others?"

"Members of my team. Derek, Olivia . . . you'll meet them."

"Look, lady, I work alone."

"Not anymore."

It was like talking to a brick wall. She simply refused to hear anything she didn't want to. "You're not much of a psychic if you can't see that I'm strictly a solo act."

"I'm not a psychic," she informed him with a pointed stare. "I have no special abilities at all." Glancing at her military style watch and tapping her finger on it impatiently, she asked, "You do want to find out who killed this girl, don't you, and stop them from doing it again?"

"Of course."

"Then come on. They're ballsy—thinking they got away with it. And they're socking back another couple of bottles of Wild Turkey to work up the nerve to go back out on the prowl tonight."

Stunned, Aidan asked, "How do you know that, about the bourbon?"

"I just know," she told him. "Look, McConnell, we're wasting time. If you want to find out more—if you want to be in on this case—you'll just have to put on your nice-team-player uniform and come with me."

He wanted to know more, and something about the woman's demeanor told him she was onto something. Still, he had to clarify, "I'm not looking for a permanent job. I've got plenty of work to do."

"We'll call you a consultant. Part-time, on your terms. But please, let's _go_."

The dead woman in the trunk of the car fifty yards away deserved justice, and the city of Savannah deserved the peace of knowing two killers were behind bars.

There was more, though—the idea of working with someone so driven and determined interested him. He'd never really shared his strange abilities with anyone else, other than the great-grandmother who'd taught him how to use them. Trusting a complete stranger was not something that came easily to him. Yet, the temptation grew by the second. What might it be like to be around others who had similar abilities—and who used them to solve crimes, like he did?

Then he remembered what else she'd said. "But you just said you have no psychic abilities."

"That's what I said, all right." Then, as if knowing he was waffling, she turned on her heel and strode toward her Jeep. Like him coming along was all but given now.

"Then how . . ."

"My partner," she said, calling to him over her shoulder. "He's the one who sees and knows all."

His own curiosity, and her urgency, finally helped him make his decision. Without another word, he followed, hopping into the passenger seat of the Jeep. Aidan didn't know if he was making the right choice, but knew he'd regret it if he didn't at least explore what this woman was telling him.

She offered him a quick smile. "Glad to have you on board."

"For this case," he insisted.

"Understood." She jammed the key in the ignition. "Buckle up."

He did, sensing she was as impatient at driving as she was at explaining anything.

"So, this partner, he's the one who has a line on these carjackers?"

"Yep. Morgan Raines. My former partner on the Charleston P.D., and my silent partner in Extrasensory Agents."

"I'll look forward to talking to him," Aidan said, filing away the information so he could do a little more research on the woman and her partner, at a less critical moment.

"Didn't you catch the 'silent' part?" she asked. She didn't wait for him to answer, jerking the gearshift into reverse, gunning the engine, and spinning the four-wheeler around.

As they took off through the woods, Aidan had to raise his voice to be heard over the hot breeze rushing into the open-topped vehicle. "You mean, nobody knows he's involved in your business?"

"Not exactly," she told him. Julia flipped her sunglasses down off of the top of her head, covering her eyes as the Jeep burst out from beneath the covering trees into the blazing hot Georgia sunshine.

"Well, what do you mean?" he asked, wondering why she suddenly seemed evasive.

She didn't even look over, merely grinning slowly as she floored the gas pedal, as if reminding him that he was committed now, and had no way out.

"I mean, nobody else can talk to him. He's been dead for five years."

* * *

## MICK TANNER

An Extrasensory Agents Short Story

"Hey Tanner, think fast!"

Shaking water off his hands as he elbowed the control button of an air dryer, Mick eyed the woman who'd just burst into the men's room and made her strange request.

He did think fast.

He did not, however, catch the set of keys she tossed toward him.

They hit the tiled floor of the public bathroom with a clatter, landing inches from his feet. He spared a quick glance down at them, and then looked back at the stranger.

"Well, I'm certainly not going to touch them now," he murmured.

Audibly sighing, the woman shrugged her shoulders, as if admitting her key-toss had been a gamble, one she knew she might lose. The question was, did she know what she'd been betting on?

His mind raced as he tried to place her, knowing he'd never have forgotten this sexy, black-leather-clad brunette if they'd ever met. So, they definitely had not. Yet she knew his name, and had intentionally confronted him _here_ , in a rather unique spot.

Not taking his gaze off her, Mick moved his bare hands beneath the hard gush of air, keeping his scarred palms turned away from her line of sight. He liked the open drying machines, like this one, and avoided public bathrooms with those blade things you had to stick your hands down into. Too easy to brush against the side. He'd picked up a lot more than germs after making the mistake of trying one once.

The stranger waited, not trying to retrieve the keys lying on the floor between them, not apologizing and exiting, and not moving out of the way of the door. She was intentionally blocking anyone else from entering the third-floor men's room. He suspected if anyone did try to push his way in behind her, she'd put a hand on the unfortunate dude's face and shove him back out into the hallway.

Huh. He wouldn't mind seeing that, actually. Something told him he might enjoy seeing this woman in action.

The dryer stopped. His eyes still on hers, Mick reached up to grab one of the gloves he'd tossed over his shoulder and began pulling it on his hand. Then he repeated with the other side. Neither of them said a word as he tucked the fingers in tightly until every millimeter of his skin was covered by soft, supple leather.

Once he was completely secure, he asked, "Does that think fast routine usually work on the men you accost in public bathrooms?"

"Never tried it before," she said as she leaned against the doorjamb, crossing one booted foot in front of the other. She obviously wasn't going anywhere. "Thought it was worth a shot."

He offered her a cocky grin. "If you wanted to meet me, you could have just waited in the hall for me to come out and then and introduced yourself." Still trying to figure her out, he offered what he knew was an obnoxious once-over stare. "You probably could have had me at hello."

She wasn't insulted, and instead chuckled and came right back at him. "I suspect anyone could, given your reputation."

"Ow."

"Sorry, playboy, I'm not here for your handsome face and your hot bod."

"Well, thank you."

"Did you hear the _not_ part?"

"Doesn't mean a guy can't appreciate a compliment."

"Fair enough. You're not bad to look at, Tanner, but your _hands_ are the only part of you I'm interested in."

Mick's fingers clenched involuntarily, forming two hard leather fists. His pulse kicked up a notch, and his whole body went on alert. The response was instinctive after years of hard learning about what he had to do to protect himself.

But she couldn't know that. She had to be bluffing.

Right?

"Do I know you?"

"Not yet. But I know you."

"I somehow doubt that."

No one really knew him, other than his Uncle Shane. Otherwise, there wasn't a single person in the real world who understood who Mick Tanner was, what he could do, and what made him tick. Certainly not a complete stranger who'd accosted him in a bathroom.

"Mick Tanner, twenty-seven. Independently wealthy, though, for some reason I can't fathom, you keep an office in this building offering investment services to private clients."

He shrugged. "Congratulations on graduating from Google University with a degree in Internet Searching."

"Why do you work anyway?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Not people with your bank account balance."

"I'm good at investing."

"You don't need the money to live on," she pointed out.

"Need? Maybe not. But I like it as much as the next guy."

Besides, if his stock trading skills were worth anything, he didn't mind using them to help others who might not have stepped into a trust fund when they came of age. Not that he felt the need to explain that to this persistent stranger.

"Should I go on?"

He merely shrugged.

"You were orphaned at a young age."

Not too difficult to find out with another Google search, though he didn't appreciate anyone checking into his past that thoroughly. His parents' fiery death wasn't something he liked people knowing about. And it definitely wasn't something he talked about.

"Raised by an asshole grandfather."

His jaw tightened. Score another one for the leather-clad stranger.

"Sued to get away from the asshole and ended up living in a traveling carnival with your uncle."

"Juvenile court records are sealed," he snapped, though he immediately regretted letting her bait him.

"Sorry, I'm not trying to be shitty, just laying down my credentials."

"How does my private life relate to your credentials?"

"I guess I shouldn't have said credentials. Let's call it my...abilities."

Abilities. There was a loaded word, and one that had haunted Mick since childhood.

Of course, she couldn't be referring to abilities like _his_. She had just admitted to being pretty good at ferreting out information on the Internet. He, on the other hand, was a regular freak of nature. Their _abilities_ couldn't even compare. And even though she was a complete stranger, he was very glad of that...for _her_ sake.

He wouldn't wish his _abilities_ on anyone.

"And actually, they're not even _my_ abilities," she continued. "I'm good at organizing and my background as a cop made me a pretty good investigator. But finding out about you took somebody who can really fly under the radar."

"Was she waiting in one of the stalls in case I didn't go for the urinal?"

She snickered. "No, but the person I'm talking about would be less conspicuous standing in here." Her dark eyes shifted away. "If he could."

"So why not send him in to beard the lion?"

"Long story. My point is, I know a lot about you, and I thought it was time to introduce myself, especially given the situation."

"You haven't introduced yourself. And what situation?"

"Sorry," she said, straightening and walking over to him. "I'm Julia Harrington."

She extended a hand. He stared at it for a moment, and then slowly raised one of his own. Despite the gloves, Mick was still extremely careful about what—and who—he touched. So even a handshake wasn't something he gave easily. Something about the woman, though, her straightforwardness, her warm eyes, the way she'd called his grandfather an asshole, had pried a chink in his innate armor, and he found himself more interested in her by the second.

"Mick Tanner," he murmured, "though of course you already know that."

"I do. I've been studying you, as you've already realized."

"Any particular reason?"

"I really need your help."

"I do have an office down the hall, and my calendar's pretty open. Maybe you could have just scheduled an appointment and come to see me like a normal person?"

"I don't need investment advice. And I didn't want to meet you in your office, with you behind your desk, all gloved and prepared."

His hands clenched again.

"I wanted to try to catch you off guard."

He smirked. "Sorry, Miss Harrington. I never let myself be caught off guard. If you really knew a lot about me, you'd have known that."

"I figured it," she said with an unrepentant shrug. "Thought it was worth a shot anyway. I mean, it might have made this simpler."

She glanced down at the key ring lying on the floor between them. He followed her stare. Such a small, essentially harmless thing. The simple metal ring held what looked like a house key and a couple of smaller ones like those used in padlocks. A sparkly red ladybug keychain prettied it all up.

Huh. Why did he suddenly feel like the ladybug was a spider waiting to spring?

"Are you going to pick them up?" he asked.

She hesitated, and then slowly bent down, balancing on her spike-heeled boots, to scoop up the keys. They dangled off her index finger, the ladybug catching and reflecting fluorescent light from overhead.

"You might wanna put some disinfectant on those."

"I'd rather you touched them first."

"Not a chance, lady."

"Scared of some germs?"

"From the floor of a public bathroom? Uh, yeah."

"Touché. But that's not all that makes you say no, is it?"

She was right. "Whatever the reason, I like to keep my hands to myself. I don't go around touching other people's things, and I definitely don't get involved in other people's drama."

"Not even to save somebody's life?"

Mick gaped. "That's a bit extreme."

"No, it's really not." Her tone was tense. "I'm dead serious. There's a life at stake. Believe me, this wasn't how I wanted this to go down. I've been keeping tabs on you, and intended to do what you said, make an appointment, talk to you in a normal, rational way without this sword of Damocles descending." She shrugged. "But it is descending. And desperate times, as they say.... The point is, I'm asking for your help, Mr. Tanner. I don't know another soul on earth who can do what you can."

Jesus. She sounded like she knew secrets about him that nobody could possibly know.

"Do you really think I could save somebody's life?" he whispered.

She sighed audibly. "God, I hope so. I'm afraid it might be more like capturing a killer, but I can't help hoping I'm wrong."

His head still spinning, thoughts in a whirl, Mick tried to maintain his own mental fiction that this woman didn't know—couldn't know—anything about the real Mick Tanner or what he could do. He had to keep up the wall behind which he'd barricaded himself from people in the world who might use his ability as a weapon against him.

As his grandfather had done throughout most of his youth.

As his grandfather's hired spies had tried to do on occasion during his adulthood.

But she didn't seem like one of those types. She was too open and confrontational, for one thing. The moles his grandfather had tried to insert into Mick's life had been far more subtle. This woman, he sensed, was about as subtle as a crowbar to the head. And something told him she was in earnest.

That didn't mean he was going to let himself get dragged into a situation that was way out of his wheelhouse and perhaps cause even more harm than good. "Sounds like you took a wrong turn when you came into this building. The police station's a couple of blocks away."

"They're already trying, but they won't find her."

Her. A missing woman. One who might already be dead.

Who was she? Why was she missing? How much did this Julia Harrington know, and why did she think Mick could help?

More importantly: _Could_ he help?

Even as he cursed the curious thought that flashed through his mind, he answered his own question. Yes, he might be able to.

Mick had never really thought about it before, having considering his strange ability to be one he needed to hide and ignore now that he was no longer a sideshow act. In that life, when he was a teenager, what he could do wasn't considered that strange at all. People with their own unique qualities and talents tended to mind their own business. Once he'd reached adulthood, well, he wasn't the type to live in a carnival for the rest of his life. And his unique talent had never won him a lottery jackpot or gotten him a better table at his favorite restaurant. So, he'd chosen to live his life in relative obscurity...not to mention leather gloves.

It had worked for him. Pretty much.

But this strange woman with intensity in her stare was suddenly opening up new possibilities he had never considered.

"Will you please touch the keys?"

He drew a slow breath and just as slowly exhaled.

Was he really thinking about doing this?

Yeah, crazy as it seemed, he really was.

"Tell me why you want me to." _What do you know?_ "And I'll think about it."

"I have a client, Summer Bennet. She came to me a few weeks ago saying she was afraid her husband might be planning to kill her."

"Why didn't she leave him?"

"She still loved him, if you can believe that."

"I can't," he said, slowly shaking his head. "Loving someone but also suspecting he wants to murder you doesn't sound like much of a foundation for marriage. I can't believe anyone would actually stay."

"Tell that to every woman ever interviewed on _Investigation Discovery_."

"Why didn't she go to the cops? Was Joe Kenda not available?"

The weak joke brought a tiny hint of a smile. It quickly faded.

"It was just a suspicion at that point. She'd had a few mishaps, and her car was acting funny. She asked me to take it to a shop to see if anyone had tampered with it, and was supposed to meet me there yesterday to get some answers."

"And did she?"

"No. She never showed up. But the shop did confirm that her brake lines had been cut down to tiny slivers and could have gone at any time."

"Cutting the old brake lines? Pretty unoriginal."

"Nobody's calling her husband a Mensa candidate. I had already found out he was cheating, and with whom, and figured if he did want her gone it was so he could stay with his side chick and collect on some life insurance money."

_Tale as old as time,_ as the fairy tale song went.

"I tried to reach Summer all morning yesterday, and finally went over to check on her. There were signs of a struggle in the house, and drops of blood, so I called the cops."

Things didn't sound promising for Summer Bennet. "What have the police said?"

"They're treating it as a missing person's case right now. Mr. Not-Mensa swears she was home safe and sound when he left for work yesterday.

Again, _Tale as old as time._

Julia jangled the keys in her hand, twisting them between her long fingers, tapping her nails on the metal ring. Mick ignored her. "You were hired to catch a cheating—possibly homicidal—husband. Why don't you let the police take it from here?"

Her jaw tightened. "Because there's a slight chance she's still alive. It's a long-shot, but _we_ might be able to find her in time."

Her emphasis on the word we made him suspect she didn't mean the authorities.

"Another one of my agents thinks she might be wrapped tightly in a something—some kind of heavy material—in a small space where she can hear loud engines rumbling."

She paused, obviously wanting him to ask how anybody could know such a thing. But he didn't. He was curious—damned curious—but she didn't need any more encouragement.

"We just need to find the space."

The keys again. _Tink. Tink. Tink._

The sound was getting under his skin, grating on his nerves.

"Why didn't the police take those?" he asked, gesturing at the ladybug and her key posse.

"Summer gave me her car key when she asked me to take it in to get it looked at. She found the small padlock keys in her husband's dresser drawer and asked me to see if I could find out what they open."

"You didn't answer my question. Why do you still have them rather than giving them to the police?"

She licked her lips. "Would you believe I forgot to hand them over?"

"No."

A deep breath, then, "Would you believe a psychic felt right away that she was still alive and we could do something to save her before the cops even got around to checking these into evidence?"

A crazy response. Still, _that_ sounded like the truth. Mick had never met somebody with authentic psychic abilities, but considering what had happened to him, he wasn't going to rule anything out. And the brunette was looking right into his face, not attempting to shift her eyes, which would have been a dead giveaway of deception.

Belief led to acceptance. Acceptance led to possibility.

And the possibility that he might be able to do something led him toward actually wanting to try.

"What is it, exactly, that you think I can do to help?"

He suspected he knew, but he wanted to hear just how much of her pitch was based in knowledge and how much was the product of a wild-ass guess.

"I think you might be able to touch this and know where the corresponding locks have been used in the past and could still be right now. Which might, maybe a small chance, but _might_ lead us to Summer."

"How the hell could you know that?" he barked, more than a little bit shocked that she knew—really knew—what it was he could do with his strange and scarred hands.

"That the keys might help lead us to Summer? Because of my associate's belief of where she might be being held. It sounded to us like it could be a storage unit."

That made sense. But it wasn't what he had been asking.

"I meant how did you know about me?"

Her half-smile was completely unrepentant. "Look, you're special, but you're not the only special person in Savannah."

"Like you?"

"Nope. Like I said, I'm a manager and an investigator, but I have no special abilities at all. I run a business called Extrasensory Agents."

Mick laughed, then realized she was serious. "A bunch of psychic detectives?"

"Pretty much." She shrugged. "The people I work with have various abilities, but nobody can do what you can. I mean, if I had even the vaguest idea of where this place Aidan is seeing might be, I could send Morgan out looking for it. But I don't. None of my agents' abilities would help in this case."

The name dropping didn't clarify things.

"So, you think if I touch those keys, I might get some kind of impression about where the locks are?"

"Yes."

"But she gave you these, right? Which means whatever happened to her happened _after_ the last time she touched them."

"It does. But maybe this was his spare set. Maybe he bought new locks to replace the ones he'd originally had on there."

"Maybe they mean nothing at all?"

"Or maybe you can find the small space where Summer might be dying as we speak?"

He grunted. "Well _that's_ not a lot of pressure, is it?"

She didn't say anything else, apparently knowing Mick needed to pull into his own mind and give this some thought. Not enough as he'd like to, given the seriousness of the situation, but he couldn't just reach out and do what she asked without at least one last moment of consideration.

Taking those keys could change his entire world.

That simple step would require so much trust in complete strangers. His nice, normal existence would be completely upended. It would expose him to all the things he'd been trying to avoid for his entire adulthood, especially a lot of attention. With his sadistic grandfather always lurking on in the corners, Mick tried hard to keep his name out of the man's sight and out of his mouth.

But when a woman's life was at stake? Could he really say no?

"All right. Hand them over," he said, knowing there had never really been any choice in the matter. Not if someone could live or die on his action or inaction. Not if his strange, awful talent might actually prove to be a blessing today and not the curse he'd always considered it.

"Thank you," Julia whispered, extending her open palm toward him, the keys sitting in the center of it.

"Don't thank me yet," he said. "For all we know, I might figure out the guy who was running that key machine the day it was manufactured was named Phil and he lives in Oregon."

"I don't think so," she said, her eyes flashing as an electric spark of excitement bounced between them.

He pulled off one glove, moving quickly now. The decision was made, there was no time to waste. And then without even thinking about it, he grabbed that ladybug and her small metal groupies and fell into their past.

" _Hey Tanner, think fast!"_

Julia Harrington. The keys leave her fingers.

Back.

" _I think this guy can help; I really do."_

Julia. Talking to?

Never mind.

A pretty blond-haired woman hands the keys over. "I think he might want me dead."

Skip. Skip. Further back. Further.

Darkness. A drawer?

Warmth. A hand.

" _What are these keys for?" The wife. Summer._

" _Oh, never mind those." Man's voice. "They're just the backup keys for my work storage unit."_

"Bingo," Mick murmured.

" _Sure they're not for your girlfriend's place?" The wife giggles nervously, sounding far more serious than she wants to let on._

" _Aw, babe, you're paranoid, that's all."_

"Gaslighting her," Mick said, knowing by the way the man's hand shook as he took the keys, by the clenched teeth, and the pounding heart that he was lying his head off.

"Who?"

"Shh," he told Julia as he pushed further into the moments that left their mark on the simple little keys.

A cold night. A door slamming. A shouting match between husband and wife as she demands to know why she smells another woman's perfume in her house.

"Shalimar," he whispered, paying attention to her accusation.

Julia didn't interrupt this time.

" _Why are there two empty packages for padlocks in the trash?"_

" _Oh, just some extra security."_

Clinking. Tinking. Rattling.

A key tested on a lock. A large padlock. And another.

Hanging on a metal rung. Horizontal. Corroded, pressed against corrugated, galvanized steel. Like...a wall. No, a door.

"A storage unit."

Julia gasped, sounding almost far away. "Where? Can you see a name?"

The keys are tested once. Twice.

The man holding them looks around as a whirring sound intrudes on the quiet evening. He is fidgety, nervous as a cat. Definitely up to no good.

He looks up. A small plane overhead, flying low and descending.

"An airport."

She heard him and instantly reacted. "Charleston International?"

He shook his head. "Tiny plane, a prop, I think. Not C.I.A."

He was close. So damn close.

Grinding metal. A garage type door descends. A nearby car engine revs.

The man swings his head again, toward a tall, chain link fence. And there it is. A sign. A name? Yes!

"Robbins Brothers Utility Storage," he barks, reading the words just as someone holding these keys had read them who knew how long ago. "It's in Monck's Corner."

Her eyes flashed. "The sonofabitch husband works at the Google facility there. It's very close to the Berkeley County Airport."

Reaching into her bag, she grabbed her phone and dialed quickly. As soon as a man's voice spoke on the other end, she said, "Derek? Meet me at Robbins Brothers storage in Monck's Corner just as fast as you can. And bring whoever's available."

Then, disconnecting the call, she dropped the phone into her bag and glanced to her left. "Go, now."

She wasn't talking to him. In fact, considering they were still the only two in the public restroom, she wasn't talking to _anyone_ , as far as he could see.

"Uh..."

"Thank you, Mr. Tanner."

"Mick."

"Mick. I don't know how you do what you do, but you might just have saved a woman's life."

She reached for the keys, but he closed his fingers around them, holding tightly.

"I have to go. Time is of the essence here."

Mick shrugged. "Do you really think I'm gonna let you go without me?"

"I'll be fine. I'll have backup."

"I meant," he explained, dropping the keys into his pocket, "do you really think I'm going to just wait here while you go and see if a woman is dead or dying in a storage unit where her husband shoved her?"

Now that he was involved, now that she'd shown him the possibilities associated with his gift—possibilities he had never seen but now longed to explore—there was no way she was leaving him behind.

Her chin lifted and she eyed him quizzically. "Thought you didn't like getting involved in other people's drama."

She had a point. He didn't. Or, well, he hadn't.

Up until now.

Now he was very interested in somebody else's drama. Especially a life-and-death drama. And judging by the way he'd felt when he was experiencing the memories of Summer Bennett's husband, he didn't doubt the man was a cheat and a scumbag.

Was he a murderer, or at least an attempted one?

There was only one way to find out.

"I'm coming."

"Then let's go." She smiled over her shoulder to head toward the door. "Welcome to the team, Mick Tanner."

The team. He was one of her, what had she called them, Extrasensory Agents now?

Funny, that would have sounded ridiculous an hour ago.

Now, though, it sounded right. Exactly right.

Exactly what he was supposed to be.

The End
_Want to know more about the Extrasensory Agents?_

Read on for more info and excerpts of the four previously released novels...

And the upcoming...

### COLD HEART

Extrasensory Agents Book 5
Excerpt from

COLD SIGHT

Meet the Extrasensory Agents...a team of psychics who can solve the coldest of crimes!

Aidan McConnell once used his special psychic abilities to help find the missing. But after the media made him the scapegoat for a child's death, he retreated from the world and became a recluse.

Lexie Nolan is a small-town reporter with big vision. She was the first to connect a series of disappearances among teenage girls to a serial killer...but nobody will listen to her.

Lexie is in desperate need of help from the sexy psychic who's an expert in finding people. And even though Aidan loathes the media, he can't help being drawn in to the passionate, beautiful reporter.

Nor can he resist helping her on this particular case. Because he knows the latest missing girl.

And he knows time to save her is running out.

COLD SIGHT was the winner of the National Reader's Choice Award for Romantic Suspense!

Thursday, 5:45 a.m.

Until last night, nobody had ever read Vonnie Jackson a bedtime story.

Though she'd lived for seventeen years, she couldn't remember a single fairy tale, or one kiss on the cheek before being tucked in. Her mother had always been well into her first joint, her second bottle, or her third John of the evening long before Vonnie fell asleep. Bedtime meant hiding under the bed or burrowing beneath a pile of dirty clothes in the closet, praying Mama didn't pass out, leaving one of her customers to go prowling around in their tiny apartment.

They definitely hadn't wanted to read to her. Nobody had.

So, to finally hear innocent childhood tales from a psychotic monster who intended to kill her was almost as unfair as her ending up in this nightmare to begin with.

"Are you listening to me little Yvonne?" That voice was laced with so much evil it seemed to be an almost living, breathing thing, as real as the stained, scratchy mattress on which she lay or the metal chains holding her down. Her captor's voice grew almost mischievous as he added, "Did you fall asleep?"

The man who'd kidnapped her always spoke in a thick, falsetto whisper, his tone happily wicked. Occasionally though, he got angry and dropped the act. Once or twice, when he'd spoken in his normal, deep voice, she'd feel a hint of familiarity flit across her mind, as if she'd heard him before, recently. She could never focus in on it, though, never place the memory.

Maybe she was crazy. Maybe she just recognized the twisted, full-of-rage quality that made men like him tick. She'd seen that kind all her life.

"Sweet little girl, so weary, aren't you? I suppose you fell asleep, hmm?"

She shook her head. Even that slight movement sent knives of pain stabbing through her skull and into her brain. He'd beaten her badly.

"You must want to go to sleep, though."

"No," she whispered. "Go on. Don't stop. I like it."

Oh, no, she didn't want to fall asleep. It was while she slept that he came in and _did_ things to her. She'd awakened once to find him touching her thighs. Though his face had been masked—one of those creepy, maniacally smiling "King" masks from the fast-food commercials—he'd scurried out as soon as he realized she was fully conscious.

Maybe he's afraid you'll escape and be able to identify him.

Yeah. And maybe a pack of wolves would rip him to pieces in his own backyard tomorrow. But she doubted it.

"I don't know, we've read quite a lot. I'm worried you might have nightmares—did you, last night, after hearing about the little piggies who got turned into bacon and sausage patties?"

She suspected the story didn't end like that. If it did, parents who called it a bedtime story had a lot to answer for.

Vonnie swallowed, her thick, dry tongue almost choking her. "I'll be fine."

The words echoed in the damp, musty basement room in which she'd been imprisoned for . . . how long had it been since the night he'd grabbed her? And when had that been? _Think_!

Monday. He'd attacked her while she walked the long way home from a nighttime event at her new high school, to which she'd just transferred since they offered more AP classes than her old one. Mistake number one. Her old school had been a block from her crappy home.

"Well, if you're sure, I suppose we can read a little more about those naughty children."

Knowing he expected it, she managed to murmur, "Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear. I'm glad you like this story. It's no wonder their parents didn't want Hansel and Gretel—awful, spoiled brats, weren't they? Most parents hate their children anyway, but these two were especially bad."

If it wouldn't have caused her so much pain, she might have laughed. He hadn't said anything she didn't know. Her mama had made that clear every day of her life.

Click here to order COLD SIGHT!
Excerpt from

COLD TOUCH

Meet the Extrasensory Agents...a team of psychics who can solve the coldest of crimes!

Gifted with the ability to relive a murder victim's final minutes, Olivia Wainwright isn't sure if her powers are a blessing or a curse. She is haunted by the things she's seen, heard, and felt...but takes comfort in the fact that she is helping to solve murders and save lives.

Savannah Detective Gabe Cooper isn't sure about Olivia's abilities, but he knows she's an amazing woman. And the more he gets to know her, the more he wants to protect her from any danger...including her own dark power.

Now the two of them must team up to catch a killer. The monster has been taking children for years...and time is running out to save his latest victim!

" _[Kelly] doesn't do things by halves. The chemistry is hot, the bad guy is truly evil, and the paranormal aspects are dark and haunting. Her full commitment to both romance and suspense heightens the impact and sweeps the reader along the twisty path to a satisfying climax"_

—Publishers Weekly

Twelve years ago

"He's gonna kill you."

The boy's voice shook with both sadness and fear. And with those four whispered words, Olivia Wainwright's faint hope of survival disappeared.

The boy, Jack, was he a victim, too? During the three days she'd been tied up in this barn, his sharp, angular face was the only one she'd seen. She'd caught glimpses of him when he shuffled in to bring her water or sometimes a handful of stale nuts. Once, he'd come close enough to loosen the ropes on her wrists and ankles a bit, so she had some circulation again.

But he hadn't let her go. No matter how much she'd begged.

"Are you sure?"

He sniffed. "I'm sure."

He was a couple of years younger than her, twelve or thirteen, maybe. Skinny, pale, with sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes. While he was free to go in and out, she suspected he was a victim, too—of abuse, at the very least. The kid looked beaten down.

Olivia began to shake. She'd eaten almost nothing for days, yet thought she'd be sick.

This wasn't supposed to happen. She'd tried so hard to be strong, to think positively. Her parents loved her, and they had a lot of money. Of _course_ they'd pay the ransom.

"When?" she finally asked, dread making the word hard to push from her mouth.

"Once he makes sure they paid the ransom money."

"If they're paying the money, why is he going to kill me?" she whispered, in shock.

"He don't want any witnesses." Jack leaned back against the old plank-board wall and slid down it, as if he couldn't hold himself up anymore. He sat hunched on the backs of his bent legs, watching her. A shaft of moonlight bursting through a broken slat high up in the barn wall shone a spotlight on his bony face. Tear tracks had cleared a path through the grime on his bruised cheeks, and his lips—swollen, bloodied—quivered. "He's afraid you can identify him."

"I can't! I never even saw his face."

That was true. Liv had awakened from a sound sleep to find a pillow slapped over her face, a male voice hissing at her not to scream or he'd shoot her and her sister, whose room was right next door. Their parents' room was on the other side of the huge house, and Liv didn't doubt that the man would be able to make good on his threat before anyone could get to them.

A minute later, any chance of screaming had been taken from her. He'd hit her hard enough to knock her out. By the time she'd awakened, she was already inside this old abandoned barn, tied up. Jack was the only living soul she'd seen or heard since.

"I'm sorry."

"Let me go," she urged.

He shook his head, repeating, "I'm sorry."

"Please, Jack. You can't let this happen."

"There's nothin' I can do."

"Just untie me and give me a chance to run away."

"He'll find you," he said. "Then he'll kill us both." His voice was low, his tone sounding almost robotic. Like he'd heard the threat so many times it had become ingrained in his head.

"When did he take you?" she asked, suddenly certain this boy was a captive as well.

"Take me?" Jack stared at her, his brown eyes flat and lifeless. "Whaddya mean?"

"He kidnapped you, too. Didn't he?"

"Dunno." Jack slowly shook his head. "Been with him forever, seems like."

"Is he your father?" she persisted.

Jack didn't respond.

"Do you have a mother?"

"Don't remember."

"Look, whoever he is, you have to get away from him. _We_ have to get away." She tried to scoot closer, though her legs—numb from being bound—didn't cooperate. She managed no more than a few inches before falling onto her side, remnants of dry, dirty old hay scratching her cheek. "Come with me. Untie me and we'll both run."

If she _could_ run on her barely functional legs.

She thrust that worry away. If it meant saving her life, hell, she'd crawl.

Order COLD TOUCH
Excerpt from

COLD MEMORY

Meet the Extrasensory Agents...A team of hot psychics who can solve the coldest of crimes!

Mick Tanner's ability to touch an item and know its entire history made him a hit in the sideshow, but has made personal relationships difficult. The closest one he's ever had is with the uncle who raised him in the carnival. So, when members of that community begin to die in mysterious ways, there's nothing he won't do to help.

Chief of Police Lili Bell remembers Mick as a smug pain-in-the-ass, but he's grown up to be a very sexy, fascinating man. And like it or not, she needs his help to figure out the mystery that's plaguing her tiny town. Because this killer has a plan, a motive, and several targets. He's out to right a wrong...no matter how many people he has to kill to do it.

15 Years Ago

Nodding, he took a breath and slowly lowered both of his hands to the flat table before him. He placed them palms down, every inch of skin connecting with the smooth wood surface.

Instant heat raced through his fingers, into his palms, up his arms, flooding his body.

Memories...Jesus, the memories. They attacked him.

That lying bastard...gonna kill that judge...that juror won't stop staring at me...bitch thinks she can take my kids...planted evidence...lies...perjury...hung jury...killed her and I'd do it again...blood...can't go to prison...justice my ass...he'll kill me if I can't get a restraining order...God I wish I could take it back....

Cunning inmates calculated how to escape justice for their crimes. Culpable lawyers planned to twist evidence. He felt the grief of parents stripped of guardianship of their children, the rage of ex-spouses planning revenge, the churn of corruption and innocence, tangled together in a web that was impossible to unravel. It was all there, soaked into the wood table, which had been manufactured at a plant in Atlanta, from wood cut in Montana, by a crew led by a man named Edgar. He got it all in a mental blast that probably should have put him on the floor.

He reacted only with a slight tensing of his body. He let his face reveal nothing. He even forced a somewhat convincing smile. And then he pushed against the table, managing to hide his mental anguish, and rose to his feet.

"Can I come up to show you something, Your Honor?"

His voice even sounded steady. He hoped no-one would guess his brain was being ripped into tiny shards and that a thousand voices were screaming in his ears.

Appearing curious, the judge nodded. "Please do."

His grandfather leapt up, obviously not seeing what he'd expected to see, and barked out, "What's going on here? What are you trying to pull, boy? Why don't you tell her what you're really imagining after touching that table? Your honor, he's trying to trick you!"

The judge banged her gavel. "Another outburst and I'll charge you with contempt."

His grandfather's lawyer tugged Monty into his seat, whispered fiercely, and then rose to approach the bench as well. His frown revealed his thoughts about the way this was progressing. He had apparently believed Monty Tanner's story of his grandson's insanity, and had expected a different outcome too. They'd counted on Mick trying to convince the judge of his strange psychic powers. The men had probably discussed this very moment, picturing Mick reeling from the defendant's table in shock as his abilities overwhelmed his senses, as they so often did.

But not this time. No fucking way.

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Excerpt from

COLD IMAGE

Meet the Extrasensory Agents...a team of psychics who can solve the coldest of crimes!

Derek Monahan sees violent death wherever he turns. His strange ability forces him to watch crimes that repeat in loops of blood and anguish. The only positive is that he is able to use his power to solve cold crimes...like the disappearances of boys from a secretive academy.

Dr. Kate Lincoln hates that her kid brother was sent to an awful school in Georgia. The place is a nightmare—housed in what was once a brutal asylum. Now her brother has disappeared, and she's the only one who seems to care.

Derek wants to help the beautiful doctor, but going undercover in a place that seethes with ancient violence isn't easy. When she sees just how much his job affects him, Kate realizes she wants to be the one to help heal the wounds of this strong, noble, and very sexy man.

As long as she survives to do it.

20 Years Ago

"Derek, don't!" a voice called from outside.

Abe and the cop were chasing him. Derek shoved the door closed, locking it in a stall for time, and then kicked off his cleats. Tiptoeing in socks, he passed through the laundry room, into the hallway. He heard voices coming from the kitchen—in the front of the house.

Maybe that's where it happened.

Maybe. But something—some urge—told him to turn left, toward the back.

He moved on, avoiding a place on the hardwood floor that he knew squeaked. He wasn't thinking, wasn't even trying to prepare himself for what he might see. His parents weren't here—their bodies were gone. But maybe there was blood. Maybe there was worse. Still, an immense pressure in his chest seemed to be pulling him along. If nobody else believed in his dad, not even Uncle Abe, his very best friend, Derek still did. He'd prove them wrong.

The office. That's where his feet were taking him.

His dad called it his inner sanctum. It overlooked the long, sloping back yard. He'd claimed it when they moved in, saying he needed something nice to see when he had to look away from the ugly files of crimes and murders he brought home from work every day. That was why he'd always told Derek to stay out of that room; there were a lot of nasty pictures and stuff.

Daring each other, Derek and his best friend Evan had snuck in there once and found some of those pictures. They'd both had nightmares for days, but had never told anybody, knowing they'd get in trouble for snooping.

He sucked in a breath as he rounded a corner, realizing his gut was right. Yellow crime scene tape was stretched across the wide-open French doors. That's where it had happened.

Where it was _still_ happening.

Derek froze, his feet planted, his whole body starting to shake. A scream tried to rise in his throat, but he swallowed it, knowing he was in shock. He had to be in shock. They would think he was crazy. Because he couldn't be seeing this. It was impossible.

He scrunched his eyes shut, knowing when he opened them again, he would see the spatters of blood on the light-colored carpet, the leather couch, the wall, and the papers on his dad's desk. _So much blood._ But he wouldn't see the rest. No way.

He finally had the nerve to look again. And they were still there. His parents.

Not their bodies. They weren't solid like the flesh and blood people he'd seen this morning at the breakfast table. They were...thin, colorless, kind of shimmery.

A form moved in behind him, warm and solid. A hand landed on Derek's shoulder, but did not try to pull him away. Nor did Uncle Abe say anything. He apparently thought Derek had already seen the worst and needed to finish what he'd started.

But the worst hadn't even begun.

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_And here, for the first time anywhere..._

Excerpt from

COLD HEART

Book 5 in the Extrasensory Agents Series!

Coming January 31, 2020

Available for pre-order now!

Meet the Extrasensory Agents...A Team of Psychics Who Can Solve the Coldest of Crimes!

Ten years ago, the man Julia Harrington loved was gunned down in the street, leaving her heart frozen and her world cold. She's never loved anyone the way she loved Morgan Raines, and since his ghost lingers, she won't even consider letting someone else replace him in her life.

Morgan wants Julia to have a future with a real man, someone who can keep her warm at night, grow old with her, and really be there. He's been working up the will to leave, to go to the next phase of his existence, and knows the time has almost come.

Before that can happen, though, there's one last case to solve. It involves members of Morgan's own family: his rich brother, his handsome cousin. Everyone has secrets, it seems, and everyone knows more than they're telling.

So, before Morgan and Julia can take their own paths into the future, they must go back down one from their past...and solve Morgan's murder.

Charleston, South Carolina

Ten Years Ago

His ring on her finger. His blood on her hands.

_Morgan's_ ring on her finger. _Morgan's_ blood on her hands.

"Hold on, baby, please hold on!"

Kneeling on the wet pavement, her ears still ringing from the gunshots that had exploded in the hot, muggy night seconds ago, Julia Harrington pleaded with the man she loved to stay alive, even as she tried to process what had just occurred.

Had it really happened? Was she caught in a bad dream?

No, not a dream. A nightmare. Her worst one ever.

Because it just wasn't possible that Morgan could be lying here on a Charleston sidewalk, fighting for his life. Not when, moments ago, he'd been smiling that glorious smile as they walked out the door of their favorite restaurant. They'd been hand-in-hand, both of them seeing a future they had never imagined but wanted desperately, despite their youth, their families, their jobs, their partnership. Everything seemed possible.

And then...and then....

_So fast._ It had happened so fast.

At first, she'd thought a car was backfiring.

But not four times.

Not four.

Not when he was off duty, at a romantic dinner, not wearing a protective vest.

Now Morgan Raines—her partner, her lover, and as of an hour ago, her fiancé—was bleeding out before her eyes.

Shock giving way to protective instinct, she swung around, putting her own back to the street from which the shots had come. She hovered over his prone form to shield him from any further attack. But she already feared it was too little too late.

"You're not going. Don't you leave me!"

He stared up at her, brow furrowed over those brown-and-gold eyes, looking more confused than pained. His lips moved, as if he was trying to form words, but only choppy breaths emerged. Choppy. Weak. Nearly silent.

There was one sound, however, a rhythmic hissing that made her skin prickle and her fear mount.

Julia recognized that hiss. Morgan could barely exhale because air was escaping out his chest. Powerful slugs had gouged tunnels through the vulnerable skin, muscle, and organs. At least two had torn open his lungs. She not only heard the hissing; she could feel the faintest brush of Morgan's life-sustaining oxygen seeping uselessly out of his body against her fingers. It was warm in the mist, feeling like the only warm thing in this icy reality that was trying to squeeze her life into a new shape, one she would never willingly accept.

"No, no, no," she muttered, watching four holes blossoming like dark, crimson roses against his white shirt. She spread her hands, used her forearms, trying to press the blood back into his body.

Blood. So much blood. She couldn't possibly staunch it all. The dark fluid streamed down his sides, landing on the sidewalk, mixing with the remnants of rain that had fallen earlier in the evening. It slid into the puddles, making kaleidoscope shapes on the ground, carrying Morgan's very existence with it.

Thoughts failed her, training failed her, desperation made her willing to do anything—sell her soul, give her life—to save his.

Watch for Cold Heart in late 2020!
