by Jane Hinchey
Jackson nodded. “Consistent with being tied to a chair and force-fed. Thank you, Officer Miles, that will be all.”
Despite not being able to see their exchange, I could feel it. There was animosity in spades, so much that I rolled my shoulders to shrug off the tension settling there. Lilliana stepped sideways and eyeballed me, her next words directed at me.
“Do me a favor? Try not to come around here again.” Then she was gone, her footsteps retreating down the hallway, down the stairs. A door slammed, then I heard the sound of a car door closing and an engine revving.
“She doesn’t appear to like me very much.” I sounded pitiful even to myself, which hadn’t been my intention.
“She doesn’t like anyone very much,” Jackson said gruffly, then changed the subject. “How’s it going in here? Find anything?”
“Not yet. I don’t think it’s here. I can feel a sense of her, of Bonnie, but not her magic. If the grimoire is anywhere, I’d say it’s in the attic.”
Chapter Four
“I’ve got an idea,” I said.
“Is it a good one?” Jackson asked, looking down at me.
“Ha. Ha,” I grumbled. “We already know that we have some sort of mysterious mystical connection to the otherworld, that when we are together, the ghost of Whitney Sims appears. I’d like to try and channel our power, see if we can reach Bonnie.”
“Can’t hurt to try”—he nodded, leading the way back up the stairs to the attic—“but remember, it didn’t happen straight away with Whitney.”
“I remember. You said you saw an orb in the attic. And the attic is where I feel her magic. If she’s still here, that’s where she’ll be. And if we can communicate with her…” I trailed off.
“She can tell us what happened. Who killed her,” Jackson supplied.
“Exactly.”
Standing side-by-side in the attic, a shiver danced over my skin, causing goose bumps. I was still weirded out by ghosts.
“Have you always been a necromancer?” I asked, wondering what it had been like for Jackson growing up. Had he had an invisible friend who was really a ghost?
“Yes.”
“Was it hard? Seeing what other people couldn’t? Did they think you were crazy?”
He glanced at me, then shrugged. “Not really. My grandmother had the gift. She saw me talking with the ghost of our neighbor when I was a toddler and guided me through it. There were times, as a kid, that I didn’t immediately realize that the person I was talking to was departed. That’s when it got problematic.”
“Yet you decided to join the police force?”
“I use my gift on the force. Just because I talk to dead people doesn’t mean I need to set up shop as a psychic or some such thing. I don’t draw attention to it—most people don’t know—but I’d rather help them by solving their…” he paused, and the penny finally dropped.
“Oh! You use your gift to solve their murders! To bring them justice.” I felt embarrassed I hadn’t figured that out earlier. He must think I’m an absolute idiot, although he didn’t let on, just lifted one shoulder and continued speaking.
“It seemed the right thing to do. Most of the ghosts I see are here because they died violently and unexpectedly. Not always a crime, sometimes due to an accident, in which case I try and help them come to terms with their passing.”
“Is it true that they remain on this realm due to unfinished business?”
“Sometimes. Not always. Some can’t bear to leave, they’d rather remain with their family, unheard and unseen, than move on.”
“But you help them move on? When they’re ready?”
He shrugged again. “I do my best.”
“Whitney didn’t move on. Even when we solved her murder,” I pointed out.
“Because she didn’t want to. It’s a choice. For some, it’s a no-brainer. They see the light, they cross over. Others see the light and decide to stay.”
“Do they see the light again? Like, do they get a second opportunity to cross over?” I’d never talked about this stuff with anyone before and found it fascinating.
“Again, sometimes. There are no hard and fast rules. Every situation is different.” He held up his hand to silence me, his eyes intent on something across the attic. I turned to look and saw a very faint glow.
“Is that it?” I whispered. “Is that the orb you saw?”
“Yes,” he whispered back. “Can you see it?”
“I see a very dull glow, barely there.”
“It’s bright for me. About four feet tall.” He reached down and entwined his fingers with mine, our palms pressed together. I did my best to ignore the spark of electricity that shot up my arm at the intimate contact. “Concentrate,” he ordered.
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to do as instructed, focusing my energy on the orb.
“It’s working,” he whispered, and I cracked open my eyes to see the orb, much brighter than it had been before.
“It’s bigger. Brighter,” I said. “Has it changed for you? Is she taking shape? Is it Bonnie?”
“No,” he said, voice low, a hint of puzzlement in his tone, “but it’s changing color and moving.”
He was right, the orb was turning and moving closer to us. Could it sense us? See us? Suddenly, it flared, the light so bright it hurt my eyes and I flung my arm over my face.
“Get down!” Jackson shouted, then tackled me to the floor, his body hard and heavy on top of mine as he shielded me from the orb, which flew over us and disappeared with a loud pop.
“What happened?” I grunted, pushing at him. He planted his palms on the floor by the side of my head and levered himself up, easing the pressure on my lungs.
“I think it got angry. I don’t think it’s a ghost at all. Energy, yes, but not a spirit.” With his face this close to mine, I could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes and the dimple in his cheek where his mouth quirked into a smile. Then he was moving away, standing over me and holding his hand down to help me up.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked, eyes running over my body. I dusted off my jeans and shook my head. “I’m fine. You took me by surprise is all.” I looked around the attic—the orb had gone and all that remained was the remnants of Bonnie’s magic.
“I can still feel Bonnie’s magic but not the energy of that thing. How about you?” I asked.
Jackson shook his head. “I see nothing. Bonnie isn’t here. She’s crossed over.” He sounded sure of that and I couldn’t help the disappointment that we wouldn’t get to talk to her, to find out who killed her and clear Gran’s name.
“So that begs the question, what the hell was that?” I waved my hand to where the orb had been hovering.
“I have no idea”—Jackson ran a hand around the back of his neck—“but I’ve got a real bad feeling.”
Goose bumps broke out over my skin as a shiver ran up my spine. This was dark. Was someone using black magic?
Jackson walked me to my car, carrying Archie the entire way. I’d parked two blocks away to avoid the neighbors noticing me snooping. I waited for a lecture from him on sticking my nose into police business and basically telling me to stay out of it, but he didn’t, and that confused me more than ever. I’d been so angry with him yet working together had made my anger disappear. But now I was alone, and my unruly emotions resurfaced. I was angry, upset, and afraid. Afraid for Gran and what might happen to her. Angry with Jackson for arresting her. And upset with myself for still harboring unrequited feelings for him.
Pulling up outside Gran’s house and parking, I waited for Archie to jump out of the car and down the garden path ahead of me. Once inside, it hit me. An avalanche of emotion. I picked up a lamp from the hallway table and threw it, tears welling in my eyes when it hit the floor with a satisfying crash.
A loud thumping on the front door scared me to death. With a high-pitched “Eeek!” I spun, facing the door, hand to my chest.
“Hello? Everything okay in there?” A man’s v
oice. A strange man’s voice. Could this be Gran’s date? Had he hung around all this time, waiting for one of us to return? I wasn’t sure if that was dedication or desperation.
Cracking open the door, I peered through the slit.
“Yes?” Standing on my doorstep was a bad guy, I was sure of it. He had that vibe. He was tall, with a solid frame and dark hair, so dark it looked black in this light. In denim jeans, a black T-shirt, and bomber jacket, he looked like he worked out. A lot.
“Harper Jones?” This guy screamed danger in neon letters. It was in the hard set of his jaw, the steadiness of his dark eyes as they swept over me, the scar cutting through his right eyebrow that had me wondering just how he’d got it. A knife fight? He looked the type.
“Well?”
Well what? Oh, right. “Yes?” I squeaked, my voice rising three octaves. Now I sounded like a chipmunk. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Yes. I’m Harper Jones. Who are you?”
“Blake Tennant.” His hand disappeared into his jacket pocket and I had visions of him pulling a gun. A possible overreaction, but nonetheless, he looked the type. I sagged in relief when, instead of pulling out a weapon, he handed me a business card. I squinted down at it, then looked up at him in disbelief.
“You’re a lawyer?”
He inclined his head, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Where’s your suit?” I blurted.
“At the dry cleaners,” he replied, unfazed, a slow, wolfish smile sliding across his face. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Was I? An excellent question as I stood hesitantly clutching the door, my heart pounding in my chest. Dad had said he had a lawyer friend, but this man didn’t look like your typical lawyer. Seemed he’d gotten tired of my hesitation because he slowly raised his hand and gave the door a push. I let it slide from my fingers, revealing the shattered lamp strewn down the hallway.
“You okay?” he asked, observing the destruction before turning his impossibly dark gaze to my face. He smirked, his eyes taking in my jeans, sweater, and booted feet. He leaned forward and flicked something from my shoulder, and I jerked back.
“You had a piece of lamp,” he said, his eyes gleaming.
I felt heat crawl up my neck and into my face and knew my cheeks were reflecting my embarrassment with a red glow. Busted having a tantrum and throwing a lamp, covering myself and everything else in shards of glass. Smart, Harper, real smart.
“Are you going to invite me in?” he repeated, leaning casually against the door frame, waiting.
“Nuh-uh.” I shook my head.
He grinned. A slow, wicked grin that reached all the way to his dark eyes. It was the kind of grin that made women either cower in fear or want to rip his clothes off. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what camp I fell into.
“Okay,” he said, cocking his head to one side, “how about we talk out here? I’m sure the neighbors are keen to listen in on what we have to discuss.”
“Oh?” I licked my lips, my mouth dry.
“Alice Brewer.” He raised one eyebrow at me.
“Come in.” I turned away, my boots crunching on broken glass. The door closed quietly, and his boots crunched glass behind me.
“Got something to clean that up with?” he asked.
“No need.” I stood in the center of the living room and waved my hand. The lamp put itself back together in reverse slow motion, all the minute particles of crushed and broken glass and ceramic repositioning themselves until the lamp was whole once more and sitting on the hallway table.
He nodded. “Impressive.”
“Thanks.”
He looked me up and down, his eyes doing a slow, thorough appraisal. “Do I make you nervous?”
I nodded, which, of course, caused his smile to grow into a full-fledged grin, complete with wolfish white teeth. “Good.”
He had me on the defensive, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t know what to think, of him, of my rioting emotions.
“About my Gran—” My chipmunk voice was back, and I cleared my throat again. “About Gran,” I repeated. “You can get her off?”
“Get her off?” The sexual innuendo was clear, and I felt myself blush. If my cheeks got any hotter, I’d erupt.
“Out of jail. Clear her name?” I snapped, annoyed at him, and at my reaction to him. He was way too good-looking for his own good and the animal magnetism pouring from him was off the charts. He was older than me, in his late thirties, maybe early forties, which told me he was the type of man who knew what he wanted. That he also knew what a woman wanted—and exactly how to provide it. I gulped.
He must have decided he was done toying with me because he eased himself into an armchair and indicated I should do the same. I did, simply because I was unsure how much longer my legs would hold me up.
“The evidence against Alice is circumstantial. Not really enough for an arrest warrant but they got a judge to sign off on it, so not much we can do about that now,” he said. “Our first priority is setting bail.”
“Bail?” I repeated.
“A sum of money that’s lodged to guarantee she appears in court.”
I blushed again, feeling like an idiot. I knew what bail was, but for some reason, around him I was reduced to one-word sentences. He must think I’m an absolute ditz.
“I know what bail is,” I grumbled, crossing my arms over my chest.
He grinned. “Okay then.”
“I’m not an idiot,” I continued, secretly appalled at how off-balance I was around him.
His smile widened, a dimple punctuating his left cheek. Clearly, he was enjoying this.
“I never thought for one minute that you were.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Mind if I record this?”
“Record what?” I wanted to reassure him I wasn’t really this stupid in real life, but I was having issues following our conversation.
“Our interview. I want you to tell me everything that happened.” He glanced up from his phone and saw my confusion. His face softened. “I know it’s late. You’re tired, I get it. But I need to gather as many witness statements as I can. The sooner I can get Alice’s bail application in, the quicker we get her out of jail.”
I nodded. Made perfect sense.
“Take it from the top. There was an altercation this afternoon between the victim and Alice, yes? Tell me about that.”
I leaned forward in my chair and told him about Gran and Bonnie’s argument that afternoon, how Gran had been taking Annie’s dog back—leaving out the part about Gran turning the dog into a cow—but he was good. He knew something was missing and he leaned forward, eyes intent.
“Stop.” His brows pulled together in concentration. “Something happened. Something else happened that you’re not telling me.”
I looked away, toward the fireplace, stalling.
“Harper.” His long fingers wrapped around my wrist, drawing my attention back to him. “I’m very good at what I do. But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the entire story.”
I looked into his dark eyes, transfixed, almost hypnotized as his thumb rubbed the inside of my wrist.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice low and quiet. And I did. I told him the whole sorry sordid tale, and that despite Gran being in the wrong, she wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—killed Bonnie.
An hour later, he tucked his phone back into his jacket pocket and stretched the kinks out of his shoulders.
“Meet me at the police station at nine,” he said, as he stood and headed for the door. Was that it? It felt so…anticlimactic.
“Okay.”
He must have heard something in my voice because he turned, those dark eyes flashing, a sinful smirk curling his lips. “Sweet dreams.”
Before I could react, he was gone. Sweet dreams? Sweet dreams! How could I even contemplate sleeping while Gran was in jail? My eyes welled again, thinking of her in a cell, on a hard cot with nothing but a scratchy blanket for comfort.
Archie appeared, jumping onto my lap and biscuiting my legs into submission. I didn’t have the energy to move, slumping back to give him more room. I rested my head against the back of the armchair and mulled over the events of the day. At some point, I fell asleep, where I did indeed have sweet dreams. Of one sexy lawyer named Blake Tennant.
Oh boy.
Chapter Five
I woke up the following morning with the sun blazing in my face and a crick in my neck. I was still in the armchair where I’d fallen asleep, but Archie had long since left. Reaching forward with a groan and a creaking of bones, I picked up my phone from the coffee table and glanced at the time. Eight forty-five. Holy heck, I had told Blake I’d meet him at the station at nine. Staggering to my feet, I stumbled down the hallway to use the bathroom, smoothed the wrinkles from my clothes as best as I could, and cast a longing glance at the shower. Later, I promised myself.
I arrived at the Police Station at eight fifty-eight a.m. Blake was already there, filling out what appeared to be a mountain of paperwork.
“Oh good, you made it,” he said, without turning. How did he do that? How did he know it was me?
“I said I would.” My voice came out like a bucket of rusty nails and his head swiveled just as Officer Miles appeared behind the counter. Oh goody. Her eyes ran over me from head to toe and then she smirked—the kind of smirk that told me I had toilet paper stuck to my shoe or something equally mortifying. Before I could react, Jackson joined her and his eyes widened at the sight of me. What the hell?
My confused expression must have betrayed me because Blake put down the pen and turned to fully face me.
“Come here.”
I shouldn’t have listened, should definitely not have obeyed, but in my caffeine-deprived brain, resistance was useless, and I stepped toward him, stopping just short of touching. He raised his hand and ran it from the top of my head down the length of my hair, smiling slightly as he did so. Then I got it. Bedhead. I hadn’t stopped to look in a mirror, no doubt my hair had been in a massive beehive around my head—that was my default setting each and every morning.
