A Gifted Curse (The Cloven Pack Series: Book One)

by D. Fischer

  Table of Contents

  The Cloven Pack Series

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  About the Author

  Titles by D. Fischer

  A Gifted Curse

  The Cloven Pack Series

  - Book One -

  D. FISCHER

  A Gifted Curse (The Cloven Pack Series: Book One) is written by D. Fischer. This book is copyrighted by D. Fischer. Copyright © 2017 by D. Fischer. All rights reserved.

  Everything in this book is fictional. It is not based on true events, persons, or creatures that go bump in the night, no matter how much we wish it were…

  Chapter One

  Acceptance is rare and uncommon.

  To gain it is a treasure. To lack it is a tragedy.

  There’s no guarantee for such a dream.

  Makenna Goldwin

  Click. Click. Click.

  “Fucking hell,” I growl. I’m making my way down the sidewalk in these damn heels I insisted on purchasing for ‘work related’ purposes when my left heel gives out from under my foot.

  Letting out a stream of curses, I refuse to believe my ankles can’t function right; this is entirely the shoe’s fault. It is supposed to be like walking around on your tippy toes, right? But with more support? A growl escapes my lips.

  I steady myself on a nearby business’ brick wall before I topple over for the world to see. Not that there are many people around. It is, after all, what some would call ‘after hours.’

  Heels have never been my thing—I despise them. In order to maintain some kind of professionalism, though, I knew I would have to purchase something other than flip flops, sneakers, or slip on shoes. I doubt my clients, current or potential, will take me seriously if I interview them in my nice blouse and skirt accessorized by my running sneaks. Wearing these heels is bad enough, but this skirt is a whole other matter.

  I’m waiting for the day to come when it’s appropriate to wear my beloved jeans, plain T-shirts, and flip flops to such interviews, but I have a feeling that’s a long way coming. That may be considered appropriate when pigs fly.

  Entering my destination, I inhale deeply and take in my surroundings.

  The police station reeks of coffee. I adore that dark delicious brew, but only a coffee drinker can tell when a coffee machine has been used one too many times without the privilege of being washed. What a shame.

  I wrinkle my nose and look around the small entrance. Everything is white. The walls, the tiling, the countertops—everything except for the men and women in blue that mill around completing their evening duties as law enforcement.

  Police stations always make my skin crawl. Whenever I’m in the presence of a police officer, I feel like I’m being judged for crimes I may or may not have committed. The look they give as someone passes them is like they are privy to all past unlawful sins. Not that I have a lot. Maybe a few stolen goods here and there for survival. It’s the same feeling as driving past a police car and tapping the breaks regardless of the speed—heart stopping, palms sweating, the intense anxiety of never being completely certain that you weren’t speeding even when the speedometer reads sixty-five.

  I mentally check myself to make sure I’m not carrying any form of weapon. It wouldn’t do to be tackled to the ground wearing heels and a skirt. The word ‘undignified’ comes to mind.

  Looking straight ahead to the woman behind the front desk, I unsteadily make my way to her. I silently applaud myself for not face planting on the beautifully polished white floor.

  “What can I do for you?” the woman asks in a bored tone, continuing to glance at the paperwork in front of her.

  I wait for her to look up and meet my gaze, but she seems uninterested in my presence. I clear my throat, uncomfortable with her lack of manners.

  “Makenna Goldwin, PI and Micro-Expression specialist. I’m here for Agent,” I look at my hand where I had written the name of the gentleman who had called me, “Johnson.”

  The receptionist slash police-woman finally looks up and gives me a once over.

  Yeah, not everyone buys the Micro-Expression specialist title or the profession. Some people categorize it right next to psychic crazy chick with a side of ‘waste of time, resources, and money.’ Fortunately, I make a living with the talents I have, so their judgment is moot.

  Law enforcement tends to not be friendly toward private investigators. I have no idea if it’s a territorial thing and they feel as though we are pissing all over their marked trees, or if it’s because sometimes we can make them look useless when we catch the bad guy. Meanwhile, they’re busy with their required steps and checklists. I mentally shrug. Either way, I was called here for a job and I plan to do it.

  My impatient fingers drum against the white counter, wordlessly letting the woman know I am waiting for her to take action and point me in the right direction.

  Before my oh-so-friendly police officer friend has time to finish her mental assessment of me and inform Agent Johnson that I had arrived, we both glance to our right as a door opens. Sweet baby Jesus.

  Together, we watch as a very attractive, very large, burly man with short, cropped blond hair, slips gracefully through the door. I note that, amongst his extremely good looks, he isn’t wearing a blue uniform. Instead, he wears an FBI badge pinned to a buttoned long sleeve shirt. His broad shoulders and impressive build fill out his clothes nicely, leaving nothing to the imagination.

  I blink twice trying to clear my head of the sexual images that begin to surface. This must be my guy. Wait, no, not my guy, the guy. I clear my throat. I’m not ogling, I swear. I mentally chastise myself while every sensitive part of me begins to tingle. Treacherous body. Thank heavens my bra is padded. My nipples could cut glass right now.

  Without giving another glance at the woman behind the desk, I walk right up to Agent Johnson and hold out my hand.

  “Agent Johnson, I’m Makenna—”

  He cuts me off with a dazzling white smile and shakes my hand. “Goldwin. I know. I recognize you from the picture on your business card. Thanks for coming down. Please, call me Evo.”

  My word, the heat that travels from our joined hands all the way through my body is unnerving. Am I the only one that feels that? I must be, because his smile never wavers.

  He leads me through the door and into a hallway. Wouldn’t you know it—more white adorns the walls and floors.

  “It’s not a problem, Evo. I’m glad I can help. Our phone call was pretty brief. What is it, exactly, that you need my help with?”

  Evo spares me a glance as we walk side by side. “We have a suspect in one of the interrogation rooms. I can’t give you the full details as you aren’t cleared for such information, but I can give you the basics of what I need from you.”

  I don’t point out that I will probably hear my fair share of the information I’m not ‘cleared for’ during the interrogation. I’ll let him worry about that later.

  At my nod, he continues, stopping just outside one of the many doors. God only knows how he knew which one to stop at. They all look alike with no numbers. “A few missing women have come to our attention and the gentleman we are questioning today has been seen chatting with each missing person just before the time of their disappearance. What I need from you is to tell me anytime you believe he’s lying or telling the truth. One-word answers will do fine. We can’t have you in the interrogation, but I’ll have you watch from the observation room. I’ll have an ear piece in to hear anything you have to say.” He points to his ear and sure enough, there is the telltal
e ear piece that a typical FBI agent wears. How cliché.

  “The audio directs straight from the observation room’s speaker into this ear piece. I don’t know how you do what you do, but I’ve heard you come highly recommended.” Evo nods as he finishes talking and opens the door for me to enter.

  The tiny observation room contains a small desk with files flipped open and placed on a table in front of the one-way glass. Another agent is waiting there who engages Evo in a quiet conversation as soon as we are through the door.

  I leave them to it. Wandering over to the small desk, I glance down at the papers. I’m a naturally curious person and can’t help myself when things pique my interest. My eyes instantly fall on my picture—they have a file on me. Frowning, I read.

  Makenna Goldwin, age twenty-seven, PI Specialist. My date of birth follows, which, technically, is just an estimate the doctors gave when I was found abandoned and brought to the hospital. My foster families are listed, as well as my educational background. Since I don’t have much in the way of schooling, there isn’t much listed.

  Just beneath that is a little history they’ve scraped up. It basically states I have no family, I’ve lived on my own since age sixteen, and I have no college education. It makes me sound like I’m a loner. A very uneducated loner with no life. I suppose I am.

  Having no family has always stung a little, but I’ve been alone for so long that I’m comfortable with it. I’ve learned to never rely on anyone, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to.

  Some might say I have abandonment issues. I prefer to label it as self-preservation due to experience. If I got comfortable sharing my life with another, what would I do if they suddenly left? I’d be broken and left to pick up my pieces alone. Putting myself in that situation would be asking for trouble I don’t need in my life. I’ve had too much abandonment for one lifetime.

  While thinking those thoughts, something inside me tells me I’m lying to myself. Something inside me craves comfort and safety in numbers.

  That other ‘something’ often weighs in on my thoughts and actions. I refer to her as my alter ego because, in a sense, it’s like a whole separate me. My alter ego and I don’t always agree with each other. We have different views on life. She’ll weigh in on my thoughts and actions and how I should handle situations. Her suggestions are based on primal instinct while mine are more civil with a touch of ‘trial and error.’ I’m aware of how abnormal this is, so I keep her tucked away and ignore her thoughts. I have issues, and my issues have issues.

  Before I can read more, the file is swiftly taken from my view. I look up to see the female FBI agent scowling. Annoyance rolls off her in waves.

  “Sorry,” I apologize and stick out my hand. “Makenna Goldwin.”

  Her lip curls at my outstretched hand as if it is covered with the worst possible diseases in medical history. My eyebrows fly up as, yet again, I’ve run into another person who seems to not have been raised with manners.

  That’s it. This is the last time I wear these heels. Apparently, they aren’t helping me build friends in the professional world. Again, it’s the heels’ fault. Next time, I’m wearing pajamas and bunny slippers. Professionalism be damned.

  “Agent Smith,” she grumbles as if introducing herself to me is the last thing she expected would happen to her today. Well, la-di-da to you, too, Agent Sassy Pants.

  Reaching over, she flips up the volume on a speaker box as Evo enters the tiny room. Following closely behind are two officers in uniform who melts against the wall.

  I don’t pay much attention to the officers as my focus zooms in on the person sitting at the table. I had failed to notice there was a man in the interrogation room when I entered the observation room.

  He had been sitting as still as a statue, completely unaffected by being detained, and impervious to the fact that he is about to be questioned by a very large and intimidating FBI agent for crimes he may or may not have committed. In fact, he has a hint of a smug smile that sends chills up my arms and raises goose bumps on my skin.

  This guy is bad-news-bears. His body posture and attitude scream lunatic. It isn’t going to be hard reading this guy. The crazy ones are never hard to read even if I just pass them by on the street.

  I didn’t exactly go to college and learn how to be a Micro-Expression specialist. For as long as I’ve known, I’ve had the ability to feel what others are feeling. Call me an empath if you wish, but it’s not exactly what you think. Their feelings, truths, lies—it all just slithers over my skin like a snake. Once it reaches my skin I just know. That’s the best way I can explain it. It is my curse and I’ve used that to my advantage and built a career of it.

  I’ve never told anyone about my extra ability. If I told anyone I have some kind of mutant freaky extra sense, one of two things would’ve happened. One: I would have been classified as insane. Two: I would end up being used. Hell, maybe both things would’ve happened. I wouldn’t mind so much if I was committed to a nutter-house. They probably have free cookies. But I will never, in a million years, allow myself to be used and controlled by someone else. No, sir.

  With such fluid grace for such a broad man, Evo sits in the plastic chair and leans back, casually observing the suspect’s lack of behavior. This guy, Kenner, is acting like they are about to have a cup of tea and talk about the weather. He is completely unmoved with being in the hot seat.

  With his cold blue eyes, the suspect watches Evo with a calculating expression. Agent Smith spares me a small glance as I rub my arms when another chill hits my skin. Her annoyance toward me is annoying in itself.

  This guy radiates wrongness and it’s not just because of his superior smugness or loathing of Evo. Something … else … is wrong with this guy. I can’t put my finger on it.

  “Chris Kenner,” Evo begins, “I understand you have an active night life.”

  Kenner raises an eyebrow. “And?”

  Recognizing the challenge in that one word, Evo stands to show just who is in charge here and casually leans against the wall with his arms folded. “The thing is, Mr. Kenner, everywhere you turn up, women disappear.”

  Kenner leans back in his chair. A tiny wave of uncomfortable slithers over my skin. He feels he’s being discovered but is trying to hide it behind a relaxed posture. “And you think I have something to do with it?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Yes, I do.” Evo pushes off the wall and walks toward the table. Placing his hands on it, he towers over Kenner. I can see his muscles ripple under his long-sleeve shirt.

  “I’ve had several witness accounts state that you were seen with each missing woman the night of their disappearance. No one knows who you are and no one knows what you were doing or saying to their friend. But each of the witnesses saw you briefly chatting with their friend at the bar they were at and a few short hours later, their friend disappeared.”

  Kenner leans forward to challenge Evo. “Just because someone saw me having a conversation with someone, doesn’t mean I had anything to do with any missing women. I chat with many women, in a bar or otherwise. I’m a single, social guy.” He leans back, crossing his arms, and allowing a small smug smile.

  “Lie,” I say quietly.

  I feel his deception raise the goosebumps on my skin and seize my breath. Agent Smith stares at me, but I pay her no attention because it seems that Evo and Agent Smith aren’t the only ones who hear my announcement.

  As I say the word, Chris Kenner’s cold blue eyes flip to the one-way window. As if he could possibly hear me, he scans his eyes across its surface searching for the person that the voice belongs to.

  Evo flips open a folder, giving no indication that he heard me or that he was aware that Kenner had heard me.

  “Texas,” Evo says, flipping clipped pictures of missing women in Kenner’s direction. “Iowa, New York, Nevada, California, Illinois.”

  Kenner’s smile grows. “These are not pictures of states, Agent.” He say
s ‘agent’ mockingly, which leaves me confused. “These are pictures of faces.”

  I can’t see Evo’s face, but I can feel his annoyance.

  “Don’t try to be cute, Mr. Kenner. Each clip of pictures indicates the states from which those groups of missing women were taken. You were in each location. Each woman was last seen at a bar talking with you and then magically disappeared. You arrive, people disappear, and then you disappear. A few weeks later, you show up again, and the cycle repeats.”

  Kenner pushes the clipped pictures back to Evo. “I had nothing to do with their disappearance. I’ve never seen those women before.”

  “Both lies,” I say after clearing my throat. He didn’t even look at the pictures. It didn’t take my freaky little extra sense to notice the lie.

  Kenner’s eyes return to the one-way window before returning his attention back to Agent Johnson.

  “Are you sure he can’t see in here?” I ask Agent Smith.

  In a bored tone, she replies, “No. It’s a one-way glass.”

  How is she unaffected by this guy? Doesn’t he give her the creeps, too? Maybe she’s just used to it. She does seem like the ball-busting type. I may be confident in my abilities of self-defense, but this is a chick that I’m positive can hold her own.

  “Then how do you explain this, Mr. Kenner? You have to understand how this looks for you.”

  Kenner inhales a deep breath and sighs loudly, as if he is bored with this interrogation. Looking directly in Agent Johnson’s eyes, he replies with a flat voice, “I’ve always wanted to travel, Agent.” Again, he uses the mocking tone. “Touring this great country holds a great interest for me. The variations of different people and cultures are fascinating. You’re saying I’m abducting people, correct? I’m telling you I’m a traveler. Aside from the eye witness accounts that state I’ve been seen holding a conversation with these women, you have no evidence that I was the one who abducted them. What would I possibly do with a bunch of women surrounding me?” He gives Evo a sadistic smile. “I’m sure you were also told that I was conversing with several people each night, not just women. In good faith, I even declined an attorney. Now, are we done here? You have no reason to keep me here with your silly questions and accusations.”