by Isabel Wroth
“Hi.”
Callum turned his face to press a kiss to my palm, reaching up to rub it in with his thumb. The light hit his eyes just right, and the details of my dream faded as I memorized the shine of deep amber, gold, and copper all layered together to create the beauty of his eyes.
He shifted closer, his broad shoulders blocking out the sunlight streaming through the window. He had a hard, strong jaw, gorgeous lips that could do wondrous things to my body, and a smile so sexy it made me want to weep. He was broad-shouldered, long-legged, heavy with muscle—not Vin Diesel or The Rock heavy but fit enough to make a suspect think twice about trying anything.
Callum smelled like my frankincense soap and the spicy aftershave he preferred to use. The scent lingered on my pillows and made my heart flutter every time I inhaled. There was little else I loved more than being mashed between Callum's hard body and the softness of my bed. I felt feminine and small, and safe in ways I can’t fully describe.
It hadn't been until I'd made the mistake of hooking up with Jared Markus—the asshole responsible for outing my POD paintings to the world—that I'd begun to have body issues.
Jared was quick to say things like, 'I love a woman with thick thighs who doesn't care about what people think' or 'you might have small tits, babe, but that ass is big enough to make up for it.'
Sneaky, backhanded compliments that made me struggle to see myself as a beautiful woman. Yeah, I did have a big ass and thighs that wouldn't ever be considered fashionably thin by today's standards. My breasts aren’t porn star huge, I’m not blonde or freckle-faced, and I wear black 99% of the time.
My hair, black as a raven's wing, is stick straight and hangs to my hips. My eyes are deep indigo, my wine-red lips too big for my face, and my pale skin refuses to tan. Between my natural coloring and my black wardrobe, people often mistake me for a moody, five-foot-ten Gothic artist.
Callum describes me often as his Venus de Milo. With arms.
I absolutely adore him.
Not that long ago, I'd made a terrible mistake and left for Paris after Mia Graham's body had been recovered from serial killer Tomas Pirogov Jr’s, a.k.a. Gemini's, possession.
Callum had sunk deeply into the guilt and loss of Mia all over again, and even though I knew how it felt to lose a sibling and I would have given anything to know what happened to my brother, I incorrectly assumed Callum had taken what he needed from me and moved on.
I'd thought someone like him, a logical thinking member of the NYPD, wouldn't ever be compatible with someone like me, an artist and a psychic with a very narrow metaphysical view.
Sometimes I still had those thoughts, but not right now.
“Hey, baby. I need you to get up; we've got a situation.” The tone of Callum's voice killed any amorous feelings I might have had, and instead, filled me with dread.
I tucked the bedsheet under my arms and sat up, watching my lover rub at his jaw—his tell-tale sign that he had something to say, but he didn't want to tell me.
There was only one reason why he'd be staring at me the way he was, angry and frustrated. Only one reason why he would wake me up out of a sound sleep early in the morning to tell me we had a situation. My stomach churned painfully, with such force the acid crawled up the back of my throat.
“They did another interview, didn't they?” The flash of rage that shot through Callum's expression was answer enough.
Embarrassment. Grief. Loneliness. Outrage. The ragged sensation of abandonment and anger I felt whenever I thought of my parents, made my skin flush with heat one second and go icy cold the next.
I sat back against the headboard, my head hitting the wood with a dull thunk as I stared up at the ceiling in an effort not to let the frustrated tears fall.
“How bad is it?”
Callum opted to climb in bed with me, fully dressed, and pulled me across his lap. “I don't think the plan is going to work, baby,” he told me gently, palming my hair while I clung to him, his lips brushing the skin of my brow with every word.
The plan.
My plan to ignore every request for an interview.
My plan to ignore my parents.
My plan to pretend every single dirty detail of my life isn't being hauled out and hung on a line for the whole world to see.
It was one thing when my PODs made it to the tabloids. With Nigel’s help, that situation had been dealt with months ago.
I'd held an art show to explain in half-truths why I have a secret room full of over two hundred paintings of murdered men and women, whose deaths I have psychically seen days before the murders ever occurred.
Creating doubt in the minds of people who didn't believe in psychics turned out to be only moderately difficult.
Being psychic is difficult to prove—difficult to confirm.
Psychiatric files and doctor's reports verifying I'd spent two years in an asylum for children with behavioral problems, diagnosed with hallucinations and jealousy for a sibling who died not long later, those were evidence—proof used to twist the truth until I looked like the villain.
Speaking to a reporter and having to answer direct questions on camera about my past and my abilities? I couldn’t think of anything worse.
“Jo?”
I closed my eyes so tight I saw black and white spots, feeling like I was free-falling through hell, and not even Callum's powerfully strong arms around me or the warmth of his body could stop me from turning end over end.
“I can't talk to reporters, Callum. They just take everything I say and twist it to suit the narrative they've started. I could file another libel and slander lawsuit, but unlike last time, there isn't any incentive to settle out of the spotlight. My parents are determined to get their fifteen minutes, no matter the cost.”
“I talked to my old man. He has a few strings to pull and a favor to call in. If you want to tell your side of the story, Helena Markowitz is the woman to put it out there. You think your lawyer is a ball-buster, Helena is the one for who the term was coined.”
My growing self-pity took a tumble. “What did you say?”
“That your lawyer isn't the only ball-buster—"
I tilted my head back and frowned up at my man. “No, her name. You said Helena, right?”
Callum tugged at the sheet I'd wrapped around me, taking an edge to wipe at the frustrated tears that slid helplessly down my cheeks. “Yeah. You know her?”
“No, but the name sounds familiar, though I can’t remember where I heard it. Who is she?”
“An investigative journalist. She's retired, but Pop says she's willing to come out of it just for you. She's won Pulitzers for stories done in Rowanda, Vietnam, and Washington. She's covered six different serial killer cases and exposed mob corruption in the supreme court.
“Back in her day, she had a reputation for telling the truth, no matter what. Helena never put a shine on it to make herself look good, and when my dad was still working homicide, she covered the trial of James Wysocki.”
Even I knew who James Wysocki, a.k.a. Jimmy the V, was. A serial murderer with a taste for virgins. Jimmy raped and killed fourteen nuns before John Graham and his partner caught the guy in 1987.
“She wants to talk to me?” I asked in astonishment.
Callum nodded and gave my cheek one more good wipe, then bent to touch a kiss to the tip of my nose.
“Yes. She called Pop the day after your mother got her first round of air time.”
Uncertainty felt like a pitching ship in my already churning belly. I licked my lips and tasted peppermint.
Peppermint...
Bits and pieces of my dream returned to me, and I heard Mia's voice as though she were right beside me.
It's time to go home. Talk to Helena before it's too late.
“Jo?” Callum prompted gently.
“I'll talk to Helena.”
“Good. But your parent's latest interview isn't the only reason I woke you up, baby.”
I groaned piteously, buryi
ng my face in Callum's throat, wishing the strength of his arms alone had the power to hide me away from the world and whatever the new problem was.
“Pops called. He got the report from the Sheriff's Department. He's on his way over.”
CHAPTER TWO
I had two cups of coffee in me; my nerves were already shot, so by the time Callum's parents arrived, I was about five minutes away from a minor meltdown.
Marcy breezed in ahead of her husband, carrying a familiar orange box, and the sight of it made my stomach drop to my toes.
That box is full of unicorn bagels and sprinkle-laden cake frosting found only from The Bagel Shop in Brooklyn. John and Marcy live across the bridge in Hoboken.
To get that box of heavenly treats, they'd have had to drive through the Holland Tunnel, across Lower Manhattan, over the Manhattan Bridge, around the navy yard, and up to The Bagel Shop. Then, after standing in line for twenty minutes, the drive to High Line is at least forty minutes with the morning traffic.
If John Graham—who is currently griping at his wife about being on time—had gone over an hour out of his way to bring me unicorn bagels, whatever news he had about Elliot's case is bad. Really bad.
Blindly, I reached for the counter and lowered myself to the closest bar stool.
“Hi, honey!” Marcy greeted exuberantly, completely ignoring my dread as she bustled toward me to set the bright orange box on the counter. She gave me a tight hug, then did the same to Callum. “It's such a nice day outside—”
“So, you drove all the way to Brooklyn to enjoy it, Ma?” Callum drawled teasingly.
John moved the pastry box out of the way and set his manly satchel down by the bagels. “No. Your mother insisted on getting some damn funky-colored bagels. I think they're disgusting, but she put away two on the drive over. Jo, it's not as bad as you think. I promise.”
Every bit as observant as his son, John must have seen the way I'd braced myself for whatever was in his satchel. Callum came up behind me and set his hands on my shoulders, pulling me back to rest against his chest.
“No reason to beat around the bush. Get to it, Pop.”
John gave his son a thankless look, pulling his cheaters out of his pocket while Marcy busied herself in my kitchen, getting some coffee for herself and John. He slid a few files out of his bag, sat down, and glanced at me over the tops of his glasses.
“Ready?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded, shamelessly reaching up to lace my fingers with Callum’s.
“Yes.”
John gave me a grunt of approval and got to it. “Twenty years ago, the Sheriff's Department interviewed your parents, the housekeeper, and the groundskeeper regarding your brother's death, but didn't dig as deep as I would have.
“The way the report reads, the nanny had the night off, so the housekeeper—one Evelyn Decker—took Elliot into the kitchen with her after dinner, put him in his playpen, and started washing the dishes.
“Mrs. Decker claims she left the side door open because she'd burnt some bacon earlier and your mom complained about the smell.
“Elliot got out of the playpen without her noticing, crawled out the open door, and made his way around to the fountain in the front. The housekeeper didn't realize he was gone until she finished the dishes.
“Based on the blueprints I pulled from the city, it's about six hundred yards from the back door to the fountain.
“That's a long way for a toddler to crawl without someone noticing, and if I'd caught the case, I wouldn't have accepted that story as the truth.”
John made a face to express how thin he thought the case was. “Your mother was the one to find him, an hour after the housekeeper said Elliot was missing. The only people in the house were Mrs. Decker, your parents, and the groundskeeper who claims to have been sound asleep until the deputies came knocking on the door of the gatehouse.
“The housekeeper wasn't even charged with negligent homicide. There was no autopsy and Nasa found an invoice from a funeral home for cremation services two days after Elliot's death.”
I'd been holding my breath to try and starve the pain inside me, but now I had to gasp for air or pass out, and like fuel to a dying fire, the oxygen hit my lungs, and the agony ignited with a whoosh.
I shuddered, closing my eyes to focus on breathing, on the feeling of Callum behind me and the support of his family to keep it together, struggling for any image other than Elliot's tiny body on a cold metal slab or being put into an incinerator.
“In your experience, is there a logical reason why a toddler who suffered that kind of death, would so quickly be cremated?”
In his blunt, gruff way, John gave it to me straight. “No. If I were still on the force, my next step would be to question your parents and the housekeeper, while doing my best to rattle their cage.”
“But?” I asked as I opened my eyes again, clearly hearing the but in his last statement.
“The way they've been acting for the media, if I'm wrong in suspecting either of your parents as the killer, they'll have fuel to set the flames they've already lit into a bonfire. So, I vote that you talk to Helena first. Do the interview, let her make this report and your opinion public. Then ...” John gave his son a dirty glare. “Callum can swoop in, pick up your mom and dad, and look pretty on camera.”
“John! How could you wish that on our son?” Aghast, Marcy threw a wadded-up napkin at her husband. “You know how hard it is to be an active duty detective and deal with the media attention of a high-profile case!”
“Pop, come on. You know I didn't hog your collar on purpose.”
“We aren't here to hash that shit out now.” John harrumphed, trying to hide the sparkle of amusement I saw in his sharp eyes. “In the meantime, Jo, I'd like to run a different angle.”
John Graham was an amazing man. No matter the gravity of the situation, he managed to find a sly way to distract me from the pain long enough to let me catch my breath.
I'd seen him do it for Marcy when the agony of losing Mia brought her down, distracting her from the grief with outrageous comments or calling me Dame Death. Callum's father was one of a kind, and I was glad he was the one investigating Elliot's murder.
“Now, I've done a little research, spoken to some people, and I've gotten some information to say that it's not uncommon for babies to have dimples. Aside from the dimples, and fact that your parents both have dark hair and blue eyes while Elliot was blonde with hazel eyes, is there anything else that led you to believe he wasn't your father's son?”
I shook my head and shrugged. “Around the time my mother announced she was pregnant, my parents rarely spent much time together in the same room.
“My father wasn't ever an overly affectionate person, but he never held Elliot, not once that I can remember, and the few times I saw my mother hold Elliot out to him, my father just walked away.
“Elliot spent more time with his nanny than he did either of my parents. I guess that's not evidence so much as suspicion.”
John diligently took notes, looking up at me with a brief wave of his pen. “I'd like to test some DNA and compare Elliot's to yours. A factual report will conclusively say whether your suspicions are correct.
“Is there anything of Elliot's that I could take to a lab and test? An old blanket? A pacifier or a bottle?”
Baffled, I tried to think of anything that might still have DNA on it. “I know he slept with a yellow ducky and liked to suck on the bill like a pacifier. All of his things are at the mansion in Pine Hill, but I don't know if the duck is still there.”
“You have access to the house?” John asked with mild surprise.
“Yeah. I was going to sell it after I moved here to the city, but my lawyer told me the offers I received over the years were ludicrously low, and truth be told, I don't think I can get rid of it until I know what happened there.”
Marcy made a soft sound of understanding, and I turned to smile briefly at her, wondering why John was sud
denly smirking. Callum made the same face when he thought evil things.
“You own the house?” John clarified, and I nodded slowly, wary of that look. “How would you feel about doing the interview with Helena there at the mansion versus here?”
Callum chuckled and looked over my shoulder at him. Both father and son clearly had the same idea.
"Pop, that’s evil."
I looked back and forth between father and son. “What is?”
Callum squeezed my shoulders and bent to press a kiss to my forehead. “Pop can look for anything that might have some of Elliot's DNA on it, and if we wait to arrest your parents until after the interview at the mansion airs, they're bound to see it. See you, all grown up, still holding onto what they probably think is their house. I guess it's kind of petty.”
No, it was brilliant.
Up until right now, I hadn't had any way to fight back or strike out against my parents and the lies they were telling about me.
Telling my side of the story in the house my mother and father had loved so much wasn't petty ...
It was perfect.
“I'll call the groundskeeper and let him know we're coming.”
The distorted sound of the Pink Panther song came from inside John's satchel, and he pulled a face that was a mix of surprise and exasperation.
“Must be eight fifteen.”
Marcy snickered as she finished spreading a huge dollop of sprinkle-laden cream cheese frosting on a unicorn bagel.
“On the dot.”
John dug around in his bag until he found his cell, shaking his head as he looked at the screen.
“Helena's been calling every damn day for a week,” So saying, John snatched off his glasses and loudly barked into the phone, “Damnit, woman, I said I’d call you back!”
He walked off to take his call, and Callum shook behind me, choking back laughter while his mother rolled her eyes heavenward before coming around to set the plate of schmear-filled bagels in front of me.
Marcy tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, giving me a gentle smile while she searched my face.
"You look tired, honey. Are you sleeping okay?"
