UPDATE JULY 1: Please scroll down for chapters 3 & 4, part of the Summer Reading Trail!

CHAPTER ONE

Great. That was a waste of two hours. I glowered, shrugging my backpack over my shoulder, and stalked out of my class. For the millionth time, I wondered what I’d been thinking when I picked my major. Apparently, I hadn’t been. The only thing psychology courses taught me was to hate people even more than when I started—and that took some doing.

But, three years into my undergrad, there’s not much I can do but suck it up and hope I can use the fancy schmancy piece of paper to find a decently paying job.

I slid my PDA out of my pocket and checked the calendar. No more classes today—yay—but I had an appointment in forty minutes with one Mr. Samuel Derkin. Bet everyone calls him Sammy.

That gave me enough time to dump my heavy-as-hell backpack (God, what is it about professors that require you to bring the damn book to class?) and get a shower in before I met the guy. He’d sounded scared and urgent on the phone earlier, but so does every kid that loses some precious knick-knack and thinks a psychic has a better chance at locating it.

Fortunately, I’m very good at finding lost things. Good enough to bring me in a decent supplementary income above the money my great-grandmother left me.

I sucked in a breath, pain surging in my gut. She’d lived a good life, and been more of a mom to me than my real mother. Everyone “knew” it was coming. I mean, when you’re over one hundred years old, you’ve gotta croak sometime, right?

Somehow, my sixteen-year-old self thought she would live forever, an immortal among men. Then she died. Peacefully, in her sleep. Her children and grand-children fought over her belongings and sold what they didn’t want. They didn’t give a shit if I wanted it, and I watched some of my beloved keepsakes, things that had been promised me, go up on the estate sale.

The dead have little influence over the decisions of the living. But my family couldn’t touch the money that Grandmama put in a trust for me. She wanted me to have the education that my mother would never provide.

Pity they don’t offer classes for psychics. That would rock.

Someone bumped into me and made a derisive comment about standing in the doorway. “Sorry,” I mumbled. I didn’t mean it a bit, but I took it as a hint that if I wanted my shower, I’d better stop thinking about the past and get a move on.

* * *

A half hour later, I was human again—or at least as human as I ever get. My hair was washed and dried, and I wore clean clothes that were casual yet snappy. I liked to look nice for my appointments; if I dressed at least somewhat professionally, they’d be less likely to write me off as a kook. Then again, the pentacle/cross combination tended to throw a few people off. You’d think they’d never seen a Christian witch before.

It didn’t take me long to walk from the dorms to the center of campus. A young man fidgeted nervously outside the library, his waaay-too-large pants nearly falling off his skinny ass. I took a wild guess and said, “Samuel Derkin?”

He gasped and spun around, eyes wide with fear.

I held up my hands. “Whoa. Don’t freak out on me, kid. I’m not going to bite. Promise.”

That didn’t seem to help much. He narrowed his eyes, putting his hands on his hips. “Who are you?”

“Arielle Thompson.” I stuck my hand out. “I’m the psychic you contacted about your girlfriend.”

“Oh.” Samuel drew in a deep breath before shaking my hand. “I’m sorry for jumping on you, but the situation’s gotten… well… can we talk about this someplace more private?”

“Did you think I planned to talk about all this in the open?” I made a face. “Come on inside. I hold all my appointments in the private study rooms.”

“Oh. Don’t the librarians ever catch on?”

I laughed, opening the door for him. “Not yet, and I don’t intend they ever find out. As far as they’re concerned, I’ve got a noisy-as-hell roommate and come here so I can think while I work.”

Which wasn’t entirely untrue. My roommate was noisy—and has an annoying predilection for having sex regardless of who else is in the room. There’s a reason I splurged on an expensive and effective set of noise-cancelling headphones.

We strode through the library quickly. I smiled and nodded at one of the librarians that recognized me, and then continued into the first private room that was open. Samuel slid into one of the chairs, and I shut the door.

“Now.” I sat down and grabbed a book, notepad, and pencil out of my backpack. The book, I opened on the table for show, in case somebody peeked through the door window. Now, the notepad? That would see real use. “What’s the deal with your girlfriend?”

Samuel bit his lip and closed his eyes, shivering. Now that we were alone, I took a good look at him. His eyes were red and puffy, like he’d been crying for hours. Uh-oh. “I thought Nancy was cheating on me. I wanted you to—I don’t know, read the cards or the stars or something, and tell me that it wasn’t true. But…”

Yeah. That wasn’t unusual. If I had a penny for every paranoid jealous guy or girl that wanted me to check up on their significant other, I’d be able to open my own office instead of hijacking the library.

“But…?” I prodded. There was more that he wasn’t telling me, that he didn’t want to tell me. A sick feeling started to spread through my gut. This wasn’t good.

“I—I—” Samuel choked up and lost it. He started bawling like a little kid, tears pouring down ruby red cheeks. “She’s dead. She’s dead, and they won’t do anything about it.”

Oh great. “Hold on. You mean, between the time when you called me”—less than 48 hours ago—”and now, your girlfriend died?”

He nodded and wiped his dripping nose on his sleeve. “T—T—The cops say she killed herself. But, that isn’t like her. I mean, she’s a Goth but she wasn’t depressed! She never would have done that.”

She never would have left me. The words hung on the air, unspoken, but I could hear them all the same. Being an empath sucks sometimes. “Look,” I said, trying to keep my voice soothing and gentle, “I’m sure the police investigated the matter thoroughly. If there was any evidence of foul play, I’m sure they would have seen it.”

Samuel stared at me. “You don’t understand. Nancy wouldn’t have done it. I thought she was cheating on me because I kept seeing her with this guy. I think he killed her and made it look like a suicide.”

I held in my sigh. Denial is so not a river in Egypt. “I’m sorry that your girlfriend died, but I’m a psychic, not a cop. If you think she was murdered, that’s who you need to go to, the cops.”

“I did, and they wouldn’t believe me,” he whined. Samuel leaned over the table, coming way too close to my personal space. “That’s why I met with you. You’re the only hope I’ve got of proving that she was killed and bringing the murderer to justice.”

What, and revenge didn’t factor into it at all? Yeah, right. If he was trying to get me to play the noble savior act, well, he could find some other dumbfuck to take the role, ’cause it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me.

I clasped my hands together on the table and met his gaze. “Even if I were to investigate the matter, there’s still a logical flaw you’re missing.”

“What’s that?”

“What makes you think that the cops will be any more receptive to hearing ‘it’s a murder’ from a nineteen-year-old psychic?” I smiled grimly. “I’m good at what I do, but what you’re asking is out of my reach. I find things, I throw the cards, and sometimes I can find out whether or not people are being cheated on. But I’m not a cop or a private eye. There’s nothing I can do to help you. I’m sorry.”

“But—!”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you,” I repeated, this time more firmly, and packed my stuff back into the bag. I stood and walked to the door, stopping with one hand on it. “If you need to talk to somebody, the student counselors are very good here. I’d recommend seeing one.”

Samuel didn’t reply to that, the expression in his face turning hard. “Do I still owe you for your time?”

“No.” I shook my head, opening the door. This wasn’t my normal policy, but I was making an exception. “I can’t do anything for you. I’m not going to ask you to pay me.”

Before he had a chance to answer, I left the room and closed the door behind me.

CHAPTER TWO

I slid my key into the lock, grumbling under my breath. It’d been a long day, and I wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed with a book until I fell asleep. But that wasn’t going to happen. I had a paper due the next day, along with other homework assignments. At least the stupid journal would be easy.

If I was lucky, Kristen would be gone and stay that way for the rest of the night. If I had to try to ignore another blow-job, I was going to lose my temper. It’s not pretty when that happens.

Sighing, I opened the door—and stopped, my wards crying out their warning. A sick feeling of dread spread throughout my body, and an unnatural darkness hung over the room. Something had been there, and it wasn’t nice. I probed hesitantly and determined that, whatever it was, it wasn’t there anymore. All the same, I stepped inside slowly.

And screamed.

Kristen lay on her bed, covered with blood. I caught hold of my racing heart and forced myself forward, despite the fear that maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was waiting for me, too. Maybe…

No. I hadn’t felt anything, and a quick scan of the room told me that Kristen and I were the only humans in the room, and I didn’t sense anything non-corporeal, either.

I reached her in a matter of steps, gorge rising in my gut. Scarlet gashes crisscrossed her wrists; the blood oozed like chilled molasses, already starting to congeal. Kristen’s tanned skin was pale, too pale. I sucked in my breath and pressed a finger to her neck, but I already knew the answer. She was dead.

I flipped open my cell and dialed 911. I reported the scene to the dispatcher in a state of numb shock, and it didn’t even fully register when the woman told me she would have police out there within minutes.

She was dead. Dead. Kristen, who had always taken such joy in life, even if she was an inconsiderate bitch to me in the process. I didn’t like her, but I didn’t want her dead—and she was the last person I would’ve thought to commit suicide.

It wasn’t right. It didn’t fit. But neither did murder.

Did it?

I turned around, frustrated, and let my backpack slump to the floor beside my bed. A burgundy rose and a slip of paper rested on my pillow. The breath whooshed out of me, and my hands shook as I picked up the note.

Stay out of it.

No signature, nothing else. I frowned. Stay out of what? It didn’t make any sense. What the hell was there for me, a college student, to stay out of?

I remembered my meeting with Samuel the day before, and the blood drained from my face. God, was it true? Had the other woman been murdered, and was Kristen’s death a message to me? Part of me wanted to believe that Kristen had really committed suicide, but I couldn’t shake that sinking feeling…

Footsteps thundered against the hallway floor and stopped at my door. Wow. I hadn’t expected the cops to get here that fast. I could feel them behind me, in the doorway. I turned around, rose in hand. Without a thought, I crumpled the note and shoved it in my pocket, then turned around, rose still in hand.

My eyes widened. I’d expected two cops to show up, not two dudes in casual suits and two more in uniform. I guessed the suits were detectives and the others regular cops. Either way, I so wasn’t comfortable with that many cops in the room with me. I took an uncertain step backward.

“Arielle Thompson?” one asked in a clipped tone while the others passed him and went to the scene. I nodded, and he flashed his badge. “Detective Summers. You called and reported a suicide?”

Duh? But I didn’t say that out loud. “Yes, sir. My roommate, Kristen Bourne.”

“It’s a suicide, all right, detective,” one of the cops in uniform said.

Summers glared back at him. “Are you a coroner? That’s right, you’re not. It’s their call to make. Get a medical examiner out here ASAP while Peterson and I question the girl.”

I gulped, suddenly nervous. This didn’t sound good.

The other suit, a guy with sandy brown hair and friendly blue eyes, smiled at me. “It’s all right. We just want to ask you some questions about Kristen. I’m Detective Peterson, by the way.”

That had been obvious. “Okay,” I said, my voice quavering from anxiety caused by Summers—but it wouldn’t hurt for them to think I was a traumatized teenybopper. Fact of the matter is, I experienced far worse in the nightmares I had daily as a kid. Compared to them, this was nothing.

“Let’s step outside,” he said. Summers grunted and walked out the door, and I noticed Peterson roll his eyes. I guess he didn’t like him any more than I did. Once outside, he glanced around and asked, “Is there someplace else we can talk?”

I nodded and gestured down the hall. “The common room. This is prime-time for classes. I’d be surprised to find anybody there.”

“Sounds great.”

I led them to the common room, filled with couches, tables and chairs, vending machines, and a TV. Completely empty, just like I’d expected. We grabbed a table near the window, and I looked out at the trees swaying in the wind, playing up the part of the traumatized young woman. Last thing I needed was for them to start off thinking that I’d done it, for God’s sake.

“Miss Thompson, this shouldn’t take long, but we need your full attention and cooperation,” Summers said, almost barking.

Peterson leaned over and whispered something in his ear. The other detective glowered, but leaned back in the chair.

Slowly, I returned my gaze to them. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I—I just came home to get some stuff and found—found—”

The worst of my nightmares came to mind, viscerally, like I was living them all over again. I started shivering, and my stomach knotted. Gorge rose, and I fought to control it and my panting breath. I squeezed my eyes shut. Now that the images were there, I wasn’t sure I could get rid of them.

“I understand,” Peterson said quietly. “Please, I only want to ask a few questions. How well did you know Kristen Bourne?”

“Not very well at all.” I looked up at him, still quivering. I clenched my hands—and pricked my palm on the thorns of the rose I still held. “Ow!”

I set the rose on the table and wiped my bleeding hand with a napkin Peterson proffered. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded at the rose. “What’s that?”

Shit. I repressed the urge to flick off a sarcastic remark, and instead came up with a plausible lie. I didn’t want to explain where it really came from, because then I’d have to tell them about my meeting with Derkin—and the fact that I’m a psychic. Let’s just say that, despite the good bit of business I get at the college, psychics, witches, or really anything out of the ordinary, aren’t welcomed in my neck of the woods. Last thing I need is a cop on my ass.

“It’s from my boyfriend.”

“A black rose?” Summers interrupted, staring at me in disbelief.

“He’s a Goth.”

Silence.

“So Kristen was only a roommate?” Peterson tried to get the subject back on track.

I nodded. “We’re not exactly the type of people who get along well together. I came to school to study, learn, and get my degree. She’s more interested in setting a new record for how many guys a college girl can fuck.” I realized what I’d just said, and my face reddened. “Um. Excuse my language.”

Peterson waved it off, but Summers interrupted again. “You said that this is prime-time for classes. Why did you come back to the dorm?”

“My next class wasn’t for another hour, Detective—which I’ve missed by now. I went back to my room to grab a snack and my textbooks. I’m not crazy enough to lug around every single book I might need all day long.” I made a face.

“And when you found Bourne’s body?”

“I called you guys and waited. That’s it.” I hesitated a moment, then decided to out and say it. “Kristen wasn’t the kind of girl to commit suicide. I didn’t like her, but she never seemed to be depressed. She loved living. I don’t think she killed herself.”

The detectives exchanged looks. Peterson turned back and held out a card. “Thank you for your time, Miss Thompson. If you think of anything else, please call us.”

I took the card. “Of course. I’m sorry I couldn’t help more.”

Oh, I could think of plenty of other things, but they wouldn’t accept any of them. If the cops were like most of the people in this God-forsaken town, they’d brand me a psycho if I told them my true suspicions and the basis for them. I’d be lucky if I didn’t end up in a psych ward.

The detectives stood. Summers stalked away, but Peterson stayed behind for a moment. “Your dorm will be sealed as a crime scene until the cause of death is determined. If you go upstairs, you’ll be able to remove some of your clothes and other personal belongings under supervision.”

“Thanks,” I said, but inwardly I was grumbling. This was turning out to be such a wonderful day. If I was lucky, I’d manage to find somebody to crash with until I got my dorm back—not that I particularly wanted to stay in a room where someone had been murdered.

But they didn’t think it was a murder.

So it was up to me to find out who did it.

The detectives were heading upstairs. I ducked outside and made a phone call. It went to voicemail, but that was fine. “Samuel, this is Arielle Thompson, the psychic. Please call me back as soon as you get this message. I’ve had… a change of heart regarding your situation.”

I flipped the cell closed and headed back upstairs to recover my stuff.

CHAPTER THREE

Samuel crossed his arms over his chest, glaring. “You gave me the brush-off, told me to get counseling, and take it to the cops that wouldn’t help me in the first place. Why the fuck are you back here now?” He said the epithet like it was one, unlike the rest of the school who used it as often as a 90s valley girl said ‘like.’

I winced. I’d known this was going to happen—and I couldn’t blame him. I’d be just as pissed if I were in his shoes. Now, the question: Tell the truth, or make up an elaborate lie?

I opted for truth. Lies are a pain in the ass to remember, not to mention a sin—but I’ve got bigger sins under my belt. “I admit it. I wrote you off as a grieving guy desperate to believe his girlfriend hadn’t killed herself. But…”

“What?” He leaned forward, suddenly curious. Amazing, that.

I explained what I’d found in my dorm yesterday and my altercation with the cops. “I don’t think Kristen’s death was a suicide, and what are the chances of two suicides occurring on the same college campus within 48hrs? Not very likely. It’s highly suspicious.”

He still looked doubtful. “But why do you care? What’s it matter to you? You’re not involved.”

“Well, actually, I am.” I told him about the rose and showed him the note. “I think whoever did this wants to keep me away from it. I don’t know why, but I intend to find out.”

“You’re crazy.” Samuel stared at me like I’d grown three heads.

I shrugged. “I’m a psychic. I have to be, right? But that doesn’t matter. Do you want me to find out who killed your girl or not? The door’s right over there, and I can walk out just as easily—”

“No!” he cut me off. “No, no. I want you to help me. It’s just… I didn’t expect this.”

“Neither did I,” I said dryly. But when you’re in my business, you learn to expect the unexpected.

“So… what do we do first?” he asked hesitantly.

“In order to get a good reading on Nancy’s energy, I’m going to need some of her personal belongings. Is there anything she was particularly attached to? A stuffed animal, maybe?”

He thought for a couple moments. “Yeah. We’ll need to get it before her parents come down here though. They’re supposed to be here tomorrow.”

“No time like the present then!” I clapped my hands together and stood.

“Umm.” Samuel looked at me strangely. “She had a private room, and I don’t have the key. How are we going to get in?”

I smiled wickedly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But…”

“Trust me. It won’t be a problem. I promise. Psychic’s honor.” I mock-saluted.

Samuel shook his head like he wanted to argue but didn’t dare. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

This was going to be fun.

*          *          *

It didn’t take long to get to Nancy’s dorm. Fortunately, the place was all but deserted, so there were no weird looks when we came into the hall. I followed Samuel through the building until he stopped in front of a door. “Here it is. Work your magic,” he said with more than a bit of sarcasm in his voice.

I chuckled and rested my hand on the doorknob, whispering to the lock’s mechanism. Something people don’t understand is that everything has a spirit—and spirits can be coaxed.

This one, however, was particularly stubborn and took several minutes of wheedling—interjected by Samuel sighing and rolling his eyes—before it finally clicked open.

Samuel’s eyes popped and his jaw dropped. “How—?” he squeaked.

I flashed a grin at him, stepping into the room. “Magic.”

The inside of the room looked like a Goth’s wet dream. The walls weren’t painted black—I imagine the college administration would have a shit fit if she’d gone that far—but the curtains had been replaced with black ones, her bedding was black, the walls were covered with posters of vampires, fake witches, and the occasional bad-in-black band. The number of skulls around the room was a dead giveaway, too.

Samuel closed the door behind us. “She called it her sanctuary.”

I closed my eyes and breathed in the energy of the room. Despite the dark exterior, the energy was clean and free-flowing, filled with enthusiasm and joy. Not the type of energy you’d find in the home of somebody suffering from depression bad enough to commit suicide.

I glanced over at the black-lace-trimmed bed and raised my eyebrows. A stuffed animal was set against the pillow, but it wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen. It looked like several different animals sewn together by blood-red thread into a black patchwork teddy bear.

“Nancy called it her Frankenbear,” Samuel said. I hadn’t even asked, but I guess the question had been obvious. “It was her favorite.”

I picked it up, feeling the energy within. One word, and only one, would suffice: Love. If she had been depressed, it would’ve exuded sadness and despair, the energy darkness bleak enough to make the color of the toy pale in its wake.

There was one more thing I had to check first. “Did the cops take Nancy’s backpack? The stuff that she had on her the day she—” I didn’t finish my sentence.

“No.” Samuel shook his head and brushed past me. He rummaged under her bed and pulled out a large backpack—black, but no surprise there. “They said she died around 9pm. By that point, she’d already dumped it all here and gotten dressed nice to go out.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Date with you?”

“No,” he said, and his eyes darkened. “I don’t know the name of the guy, but like I said the other day, she’d been seeing some other dude. A buddy of mine told me he’d seen her at this night club with him more than once. I didn’t like the idea that she was two-timing me, which is why I came to you in the first place—”

“Do you know the name of the club?” I interrupted. I didn’t need to hear the ‘woe is me, my girlfriend is a cheater’ spiel.

“Shadowscape. It’s pretty far from here, in downtown LA.”

I nodded. Getting there wouldn’t be a problem. Between the car and Google Maps, I’m all set. “I’ll check it out.”

Then I had a thought. “Um. How trustworthy is this buddy of yours?”

He looked surprised. “Very. Why?”

Oh, boy. I suppressed the urge to groan. “Are you trying to tell me your high school didn’t have boy/girl drama?”

“I was homeschooled.”

That explained a lot. “All right. Here’s a scenario. We’ve got a boyfriend and a girlfriend who are deeply in love with each other. Then we’ve got this unscrupulous fellow over here—could even be a girl, but let’s go with a guy for this example—who is madly in lust with the girl and wants to break them up. He gets close with the guy and starts telling him stories about seeing his girl with other men and shit like that. Maybe the boyfriend breaks up with her on the spot, but let’s say he doesn’t. Let’s say he asks his girlfriend about it and she insists nothing happened. What’s dude to think but she’s a liar?

Samuel’s jaw was making out with the floor again. “I—I’ve known Chuck for months. He’d never do anything like that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“How can you be positive?” I folded my arms over my breasts.

Samuel wiped his forehead, muttering something under his breath. “Okay, look, you can’t tell this to anybody because he would kill me if it got out, but…”

“But?”

“He’s gay.”

“Okay. Let’s change the scenario. Maybe he’s trying to get you to break up with Nancy so he can have you.”

Samuel smacked his forehead. “God! Will you knock off the conspiracy theory shit? Chuck’s got a boyfriend already. They’re serious about each other. Real serious. I mean, they’re even talking about transferring to a college in Massachusetts so they can get married.”

Well, that answered that. It was still theoretically possible that it could all be a ruse, but if he was that involved with somebody else, it really wasn’t likely. “Okay, so Nancy was going to a club with another guy. I’ll check it out and see what I can find. Now…”

I trailed off, bending down to the backpack. I riffled through the items within, and I didn’t find any trace of emotional distress. I did find strong traces of lust and anticipation, which went along with the whole cheating theory. They could possibly be for Samuel, but since she was supposed to have a date with another guy that night, it wasn’t too likely.

In the bottom of the backpack, I found a silver bracelet that exuded an entirely different energy. Deep, masculine, heady. If it were a cologne, I’d be rubbing my face all over the guy just to get more of that delicious scent. That wasn’t like me.

But, it explained the cheating. I have strong willpower, and if I was tempted by the mere scent of the bracelet—then it would be nearly impossible for a girl with less strength of will to resist. I wasn’t going to tell Samuel that, though.

I held it up to him, even though I knew the answer. “Was this hers?”

He took a close look at it and shook his head. “No. I’ve never seen it before.”

“The energy doesn’t feel like the rest of her stuff. I think it might be from the guy she was seeing. Mind if I keep it? It might help me identify him.” Or it might help me trace him, if it came down to that.

Samuel shrugged. “I don’t care. I don’t want it.”

Big surprise there. I slid it into a Ziploc bag and put it in my backpack, then continued to scan the room. On her desk was a professional studio picture of a young blonde woman dressed in black, but lacking the characteristic Goth makeup. Probably to appease the parents. I took the picture in hand and asked, “Is this Nancy?”

“Yes. It’s about a year old, she said, but she doesn’t—didn’t—look much different,” he said, his voice breaking with pain when he made the correction.

“I’d like to take it with me so I have something to show people at the club.” I took the photo out of the frame and dumped the cheap piece of junk in the trash. My eyes set on a hairbrush filled with blonde hairs. I grinned. Jackpot. “And this, in case I need to do any spell-work.”

“Spell-work?” Samuel looked at me suspiciously. “You’re not going to do anything that could harm her soul, are you?”

I made a face. “Of course not. But hair is a physical tie, whereas everything else is emotional. I might be able to use this hair to identify the killer, if he still has anything of her on him.”

Or I might be able to use it to call up her spirit from the dead to answer vital questions, but Samuel definitely didn’t need to know about that. Contact with the spirits of the dearly departed is not exactly conducive to the mourning process.

“Okay,” he said. “Take whatever you need. Anything that will help. I just want to find out the truth.”

I put the items in my pack, took a deep breath, and turned to face Samuel. “There’s still a lot I don’t know, but I can tell you this with absolute certainty. Nancy did not kill herself. There are no signs of depression or emotional distress in any of her belongings. I don’t know what happened to her, but I will do everything I can to find out.”

“Thank you,” he said, the gratitude plain in his voice and face. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

I waved him off. “Don’t thank me until after you’ve seen my bill. I don’t work normally work murder cases. I could be risking my pasty white ass here.”

“If the note’s to be believed, your—err—ass is already at risk,” he pointed out.

“Don’t remind me,” I said with a sigh and left the room.

CHAPTER FOUR

It wasn’t long after my talk with Samuel that another suit accosted me on my way to class. “Excuse me, Miss Thompson, but I need to speak with you. It’s urgent.”

I sighed, hefting my backpack on one shoulder. “Look, I already told you guys everything I know. I have class in—” I checked my watch “—ten minutes.”

The dude stepped closer to me, smiling an almost predatory smile. With the new proximity, I wasn’t able to ignore his energy, powerful, dominating, and completely unwilling to take no for an answer. The other cops had been a joke compared to this guy. Shit. “I believe,” he said in a low whisper, “that there is more going on here than you told my colleagues.”

I met his gaze, unyielding. “Sir, I’m a college student. Why do you think I know anything about this? The detectives were ready to write Kristen’s death off as a suicide. Why aren’t you?”

“You didn’t believe it was a suicide.”

“No, I don’t. But that didn’t mean jack to them. She was vivacious and took pleasure in her pleasures. She’s not your classic suicide case. And she died less than 48hrs after another girl supposedly committed suicide on this campus. I find the coincidence a bit too hard to believe.”

He looked at me sharply. “How did you know about Nancy McGrue’s death?”

Shit. I shrugged. “It’s a small campus. Word gets around.”

I don’t think he completely bought it, but he didn’t argue. “There’s still something you’re not telling me about the whole thing. I know you talked to Samuel Derkin.”

My blood chilled, but I tried not to let it show on my face. “So? Is that a crime? Am I being accused of murdering these two women?”

He shook his head. “No, but I believe you have more information that could help us find the killer.”

“Why do you think that?”

He handed me a manila envelope. I opened it, and stifled a gasp. It was filled with pictures—pictures of me, talking to Samuel, the two of us outside Nancy’s room, inside…

My eyes narrowed. “How did you get these pictures?”

He only smiled.

All right, let’s try a different tact. “Who are you, really?”

“I’m Agent Coulter with the FBI.” He flipped out his badge. “We suspect the suicides are murders, as well. I’m here to investigate, and we need any help that you could give us.”

Great. He wasn’t a cop, he was a Fed. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck. Grandmama always told me never to trust the government. “They’ll either put you in an insane asylum, or they’ll make you their new pet experiment. Watch out for them.”

And here I was, face to face with one. Just peachy keen.

But Grandmama had grown up in a far different time than I, a time when the government was a real danger to people like us. I didn’t trust that the local cops wouldn’t put me away in the loony bin, but a Fed has more important things to do with their time. So if he wanted the information—well, fine. I’d give it to him, and see where he went with it.

He’d probably just write me off as crazy, but at least I’d have tried.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll answer your questions, but not now and not here. I really can’t miss this class, but I’ll meet you somewhere afterward. How about Mindy’s Café on the corner of Main and Sovereign in about two hours?”

Coulter nodded. “I’ll see you there.”

*          *          *

I had to give the man credit for being prompt. I got to Mindy’s to find that he’d already staked out a table. After grabbing iced tea and a sandwich, I walked over and sat down. Coulter looked at my meal oddly.

“Hey, I was hungry.” I took a bite of the chicken caesar sandwich, chewed, and washed it down with some peach tea. Mindy’s wasn’t the greatest, but their food was cheap and edible. “Okay, so you want the story that the cops didn’t get?”

“Yes.”

I drew in my breath. “All right, but you’re probably not going to believe me. Let’s start off with a fact. I’m a psychic. I’ve gotten a bit of a reputation around the college, and I do things for people. Mostly it’s people wanting me to find their missing objects, but every so often something unusual comes in—like Samuel Derkin.” I went on to explain the rest of my first meeting with him.

“What made you change your mind?” Agent Coulter tilted his head.

I half-smiled and pulled the rose and note out of my backpack. “When I found Kristen’s body, these were on my bed.”

His expression turned serious, and anger flared in his eyes. “Your earlier statement was that the rose was from your boyfriend.”

“I lied.” I shrugged. “You said you wanted the truth, here it is.”

“Why didn’t you show these earlier?” Coulter’s steely gaze met mine, and I shivered. Oh, he was not happy.

“In case you haven’t noticed, and you probably haven’t because you don’t live here, this isn’t a friendly place for people like me. I’ve seen psychics that went to the cops with information deemed a psychotic and put away in a mental institution. You at least seem to understand that there’s a big difference between ‘psychic’ and ‘psychotic,’ and I’m not just talking about spelling.”

He pursed his lips, but nodded. I guess he understood and disapproved of the attitude. I hope. “Continue.”

I complied, telling him about my second meeting with Samuel and our subsequent visit to Nancy’s dorm room. Coulter’s eyebrows rose when I told him what I’d found there, and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. As soon as I mentioned the whole checking-out-Shadowscape bit, his eyes sharpened and he leaned forward.

“I hope you aren’t serious.”

“Err…”

Coulter tapped his fingers on the table sternly. “Arielle, this man is a killer. You’ve already received a ‘warning.’ The next time could be permanent. While the medical field can do a lot, it can’t bring you back from the dead.”

“I know. But I have to find out.” I set my jaw stubbornly. “And I have an advantage over you. Feds start nosing around, whoever it is goes into hiding. They aren’t going to think anything of me, because they think they can take me down.”

“What makes you think they can’t?”

I hesitated. I didn’t know. Not in any visceral sense that I could explain oh so nicely and logically. But I knew, without a doubt, that I could pull this off and be safe. Well, maybe not safe, but I’d live.

I drew in my breath and told Coulter just that.

He swore and shook his head. “My best advice to you is to leave this the hell alone and let the professionals deal with it.”

“I am a professional.”

“Have you ever dealt with a murder case before? I didn’t think so.” Coulter stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the linoleum floor. “But I can see that nothing I say will convince you that this is a fucking bad idea. Try not to get yourself killed. I don’t want to have to see your body in the morgue, too.”

Without another word, he left, and I shivered.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Summer Reading Trail

Sexy Romance – Grace Draven – A Darkness of Gods

Erotic and Adult – Joely Sue Burkhart – The Shadowed Blood