Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Dammit, I have to stop thinking of him.
“So, what, the vic just sat there and let someone tie him up?” Burgess asks.
“He could’ve been drugged,” I say. There’s a snifter on the dead man’s desk with a few drops of amber liquid left in the bottom of the glass and a fully stocked bar across the room. “Could be the whiskey.”
Burgess must have already thought of this, and now he’s testing me. I’m new to the city and the force, so I expect a bit of hazing.
“They’ve already sent samples to the lab,” Burgess says. Yep, definitely testing me.
I’m still studying the red marks. “If it’s not a drug. . . it could’ve been consensual. Rope play.”
“Like some kink shit?”
I don’t say more. The last thing I need to do is out myself as a kinkster in front of my judgmental new coworker. As I move around the vic, I’m extra aware of the flogger marks on my back hidden under my sweater and leather jacket. The pain steadies me, centers me. It’s a surrogate to touch, the next best thing to having the dom here and holding me. . .
I close my eyes. It’s not the same as being blindfolded, but sometimes it heightens my other senses.
I sense the darkness in this room, the weight of death and violence, and I see a large, dark shape looming over the dead man.
I want to reach for my sketchbook and draw what I’m imagining, but Burgess’s heavy tread tells me he’s breathing down my neck.
“So what’s your deal?” he asks. “You think you’re psychic?”
And here we go. “The brain processes a trillion points of data a millisecond. What most think is instinct or psychic ability is simply the subconscious delivering that data.”
I straighten to see his blank expression. Like most men his age, he hides his confusion behind a stone wall.
“I’m just looking at the scene details and making guesses. Connections. Just like you or any other detective.”
Burgess’s eyes narrow. “Last case you were on, the detective told me you knew stuff. Stuff no one could possibly know unless they watched the killer. Freaky.”
This is why I don’t get close to people, but not the only reason or the most important one. My gift is a curse and sets me apart. It marks me as different and puts me on a separate course, alone.
“Maybe I have a great imagination.” Like Tesla or Einstein, though I doubt he’d understand the reference. “I’m just able to piece together more of the scene from the facts I have.”
He’s not buying it. I have to give him something, or he’ll stand here questioning me all day, and I’ll never get a chance to review the scene like I need to.
“Do you believe in the gods?”
He nods. Most citizens of New Rome believe in the pantheon, even if they’re not really devout enough to go to the temples.
“Maybe I just have a connection to one of them.” I hold his gaze until he looks away. Finally, I can do my work. I walk around the body, searching for more clues. Under the chemical smell, I get another hit of that cologne—the one that reminds me of the dom. It’s faint and isn’t coming from the body. I don’t mention it in case I’m imagining it.
Stop thinking of HIM.
“Have you talked to building security?” I ask.
“They’ve been interviewed. But there were none up here. Gregory Martin liked to be left alone.”
“And he didn’t have anything on his calendar? No hint that he might be meeting someone up here?”
Burgess shrugs. “Tony and Jim are taking care of that.” He’s talking about Tony Cuccinelli and Jim Bonds, the lead detectives assigned to the case. The ones we’re meant to assist, although Burgess doesn’t seem to take his duties seriously. I make a mental note to interview the employees and assistants myself.
A shadow darts across the corner of my eye. A big shape, huge but silent. A predator.
I turn to follow it, but it’s gone. A figment of my imagination. A hit of intuition.
My psychic abilities coming to life.
Burgess turns with me, but of course he sees nothing. I keep my expression blank, scanning the hallway.
“Any sign of the murder weapon?” I ask to cover my sudden pivot.
“None. Probably a knife. Autopsy will tell us more.”
“What about cameras?” I’ve scanned the corners, but it doesn’t look like there are any in here. “Any on this floor?”
“Nope. We’re getting the feed from the ones in the lobby to maybe get eyes on the fucker.”
I shake my head. “The killer didn’t come through the front door.” I start down the hall.
“How do you know?” Burgess asks, but I’m already leaving him behind to follow the dark shape hovering in the hall, the darkness beckoning me forward.
It’s not real, of course. But it’s something that will lead me to a clue.