Dex?” she said. “But only because you don’t have to
go out in it.”
He offered her his standard, baleful kitty stare, reminding her who was top
dog around here, then dropped his head back onto his paws.
dog around here, then dropped his head back onto his paws.
It suddenly hit her. She’d become a cat lady: a single, living-alone,
muttering-to-herself, hadn’t-been-on-a-date-in-months, hadn’t-had-sex-in-far-
longer-than-that cat lady.
She chuckled in spite of herself, knowing how that would have horrified her
late grandmother, the one who’d left her this house. Olivia Wainwright,
daughter of a multimil ionaire, granddaughter of a former senator, cousin of a
current one, descended from a long line of Southern debs and socialites . . . a
spinster. Frankly, she suspected her grandmother would be more horrified by
that than she would by the fact that her granddaughter had an unhealthy
connection with the dead and worked with a bunch of eccentric paranormal
types.
After setting the coffeemaker, Olivia stuck a piece of bread in the toaster, if
only to keep herself from reaching for a donut when she got to the office. Julia
brought them in almost every day—a habit that had lingered from the other
woman’s previous days as a Charleston cop. Of course, a donut obsession
wasn’t the only thing that had stuck around after Julia left Charleston. Her last
partner had, too. Not that he could be seen by anybody but Julia.
Ghosts . Huh. Once upon a time, the very idea would have made Olivia
laugh in outright disbelief. That was before she, herself, had become a
semiregular in the land of the dead. Now, it wasn’t that tough to believe
anything. eXtreme Investigations was staffed with the best of the paranormal
best.
There was Julia, of course, her boss, who was seldom without her ghostly
best friend. Aidan McConnel ’s psychic visions had proved remarkably helpful
in solving crimes. Mick Tanner’s ability to touch something and know its entire
history had led them al in some interesting directions. And Derek Monahan’s
ability to see a murder victim reenacting his own death again and again
added to the power of Olivia’s own shared-death experiences.
“Crazy stuff,” she muttered. But al part of her life now.
Not real y thinking about it, she picked up the remote and flipped on the
smal TV that stood on a corner counter just in time to hear a news anchor say,
“Coming up after the break, the latest on remains found after Monday’s fire at
a bar on Ogeechee Road.”
Her stomach tightened instinctively, her mind immediately tripping back to
those surreal moments Monday morning when she’d felt like somebody else
was propel ing her body to that crime scene. Olivia was used to feeling like
she’d stepped into other people’s bodies; the feeling that someone else had
taken over hers was something she didn’t like. Not one bit. Especial y since it
had nearly gotten her kil ed.
You should turn it off. You don’t need to be thinking about this.
But of course she didn’t.
The news program segued into a long commercial break, but the cheerful
jingle of a national fast-food joint didn’t distract her. Instead, despite al her
efforts, her tension rose.
After pouring her coffee, she buttered her toast and took a few bites. She
stopped chewing as soon as the familiar news program logo reappeared.
“And now, more on a story we broke Monday morning, about a fire at a bar
cal ed Fast Eddie’s, which revealed a disturbing discovery: human remains
concealed inside a wal . This morning, sources inside the Savannah-Chatham
Metropolitan Police Department are tel ing us that the remains most likely
belonged to a child.”
Olivia swal owed hard, her hand shaking a little, or a lot, judging by the
coffee that sloshed out of the mug and hit her skin. Lowering the cup to the
counter, she absently reached for the sink, turned on a stream of cold water
and let it run over the