at the moment, he wasn’t thinking about the actress. He was thinking about the Brothers Grimm.
Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, hair as black as ebony.
And then there were her eyes, a deep fathomless blue.
Beth wanted him to be happy, to marry and have children of his own. But what if the woman he wanted was off-limits?
Just then, the phone in the kitchen sounded off like an alarm. Time’s up!
“Shit.”
He rocked forward in the Barcalounger and stood. This time he didn’t hesitate, heading for the kitchen. Beth was right; he’d avoided Gia’s calls long enough.
Without glancing at the caller ID, he picked up. “Bushard.”
“You’re not answering your cell now?” Erika asked in an irritated voice. “I’ve left you five messages. Jesus, Seven. It’s not like we have a dead body or anything.”
A little of that tension eased from around his chest.
“Sorry,” he said. “I must have turned it off by accident.”
He heard a grunt of disbelief on the other end. “Right. Because that’s so easy to do. Listen, do you have dinner plans tomorrow?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good. House of Brews after work. Your treat.”
She hung up.
He stared at the handset. “Sure, Erika. No problem. And by the way, isn’t it always my treat?”
Not that he cared. The last year, Erika had been his touchstone—the one person who could slap him across the face and tell him to snap out of it…even as she covered for him at work.
He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and headed back into the front room. He might not have ESP, but he knew what his partner wanted: a nice little chat about the FBI and a certain psychic.
Well, he had a couple of questions of his own. Like why in hell his partner hadn’t given him the heads-up about Special Agent Carin Barnes.
He dropped back into the Barcalounger. It still smelled like cigars, his father’s hidden vice. Seven didn’t smoke, but he was far from free of vice.
Gia.
It had been ten months, five days and nineteen hours since he’d last seen her.
For a moment, he let his mind drift to all those months ago. Without Gia, they never would have broken open the fortune-teller murders. The fly in the ointment: her help came with a price. Seven had shot the murdering whack job Gia had been hiding from the last twelve years, fearing for her life and the life of her child.
Seven took a long sip from the beer. No matter how many times he told himself he didn’t believe in her “psychic” abilities, there’d been something truly bizarre about how the whole thing had gone down. Like she’d known exactly what was going to happen. That it would be Seven who’d pull the trigger and save the day. The thing was, she hadn’t bothered to share any of it, letting him walk in blind.
Of course, she wouldn’t see it that way. There was probably some secret code for psychics: Don’t let the minions in on the details. Just pull the strings and let the puppet show go on.
Unfortunately, she’d been sleeping with this particular puppet. Apparently, she could trust him for sex but that was about it. When he’d nailed her with the truth—that she’d used him—she hadn’t even bothered to deny it. She’d just let him walk away.
With a sigh, he took out his cell phone. He checked to see that indeed, he had several messages from his partner.
And one from Gia.
Somehow, he didn’t think she was calling about unrequited love.
There was this anecdote about Enrique Fermi, a physicist for the Manhattan Project, the first guy to create a nuclear chain reaction in the 1930s. The story went that Fermi would be meeting a great general. Being the scientific type, Fermi asked what made the man great. The reply came that, if the guy won five consecutive battles he was one fine general.
Only, Fermi quickly figured out that statistically a significant number of all generals win five battles consecutively just by pure chance. Using math, Fermi flushed down the toilet the man’s definition of greatness.
So here Seven was thinking, throw in a little statistics and just about anything, even a call from Gia, could be coincidence.
It was a good argument, Fermi’s. But Seven didn’t buy it. Not this time.
A fourteen-year-old girl lay dead in the wetlands. She’d been bound and most likely drugged. And she wasn’t alone. Two other vics had been found just the same way.
And here they were again. Erika and him, Special Agent Barnes and Gia, playing the serial-killer merry-go-round.
Her number highlighted on the LCD screen, he punched Send.
She picked up on the first ring, almost as if she were waiting right there next to the phone. He couldn’t help but smile. That impeccable timing of hers. Uncanny, that was another word he’d used on Erika: suggesting the operation of supernatural influences.
“Gia,” he said, trying to sound imperturbable, another word he’d just learned. “You called?”
9
Ghost boy came back with a vengeance.
Stella was at Mindy’s house working on their history paper on ancient Rome. She’d calmed down enough to believe it was safe—there’d been no sign of the boy all through school or here at Mindy’s. She’d had a nice quiet dinner with Mindy’s family; the meal had been completely spook free.
After dinner, she and Mindy had been seated around the marble-and-glass coffee table in Mindy’s family room, both focused on their paper. It was due Monday, but Stella had plans to spend the weekend in San Diego with Morgan, her grandfather.
That’s when ghost boy walked into the den right behind Mindy’s mom, who’d brought them a bowl of popcorn and a couple of juice boxes claiming neither girl had eaten enough for dinner.
Stella did her best to ignore him. She flipped through the pages of her history book, pretending to read. That was her new tactic. If she just believed hard enough that he wasn’t there, he wouldn’t be.
But her heart pounded hard in her chest. She thought for sure Mindy could hear, it sounded so loud in her ears.
The more she ignored ghost boy, the more difficult it became to breathe.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye. She told herself he was just a sad, puppy-eyed kid. She didn’t need to be scared.
So why was her heart racing?
“Stella?”
Startled, Stella glanced up at Mindy’s mom. Stella liked
