He didn’t fly at all.
Chapter 13
It was DonaBella who made the decision to tell Gypsy the meaning of Alan Fluke’s last words to her. Her mother had agreed to finally share her secrets. Despite not having wanted her to know, for fear of how the truth would affect her, Mick knew Gypsy deserved to know who she really was. She also would have to find out who her father and brother had been. But nobody ever said family was easy.
Having finally been reached at that commune in Montana, Frank’s daughter had arrived in Florida three days after he’d had his heart attack. She had perched on the edge of Frank’s bed, nursing him but also regaling him with her stories, until the man appeared more exhausted by her presence than by his open heart surgery. Meanwhile, Esme, so stylish she looked like she’d stepped off the pages of a magazine, fussed over him so much he said he felt he was going to smother.
Gypsy, as always, had taken charge. She had ordered both women to go in only for brief visits, and never together. She’d been stricter with their visitation than the nurse had that first day. So far, her family members were obeying, and Frank was looking much more rested.
The three Bell women were in the waiting room, where DonaBella was telling Gypsy who her father really was, and it was Mick’s turn to sit with Frank.
“My old friend,” Frank murmured, also knowing what was happening. Apparently father and daughter had talked too. “I suspected, you know, as soon as Gypsy started to grow up. I guess I just didn’t want to believe Barry would take advantage of my teenage daughter.”
“I think there was a lot none of us knew about Barry” Mick said. He didn’t reveal any of what Shane had told him about the dead man. There was no need to, now.
“Do you think she’ll be all right?”
Mick knew Frank was referring to Gypsy, and not to DonaBella, who would always be all right as long as she had a man to look after her and people to admire her. So would Esme.
Gypsy? Well, the caretaker, the protector, the one who wanted normalcy and home and family? She would be all right. Mick was going to see to it. She might not know it yet, but normalcy was pretty overrated.
“Gypsy is going to be fine. I promise you that.”
Frank heard everything else that was left unsaid, and smiled up at him, nodding his approval. He didn’t say he was giving his blessing, nor did Mick really need him to. But he was glad he’d received it just the same.
“Now, what else is happening? Nobody wants to keep me updated because of this silly ticka,” he said, lightly tapping his chest with his index finger.
Mick crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Penny’s funeral was last night.”
Frank’s smile faded and he gripped his hands together in a large fist. “That poor, sweet girl. The funeral, I want to help…”
“It’s taken care of.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“I said, it’s taken care of. I spent Penny’s last morning with her. I liked her. I wanted to do this for her.”
“You’re very kind.” He sniffed. “How is her brother?”
“Not well.”
“What will he do?”
“He’s got their mother to look after, but he apparently won’t have her much longer, either. He told Gypsy after that he’s going to leave town, go out and try to make sense of the world.”
“I wonder when he’ll realize that none of us is capable of that.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
A short time later, Esme returned. She looked at Mick. “Gypsy left.”
Not surprising. He figured she’d need some time alone.
“Okay.”
“She went home.”
“Got it.”
“You should go after her. She needs you.”
Esme was sounding as protective as her older sister.
“I’m sure she’d rather be by herself for a while.”
The younger Bell daughter put her hands on his chest and literally shoved him toward the door. “Go now.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, bemused.
Of course he’d intended to go to Gypsy and see if she was okay, but he knew her well enough to know that, when she was deep in thought, she preferred to be alone for a little while. Giving her an hour had seemed like the right move, but according to Esme, it was the wrong one.
So he went to her place, arriving probably only a few minutes after she had. He rang the bell, feeling awkward for ringing since he’d slept in her bed just a couple of nights ago. The last two nights he’d spent at home, knowing Gypsy would appreciate some time with her family. He’d driven down every day, but had left her at her place with Esme each evening. Despite their differences, the sisters appeared very close, and he liked the way Gypsy’s tension eased now that she was surrounded by people who cared about her.
Including him.
She answered, having already changed out of her uniform into jeans and a paint-stained shirt. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she held a tape measure.
“Mick! What are you doing here?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” She stepped back to let him in. “I’m fine.”
“But, Gypsy…what your mother told you…”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” she asked, repeating something he’d said in the car the other day. “It really wasn’t too hard to put it all together after Alan died. I remembered what my grandfather had said a couple of times, and looked at Alan’s picture, and then at Barry’s.” Her face clouded. “Barry’s was hard.”
He knew she was remembering how he’d died. Having loved him as a child, though, she had already shed tears for the man. Knowing now that he was her father wouldn’t make her grieve any more. As for Alan, well, perhaps it was better not thinking about the fact that you were related to a monster who’d murdered four people
Gypsy might have been able to, not forgive, but at least try to understand what her half-brother had done to Barry, Shep, and Jersey.
But she could never forgive him for Penny. Neither could Mick.
Not ever.
“I’m really mad that you’re here. I wasn’t ready.”
“Ready for what?” he asked.
She gestured toward the living room, and he followed her in. He was surprised to see the room had changed drastically from earlier this week. The furniture was different—she’d replaced it so quickly, the colors were completely altered. Pictures were gone from the end tables, the few knick-knacks missing.
“What did you do?”
“You said minimalist was your favorite style. So I minimized a little more.”
She had done this…for him?
Gypsy lowered the tape measure to the table, and stepped close. “Mick, I know you’ve made a comfortable home for yourself in Savannah. I know it’s your safe space, where you can relax, let down your guard and not have to worry about every little thing you touch. I want you to have that here, too.”
“I still don’t understand.”
She took his hand and led him into the kitchen. There, spread out on the table, was a rainbow. Pink, red, blue, black, green, brown, ivory.
They were women’s gloves, a pair in all the shades she would ever need.
Mick’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes blurred, and he thought for a minute he would have to sit down because the world had suddenly gone crazily off-kilter. But in a good way. A very good way.
“The furniture isn’t new, I merely got colored slip-covers to go over it. And I put them on while wearing a pair of these.” Smiling, she pointed to her cabinets. “The dishes are new. New utensils and glasses. You have your own set of towels and sheets, and a new dresser for just your things.”
Mick was stunned into speechlessness.
She had done this, all of this, for him. To make him feel welcome, and safe, and at home.
Something inside him had always suspected he would, at the end of his life, be alone...loved, perhaps, but untouchable.
Gypsy Bell had just p
roved to him that he was wrong.
He knew, right at this moment, that he would be with her.
“You want me to spend a lot of time here, huh?” he asked as he reached for his gloves and began pulling them off, one finger at a time.
“Some. You once told me you don’t have to keep regular hours at work.”
“No, I don’t.” He tossed one glove onto the table, where it blended into the pile of hers. “So, Gypsy Rose, are you asking me to move in with you?”
She nibbled her lip, looking uncertain; a look that was very unlike her. “Did I overstep?”
He went to work on the other glove, drawing it away slowly, ever so slowly, knowing she liked to watch. Knowing she liked the anticipation. “No. You didn’t overstep.”
An audible sigh of relief came from her mouth. “Good, because I was thinking that, until after the next election—when your grandfather’s pocketed politicians fire me—maybe we could live here. And then when I’m not tied to Ocean Whispers, we could spend more time in Savannah.”
“I can buy politicians too, you know.” He and Gypsy had never discussed money, so she might not know about his. But he would use whatever he had to make sure his grandfather didn’t ruin her life and her career. He had some influence, and he would wield it—legally, not like that rotten old man.
Mick tossed the other glove and moved in to cup her waist. Tugging on her hips, he pulled her closer, until their bodies came together, and stared down at her, “Now, that subject is forbidden from our home forever, understand?”
“But what if…
“Forever. I don’t need closure, I don’t need to forgive him, it’s done. I know I’m nothing like him; there’s no psychological damage or anything I need to deal with. He’s out of my life, and out of yours. End of story.”
She nodded, believing him. “Understood.”
He bent down to kiss her neck, whispering, “Just so we’re completely clear, if you mention him again, I might have to spank you.”
She leaned back and looked up at him, wagging her brows. “Monty, Monty, Monty.”
“Sassy, bossy girl.”
“Dumbo.”
They laughed together, but the laughter faded. Their stares met. Their hands reached out and their fingers entwined.
He suspected that grip would be unbreakable. Forever.
“I love you, Gypsy Rose.”
“I love you, too, Michael Tanner.”
They came together in a kiss, sexy, hot, and made sweeter by the taste of the words they’d each uttered. It was long and sultry, making promises about how they were going to spend the rest of the day.
When it ended, she remained close, each of them breathing. Preparing.
“Is it crazy?” she whispered. “Crazy to be like this, to act like this, to feel like this?”
He sunk his hands in her hair and cupped her face. “No, Gypsy. This is normal. Our normal.”
She nodded in agreement.
“And that’s all I ever wanted.”
The End
Dear Reader:
Well, it’s been seven years since the last “new” Extrasensory Agent novel was released, under my pseudonym Leslie Parrish. I did re-release those books, with edits, new scenes, and bonus content last fall, but I am so sorry you had to wait so long for the third book. Believe me, I wanted to write it sooner, but until I regained the rights to COLD SIGHT and COLD TOUCH a few months ago, I just couldn’t.
I hope you think it was worth the wait.
Now, I know you probably are mad at me about Penny. Believe me, that wasn’t an easy decision to make. I hated what happened to her, and wept throughout that scene.
You might think that means I shouldn’t have done it. But the truth is, I had to. Something awful had to happen—someone innocent had to die—in order for that last scene with Alan to work. I knew seven years ago, when I first conceived of this book, who the villain was, why he was doing it, and how he would die—in flight. Just like the woman his mother killed.
But in order for him to take that irrevocable step off that platform, he had to have a moment of regret, and helplessness. Killing someone utterly innocent was the motivation for that moment.
I’ll be honest—for a little while, I considered making that victim in the funhouse Julia Harrington.
Stop screaming. I didn’t do it, did I?
I have just had such a difficult time figuring out how to write a story worthy of Julia. Her entire adult life has been about loving Morgan Raines. How could I possibly create someone else worthy of her…but I can’t exactly write a romance novel with a ghost for a hero.
So, yes, I considered letting Julia die at the end of this book. I didn’t do it for two reasons: First, I love her character, and I want to figure out a worthy story for her. And second, for the past eight years, she has been promising herself that she would find the people responsible for Morgan’s murder. An eight year old mystery to figure out and resolve, with a strong heroine haunted by her former love. What writer could resist trying to create a story like that?
Maybe I will. Hopefully I will.
I would love to continue the Extrasensory Agents series. I already have something in mind for dark-and-brooding Derek. :shivers:
I’ve also found myself wondering what a few characters from earlier books are up to. Is Taylor Kirby still seeing her twin’s ghost? What about Vonnie?
And Val, of course. Sexy but immature Val is off finding himself. Maybe when he does, he’ll discover if he really has the extrasensory ability to influence people.
Yes, there are lots of possibilities.
I’d love to explore them. Hopefully this revival of the Extrasensory Agents series will do well, and enable me to go on. For that to happen, I really need this book to sell well. Word of mouth can help tremendously with that. So if you liked it, would please consider leaving a review for it on your favorite site? Blog reviews and recommendations are also hugely appreciated!
Thank you so much for waiting for Mick’s story. I hope it lived up to your expectations.
And I hope you’ll want to come along with me for more extrasensory adventures.
Oh, and one more thing. I have written short stories revealing how each agent met Julia, that have been included at the end of the first two books. I’m working on something for Mick, and will include it in future editions of this story. But you haven’t missed out—I’ll also post it as a free read on my website. Watch for it at www.leslieAkelly.com!
Best wishes always—
Leslie A. Kelly
Did you stumble upon COLD MEMORY without reading the first two books in the Extrasensory Agents series?
Here are excerpts from COLD SIGHT and COLD TOUCH.
Check them out!
Excerpts from COLD SIGHT and COLD TOUCH
Chapter 1
Thursday, 5:45 a.m.
Until last night, nobody had ever read Vonnie Jackson a bedtime story.
Though she’d lived for seventeen years, she couldn’t remember a single fairy tale, or one kiss on the cheek before being tucked in. Her mother had always been well into her first joint, her second bottle, or her third John of the evening long before Vonnie fell asleep. Bedtime meant hiding under the bed or burrowing beneath a pile of dirty clothes in the closet, praying Mama didn’t pass out, leaving one of her customers to go prowling around in their tiny apartment.
They definitely hadn’t wanted to read to her. Nobody had.
So to finally hear innocent childhood tales from a psychotic monster who intended to kill her was almost as unfair as her ending up in this nightmare to begin with.
“Are you listening to me little Yvonne?” That voice was laced with so much evil it seemed to be an almost living, breathing thing, as real as the stained, scratchy mattress on which she lay or the metal chains holding her down. Her captor’s voice grew almost mischievous as he added, “Did you fall asleep?”
The man who’d kidnapped her always spoke in a thick, falsetto whisper, his ton
e happily wicked. Occasionally though, he got angry and dropped the act. Once or twice, when he’d spoken in his normal, deep voice, she’d feel a hint of familiarity flit across her mind, as if she’d heard him before, recently. She could never focus in on it, though, never place the memory.
Maybe she was crazy. Maybe she just recognized the twisted, full-of-rage quality that made men like him tick. She’d seen that kind all her life.
“Sweet little girl, so weary, aren’t you? I suppose you fell asleep, hmm?”
She shook her head. Even that slight movement sent knives of pain stabbing through her skull and into her brain. He’d beaten her badly.
“You must want to go to sleep, though.”
“No,” she whispered. “Go on. Don’t stop. I like it.”
Oh, no, she didn’t want to fall asleep. It was while she slept that he came in and did things to her. She’d awakened once to find him touching her thighs. Though his face had been masked—one of those creepy, maniacally smiling “King” masks from the fast-food commercials—he’d scurried out as soon as he realized she was fully conscious.
Maybe he’s afraid you’ll escape and be able to identify him.
Yeah. And maybe a pack of wolves would rip him to pieces in his own backyard tomorrow. But she doubted it.
“I don’t know, we’ve read quite a lot. I’m worried you might have nightmares—did you, last night, after hearing about the little piggies who got turned into bacon and sausage patties?”
She suspected the story didn’t end like that. If it did, parents who called it a bedtime story had a lot to answer for.
Vonnie swallowed, her thick, dry tongue almost choking her. “I’ll be fine.”
The words echoed in the damp, musty basement room in which she’d been imprisoned for…how long had it been since the night he’d grabbed her? And when had that been? Think!
Monday. He’d attacked her while she walked the long way home from a nighttime event at her new high school, to which she’d just transferred since they offered more AP classes than her old one. Mistake number one. Her old school had been a block from her crappy home.
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