by Mary Blayney
Martin didn't know what to say. Half of him wanted to wrap her in his arms. Warm her, unbend her. But the other half—the larger half, truth be told—was already running in the other direction. He didn't work with the police. He'd tried, back in the day. Back when he thought maybe he could turn this curse into something useful. Something less curse–like. But his methods weren't visible enough for the police. Or documentable. Or hell, just say it, reliable.
Not even he could argue with that.
He'd spent his life dealing with the fact that the dead are as human—and therefore fallible—as the living.
Tell her no, Rose said. Tell her to find another occupation. Something less dangerous.
Martin turned, following the sound of her voice, to find Rose peeking down the hall from around the corner.
It was all so un–Rose–like that for a good long moment, all he could do was stare.
"Martin?" Amber asked.
"Right." He brought his attention back to the women in front of him, nodding as if he'd just come to some sort of decision. "I've got a full case load right now. I'm afraid I can't help you."
Amber reacted immediately. "Bullshit!" She poked him in the chest. "What do you mean you can't help her?"
Her friend, on the other hand, just nodded. Once. And turned to leave.
"I don't work with the police," he said.
Particularly when the officer in question was the kind of woman who evoked such a strange mix of visceral responses in him.
He recognized skeptics instantly, and this woman was so skeptical he’d probably have to drown her to convince her it was raining. He'd given up the need to convince people years ago. And yet … something about Erin Healy made him want to prove himself. And even more inexplicably, something about her made him want to take her in his arms and …
And that was crazy.
No. Bottom line, Rose was right. He opened the door, ignoring the thoroughly disgusted look Amber gave him as she stalked past.
It's for the best, Rose said in a soft voice as he closed the door behind them.
And there was a sense of relief. But there was also a sense of … something else. Something he couldn't quite define.
Or didn't want to.
He looked at Rose. "We've been together twenty years now. Since when do we turn away someone who needs help?"
She lifted her chin, lips pressed flat. Her stubborn look. "She didn't bring any dead with her. How were we supposed to help?"
She had a point there, but he couldn't help noticing the way she refused to look him in the eye. And that was when it hit him, the word for that thing he didn't really want to define.
It was fear.
#
They drove awhile in silence before Amber said, "I'm sorry, honey. I never in a million years would have expected him to say no."
Erin shrugged. Then laughed. "So. You knew Martin in high school. Like, knew him knew him."
Amber blew out another annoyed–sounding breath, then gave a little hum. "He was hot in high school. The closest thing to Trent Reznor, back in the day. Dark and brooding and—"
"And he's not now?" Erin asked, remembering the disheveled hair and the glower, the low growl of his voice. Oh yes. Still hot.
Amber snorted. "Yes. But it was different. He wasn't so anti–social, back then. He was dark and broody but also available and he could have any girl he wanted. And he wanted a lot of them." She laughed.
"Including you."
Amber gave a happy sigh. "We were together for like, a minute. But it was a good minute."
No matter what she might say in front of the man.
Erin smiled and Amber shook her head.
"Thank you for taking me to meet him," Erin said. And she was surprised because it was true, she really was grateful. The women she used to think of as friends at the station had all faded on her after the fire. And she understood. Nobody knew what to make of it. Of her. She practically had cop–killer status, for God's sake. Rolly was dead and she wasn't and nobody could figure out why.
So she understood, but it still left her out here in the cold. With no access to her files. No evidence. No help.
The fact that her neighbor went out of her way to take her to meet that Martin Sterling guy might have been ridiculous, but it was the closest thing to friendship she'd encountered in what felt like forever.
All of a sudden there were tears in her eyes and when Amber pulled up in front of the row of townhouses where they lived, three doors apart, Erin had to look away—blink fast—before they ended up on her face.
"Well I hate to say it because, you know, I think everything happens for a reason. But that was a waste of time," Amber said, as they climbed out of the car. "I still can't believe that rat bastard said no!" She hefted her big bag onto her shoulder, then held out her arms for a hug.
Amber was the huggiest person she'd ever met, but for once, it didn't make Erin want to laugh. Instead, she stepped into her friend's arms and hugged her back as hard as her sore shoulder allowed.
"Thank you," Erin said. "That was the nicest thing anybody's done for me in a long, long time."
When Amber let go and pulled back, Erin tried not to interpret the look on her face as pity. "If there's anything I can do to help, you let me know," Amber said, and started up the sidewalk. "Anything at all."
Erin started down the walk, already focused on the next move, because that was the first thing her father—and then Rolly, when she'd partnered with him—taught her. Three–quarters of doing good police work was persistence. Sheer dogged persistence. She wasn't giving up. She couldn't give up. What was the alternative?
She turned toward her own front door and that was when she saw the detective. Nathan Campbell. It took a moment to place him out here, out of context, and he was always a bit of a lone wolf around the station, so they hadn't interacted much. But he used to be Rolly's partner.
Her stomach clenched. What was he doing here?
He walked toward her, not looking at her, and after a few steps he stopped to look down at his phone.
So Erin walked past him. Past her house, and down the block to the little playground where she took a seat on an empty bench. She wasn't sure he would follow her. And when, a few minutes later, Detective Campbell walked up and sat down on the other end of the bench, she wasn't sure she should stay. He set some stuff on the bench between them, including a brown paper bag which he opened.
"Detective Healy," he said, still not looking at her. He rustled around in the bag, took out a sandwich, and unwrapped it.
"Detective Campbell."
"We're not talking," he said, his mouth full of food.
Two young kids barreled onto the playground, followed by their mother. Erin watched, facing away from the man on the other end of the bench. "Right."
"I was very sorry about your father."
She swallowed. Three years later, she missed her father every day with every fiber of her being. He was killed just two months before she joined the force and at the time she'd mourned the fact that he hadn't lived to see it. But now she was grateful he didn't have to see her get suspended. Didn't have to watch her drag his name through the mud.
While she wondered, almost idly, if the detective was here to hurt her, she calculated the distance between them and the kids on the play equipment. Calculated the pain that would shoot through her shoulder if she had to brace her weak arm on the back of the bench to run the other way.
The detective chewed. "I worked with him, when I was new on the force. He was a good man, your father. Good police."
She nodded, once, and took a deep breath, so deep it made the knot of scar tissue in her shoulder hitch. A welcome pain.
"That's why I'm not talking to you now," Detective Campbell said. "Well, that and my sister–in–law."
"Your sister–in–law?"
He took a drink, swallowing loudly. "Amber Winston is my wife's stepsister."
"Small world," Erin said.
"
Weird world, that's for sure. And I might not give a shit about pissing off a so–called witch but I can't afford to piss off my wife. Not about something like this, at any rate."
He laughed in a way that made it clear he made no bones about pissing his wife off when he thought it was worth it.
Erin kept her eyes on the kids while he finished his sandwich and the sun grew weaker. Summer was over and as the air cooled a whoosh of wind rattled the treetops and a golden blizzard of leaves drifted to the ground. But for some reason it felt like she was falling and he was watching. "Chief Dern said—"
He cut her off. "Chief Dern doesn't know that I'm not talking to you. And another thing you don't know is that Karl Werner just took early retirement. Effective immediately."
He laughed, sounding amused at the whole situation, even as his words struck like shards of ice into her stomach.
He gathered his stuff and left.
It was touch and go then, so much anger and regret stuck in her throat. Sharpening—jumbling like stones—as, for the second time that day, tears welled in her eyes and she worked to blink them away.
Finally, after another minute, she drew a full breath. And let it out. Time to go. She put her hand down and … there was something on the bench. A 9 x 12 pocket folder. Her heart pounded several hard beats until it sank in that it was too thin to be the case file.
When she opened it, photos slithered into her hand. Photos from the crack house fire. And right there on top was a picture of her partner, Rolly.
Not that she'd have recognized him from this picture—his own mother wouldn't have recognized him from this picture. He was burned over so much of his body that his remains barely looked human anymore. A wisp of smoke, in fact, was still curling from his body when the crime scene tech snapped the picture. But there was a label across the bottom. Det. Roland Connors.
She ran her finger over the glossy surface as a tiny bit of relief trickled into the river of grief flowing through her veins. It wasn't the case file, but it was something. And it had come from someone at the station.
But even that tiny relief was short–lived. She flipped through photo after photo of the meticulously documented crime scene—all of them in color, though that made no difference when a structure burned as hot and fast as that one did. They might as well all have been black and white. And considering the absolute lack of evidence, they might as well all have been pointing at her.
#
Roland Connors couldn't help smiling as Nate loped out of the park. Even though he wasn't sure what the detective was up to. Even though he was pretty sure it was no good. Make that definitely sure. He'd practically raised the man, hadn't he?
Of course, he'd half–raised Erin, too. Taken her under his wing when she joined the department. Taught her everything her old man would have wanted her to know.
That was the problem, wasn't it?
That was the whole goddamn problem.
He watched her open the folder. Watched the play of emotions cross her face. So primal. So human. So remote from who he was now.
What he was.
Rolly brushed his fingers through his hair. It wasn't how he'd pictured it. Death. He'd never expected to still be worrying about Erin. Wasn't that the whole point of dying? To put all worldly worries and cares behind you? Move on to something better.
And it was better, damn it.
So how come he kept coming back…
Chapter Two
The next day
Martin couldn't remember the last time he'd been alone like this. No Rose. No other dead people, demanding attention. Not even his mother, calling to complain about the neighbors. He should have taken advantage of it. Should have called his buddy, Tony.
Instead he found himself on the sofa, feet on the coffee table because Rose never let him get away with that, and a yellow legal pad on his lap. 'Erin Healy,' it said on one side. And 'Rose' on the other. He still couldn't figure out why Rose was acting so weird. Telling him not to help Erin. That, most of all, was completely out of character for Rose.
For him, too, actually. It was what they did. They were weirdos, both of them, but for some people in this world, living and dead, they were able to bring peace. That was what kept them going. So turning someone away…
He drew an arrow from one column to the other. From Erin to Rose. He wasn't working the case, but the two were connected somehow. He was certain. And when the doorbell rang, he felt just as certain he knew who was on the other side.
He wasn't used to certainty, though, so he was shocked to find that he was right.
Without a word, Detective Healy shoved a folder against his chest and Martin didn't ask what she was doing there. He just took her hand and pulled her in.
He'd tried pushing her away and that hadn't worked.
The door clicked shut and for a moment, they faced each other. He had to tear himself away from the unadorned, pale pink of her lips and when he did, he saw the resistance in her wide gray eyes.
"I brought the photos from the crime scene," she said.
"I thought I was clear yesterday. I can't—"
Listen to me, Martin. This woman doesn't need our help. She doesn't need to get her job back. When's the last time I asked you for anything? Never. That's when.
As glad as he was to have Rose back, it wasn't true—in fact that was how they met, he and Rose—when she'd asked him for something. But he knew better than to point that out right now.
I'm asking you not to do this. Out of consideration for all the years we've been together. Please listen to me.
Martin tried to block Rose out, but it was hard. Not because she was loud. She wasn't. But because she was right. They'd been together forever. She was his partner. He should take her feelings into consideration. Whether they made sense or not. But he'd tried to, hadn't he? Even though it went against every instinct inside of him. He'd sent Erin Healy away.
"You brought the crime scene photos," he said, in an attempt to keep up with the conversation.
Erin nodded. "I know, you can't take the case. But …"
Her voice trailed away and that was when he realized why she was here. "You're used to having a partner, aren't you?" he asked, because he was worried about his own partnership.
"What?"
"You don't believe in ghosts. Or psychics. Or witches or anything you can't pin down, dissect, and label. You're not here because you want me to talk to the dead for you. You don't believe in that any more than you believe in Santa Claus or rainbow unicorns."
She blinked and he slipped the folder out of her hand.
"You're here because you miss having a partner to work with."
And if he wasn't careful, his own partner was going to disown him.
Erin shrugged. "It occurred to me that you're used to working without the case files. Without police cooperation. I'm not. So I thought maybe…"
Please, Martin. Tell her you can't help her. Tell her to go.
Martin shook his head, caught, suddenly between the need to make Rose happy and the need to figure out what the hell was going on. Because there was something going on, that much was certain.
It had nothing to do with all this heat gathering between the two of them, Erin and him—that hyperawareness that charged the atmosphere like a sudden storm—or at least that was what he told himself.
"Fine." She grabbed the folder but he held on, pulling her up against him instead.
He didn't want the job. But he wanted her. He suddenly wanted her very much.
That was when it started. A low rumble. A shake. A scraping sound of wood against plaster.
Rose turned and swept down the hall, and as she went every framed photo on the wall between the entryway and the kitchen slammed to the floor with a crash.
Erin stared at the mess behind him but before she could ask, he yanked open the door and shoved her through it.
#
Erin stumbled out onto the front step, ears still ringing with the crash of glass from wh
en the frames hit the floor. Her lips still tingling from that unexpected almost kiss.
"Let's go," Martin said, pulling the door closed behind them.
"But—"
"It's all right," he said. "I'll clean it up later."
"Must be that construction work," she said, pointing up the street. "You must have gotten notices. They have to give notice before doing any blast work."
He gave her an odd look, a cross between amusement and disappointment—with just enough anger—to make her let it go.
Instead she heard herself say, "I need to go talk to someone about the crime scene photos. Want to ride along?"
He nodded and they both got into her car.
"When I was a kid, Thursday night was poker night," she said after a while, to fill the silence. She was nervous, suddenly. And not just because of that scene in the hall although, seriously, what the hell was that? No, she was way more nervous than she should have been about driving uninvited to her father's old friend Karl Werner's house. So she kept talking.
"They always met at our place. It was just my father and me. My mother died when I was little and he didn't like to leave me with a sitter. So they came to our house. There was Roland Connors—Rolly. He was the youngest and my father's partner, back then. He always gave me sips of his Budweiser when nobody was looking. And Allan Cartwright. He was the lucky one. He would pat me on the head and tuck a five dollar bill in the pocket of my school jacket on his way out the door. And Karl Werner." She pulled up along the curb and pointed out the driver–side window at Karl who was pushing a little cart over his already perfect patch. "He always said I made the best pretzels. Even though all I did was dump them out of a bag and into a bowl."
She watched Karl walk a perfectly straight path up the lawn. "And he always had a roll of Lifesavers in his pocket." She took a deep breath. To this day, the smell of butter rum made her think of Karl.
What had her sitting in her car now, afraid to cross the street, was the question of what he thought of her.
"I thought Rolly was your partner," Martin said.
She turned back, meeting his eyes. "Exactly."
He took that in without reaction and she nodded. "When I came on, they partnered me with Rolly. At first I thought it was a joke, but I found out that he actually had to talk the chief into doing it. Said looking out for me, teaching me everything my father taught him, was his way of paying back my dad."