by Tanya Holmes
Braeden sat motionless, an arm balanced across his bent knee as he studied me in what looked like stunned disbelief. “So we’re back to this again.”
“Back to what?”
“You thinking I’m a murderer.”
“I’m not calling you a murderer. Gubczyk is the murderer.”
“How did this alleged murderer die?”
“You know how he died,” I snapped. “You were there. He had a heart attack.”
“A heart attack, was it? Right. So not only have you looked into his cause of death, you’re implying I had something to do with it.”
I flung my hands. “If you did, it was self-defense! Are you even listening?”
“Oh, yes,” he said with steely precision. “I hear you loud and clear.”
“Bull. You’re not hearing me at all. I believe he attacked you and he died during the struggle. I never thought you murdered him.”
“But you were obviously suspicious enough to go digging behind my back. We wouldn’t be having this conversation otherwise.”
“I only did it because I knew you wouldn’t be honest with me.”
His unyielding expression betrayed nothing, reminding me of how good he was at hiding emotions. “Quite the little detective, aren’t you?” He nodded to himself. “Is that why you went out today?”
Him using the D-word made my stomach churn. “You’ve yet to prove me wrong. You won’t even admit there’s a connection between you and Gubczyk.”
“Why should I when there is none?”
I didn’t need my gift to tell me he was lying. Tearing from the bed, I went for the dresser, snatched Samuel Nowak’s picture from my purse, and threw it at him. “How’s this for a connection?”
He grabbed the faded photo off the mattress. As he glared at it, his muscles stiffened one by one, until he finally lifted his blistering gaze to mine.
“I found it in the courtyard,” I said. “The man in that picture is obviously a relative of yours because he looks just like you.” His dark, angry expression chilled me to the bone, but I wouldn’t be intimidated. “That woman next to him—Hannah right? At least that’s the name scrawled on the back. Well, I’ve seen her and the little boy in pictures hanging on your wall upstairs. He’s Samuel Nowak! Yet you claimed you didn’t know either of them. Why are you still lying about it?”
Braeden shot off the bed and roughly zipped his trousers. Taking a step toward me, he asked, “How long have you been piecing this sordid theory together?”
“That’s irrelevant. You’re the one who can’t be honest about a crazy old man. You lied about the experiments, about your voice in my head, and about Lionel Gubczyk.” I tossed a look at the mattress. “Not to mention what just happened in that bed! If you’re so in love with me, then prove it. Tell the truth for once. You can start with why you won’t take those damn gloves off. Not even to make love to me!”
Braeden dragged a hand down his face. He prowled back and forth like a caged panther trying to find a gap between the bars. It reminded me of Xavier: the nervous energy, the banked fury—dark, coiled, and formidable—ready to burst free at any moment. It was uncanny. I swung an anxious glance at the ruined door and the broken pieces littering the floor. I didn’t think him capable of such violence, but I’d seen it with my own eyes.
Apparently, the brothers were more alike than I realized.
Gesturing, Braeden stopped in his tracks. “Yes, there are things you don’t know about me…about us. Things you should know, but this is bigger than you and me. Much bigger—” He lowered his eyes. “Time. Just give me more time.”
“You’ve had more than enough time.” I edged closer. “We both have. That’s why we need to come clean with each other. I’ve wanted nothing else but to bare my soul, but you refused to let me even get a peek at yours.”
“Sweetheart…”
“All you have to do is trust me, Braeden. What’s so hard about that?”
“Two days,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking for.”
“What difference will forty-eight hours make?”
He clasped my hands. “More than you could ever imagine.”
“Why?”
A muscle in his jaw pulsed. “Because. I’ll have a much better idea of how to proceed.”
“Proceed? With what?”
His gaze hit the floor. “With us.”
“Do you love me?”
“Without question.”
“Then what’s there to think about?” His silence made my blood boil. I yanked my hands free. “Just go.” He didn’t move. “Now!”
When he still didn’t move, I went stalking to the bed. I snatched his soiled shirt and hurled it at him, but he batted it away. It fell in a damp heap on the floor.
“Get out!” I screamed.
Closing his eyes, he inhaled sharply through his nose. “Danielle. My world is unforgiving and uncompromising. The color gray doesn’t exist.”
“Your world? What does that even mean?”
Seconds yawned by. A mixture of pain and frustration stained his expression. “Did you ever stop to think that there’s a reason for my silence? That I might be trying to protect you?”
“From what?”
His gaze fell.
“Damn it! This is what I’m talking about.”
Desperation pushed me to the bitter edge. Maybe if I spilled my guts he would too. As it stood, I had nothing to lose.
“Okay, Braeden, since you can’t seem to tell the truth, I guess I’ll have to. We’ve got to start somewhere.” At his suspicious look, I squared my shoulders and forged ahead. “Minutes ago you said I was ‘quite the detective.’ Well, you were right. I am a detective, a psychic detective. And I was sent here to investigate you for Caryn Gilson’s murder.”
CHAPTER 9
THE FROST ESTATE
DEARBORNE, MARYLAND
Denieve
____________________________
The man I loved gaped at me as if I were a stranger.
“I wasn’t lying when I said I had a gift, Braeden. I really can detect emotions. At least I used to. Things have been a bit wonky for weeks, but when it worked, it operated on a sensory level. Things like sight, smell, touch, and taste. I could even hear music sometimes. And on rare occasions, I got premonitions. It’s only happened twice. Once just before my mother passed, I saw a skull and crossbones on her face.”
I took a shallow breath. “Then it happened again the night you came in from the storm. The same image flashed right over you. That’s why I’m sure you died. Well, at the very least, you stopped breathing for a while.”
He stood mannequin-still, his icy gaze freezing me, but I’d gone this far, I wasn’t about to stop.
“Remember in the beginning?” I continued, my voice shaky. “How I anticipated your every need? That’s because I could read you. When you were outside my door the first night, I knew everything you were feeling. And when we met face-to-face the next day, I sensed despair and uncertainty. Each has a distinctive taste and odor for me. But so does death. I smelled it on you the night Gubczyk followed you to that cemetery. That’s one reason I know you were there with him. And a colleague of mine confirmed it.” I eyed him warily. “Braeden, he tailed you. He saw Gubczyk follow you to La Plata, but he lost you on the Beltway.”
Tethered rage darkened his face, but his voice was cold and flat. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Denieve Knight. I run a psychic detective agency. Knight Watch Investigations in New York.”
His eyes shaded even more. “So this is why…” He gestured at me. “The colored contact lenses. The hair dye. It was all a disguise.” When I blinked, he said, “Oh, you think I didn’t notice the carpet doesn’t match the drapes?”
His crudity hurt, but I couldn’t blame him. Our relationship started with lies, lies I’d told. Beginning with my false identity. I took a deep breath and continued. “I created the alias Danielle Reed after Rachel Gilson hired me.”
“
Caryn’s mother?” He gave his eyes a hard roll. “Oh, this just keeps getting better and better.”
“Rachel’s dead, Braeden. She died early last spring.”
He didn’t look too broken up by the news. Just stood there like a granite statue, his face brimming with tension.
“You’ve had run-ins with her?” I asked.
Fury sharpened his expression. “Dozens. She accused me of burning her daughter alive. I didn’t, in case you’re wondering.”
“I know you didn’t.” He looked surprised, so I said, “I was pretty sure you were innocent the day we met.”
“And you’ve been spying on me ever since, pretending to—”
“There was no pretending! Well, maybe at first but—” I moved to touch him but he warded me off, throwing his palms up. Come no further, his eyes shouted. I nodded sadly. Swallowed. “Rachel sent detectives to find me right before she died. She wanted me to prove your guilt, but like I said, I knew you were innocent almost immediately.”
“Gee thanks.” Sarcasm dripped from every word. “So why did you stay on?”
“Because. I fell in love with you.”
He rolled his eyes again.
“I swear it’s true. Caryn and I grew up together. She was my best friend. Like a sister. Her ghost first appeared to me the night I got here, and once again the night of the storm. That’s when she told me you were innocent. In fact, she convinced me to stay because she was worried—about you, Braeden. She even showed me a video of you singing. You claim you can’t, but I heard you with my own ears.”
His face paled.
“She said that’s who you really were, but you’d lost your way, and she begged me to help you find it. I think that’s when I fell for you. Because of that video. It was your voice. How you spoke and acted. It just…it just moved me.”
At his alarmed look, I continued, starting at the beginning and ending with my last encounter with Caryn, right before the police cruiser exploded. When I finished fifteen minutes later, he sank to the bed, his eyes wide with shock.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
He slid his hands restlessly over his thighs. “What do you think?”
I took a shuddery breath. “This isn’t my imagination. Ghosts are real. What Mrs. Higgins saw was real too. It was Caryn trying to drive her away.”
“For what?” he asked, his voice ice cold.
“To get me here. She wanted me to help you.”
His sudden bark of laughter startled me. It was laced with bitterness and foreboding. “Help? Is that what you call it?” He chuckled darkly again and glanced around the ceiling as if looking for her. “Well, if that bitch is here, which I highly doubt, but just for the sake of argument, I defy her to contradict anything I’m about to say.” His mocking eyes cut to me. “Are you certain you want the truth?”
Unbelievably, it took several moments to decide. It was the hardest nod I ever gave.
* * *
The Night Caryn Died
METROPOLITAN INTERNAL
MEDICINE ASSOCIATES
DEARBORNE, MARYLAND
BRAEDEN
____________________________
Braeden dropped into his desk chair, pitching his exam gloves in the trash. Mentally exhausted, he crossed his forearms on the desk, and buried his face. He’d just seen his last patient for the day, which had amounted to three altogether. Three out of the original twelve Caryn had scheduled. Two of them broke the bad news to him personally. They’d found other doctors, caregivers whose patients weren’t dropping like flies. It would be the same tomorrow. They’d either cancel or wouldn’t bother to show.
Ever since the tragedy, his practice had dwindled down to nothing. He didn’t know why he even bothered coming in anymore.
His office door squeaked open as he was drifting off, probably the lab guy checking the specimen box. It was empty. He hadn’t taken a blood sample in what seemed like ages. Many doctors didn’t do this. They had their nursing staff complete the task, but not Braeden. Drawing blood always made him uncomfortable; however, he did it to offer a deeper level of care. His patients appreciated the gesture, but he hadn’t had a new patient since the tragedy began. In fact, apart from Finn Moreau, the other physicians at Metropolitan had already put feelers out—
Braeden jackknifed up when something sharp pierced his neck. He jerked around to see Caryn backing away. She had a wild look in her brown eyes and a spent hypodermic in her hand. Her dark, stringy hair was slicked back in a messy ponytail. Dirty gray and yellow splotches covered her white pantsuit uniform, and she reeked of alcohol and gasoline.
Dizziness washed over him. “What have you done?” he muttered, gripping his chair to keep from falling over.
Yet she said nothing.
“Caryn…what did you…what did you give me?”
The room circled him like a carousel. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t hold, so he landed on the floor, hitting his tailbone.
“Don’t worry.” She headed back out. “It should be over soon.”
As he fought the drug—a strong sedative from the feel of it—he heard her moving about in the waiting room, and the sound of liquid splashing against the walls. He tried to get up again, but his legs were like putty, and his arms were as heavy as boulders. Shadows faded in and out of his mind as the stench of gasoline grew.
He squinted through the mental haze, but he only saw shifting walls and a rippling floor. Fear burned through him when a loud WHOOSH, like a fire taking its first breath, ripped through the murky stillness. Glass shattered. Thick smoke prowled along the ceiling as the orange glow meshed with the dancing shadows.
Caryn returned carrying a large jug. She stooped before him so they were eye level. Whiskey was heavy on her breath as she splashed him with gasoline.
Braeden swore. “Tell me why!”
She shoved away from him to lash the walls with what was left of the gasoline. Throwing the jug aside, she sat at the corner of his desk. He squinted up at her, still bleary-eyed, but fighting the mental fog.
“I’m doing this out of love,” she finally said.
Love? Since when?
“You’re hurting people, Braeden. I don’t know how you’re doing it or why, but people are dying. I can’t stand by while you continue to take lives. It’s murder, plain and simple.”
“What are you—”
“Don’t bother denying it,” Caryn said, her voice cheerless. The silver lighter in her hand flashed beneath the lamplight. “If only you’d given me your heart, we could’ve weathered this storm together.”
He blinked in disbelief.
“It’s true,” she told him. “I’m the only person in the world who still believes in you…who loves you. Only you failed to see it.”
Braeden struggled to focus, looking at her through new eyes. All the time he’d known Caryn, not once had she shown any romantic interest in him. Up to now she’d been the epitome of professionalism and sanity. Even with the patients dying, nurses giving notice, and reporters hounding him, Caryn had remained steadfast and loyal through it all.
Who knew the woman was certifiable?
She stared off into the gathering smoke, looking nostalgic. “You don’t remember, but we met years ago, at a medical seminar in Vegas. I was there with my old boss, and the moment I saw you, I knew. I knew it was love.” She coughed, rubbed her eyes. “So I moved here, waited for the perfect time, and when I found an opening, I came to work for you. Serving you. Being at your beck and call. For half a decade, Braeden, and you still didn’t notice me. But now I realize fate brought me to you. That’s why I know I have to end this. That’s how much I love you.”
Braeden glanced beyond her to the flames licking down the hallway. They had two minutes at most before the blaze ate its way in here.
If he didn’t do something now… “Caryn, please,” he coughed out, “you don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do, but don’t be sad. At least we’ll be together when—”
He gathered his strength and lunged at her, but his aim was off, giving her a chance to flick the lighter on. Fire engulfed him, searing the shirt off his back. He dropped and rolled. It could’ve been fifteen seconds, but it felt like minutes passed before he’d smothered the flames. When he finally staggered to his feet, Caryn was surrounded by fire and writhing in agony. He snatched his trench coat off the floor and tossed it over her just as the sirens came.
Head still spinning, Braeden scooped her limp body into his arms. After four tries, he kicked a side door open that fed into another hallway. The wood smacked a hole in the wall as he stumbled down the smoke-filled corridor. He’d almost reached the exit when the ceiling collapsed, raining debris on top of them. He was seconds away from losing consciousness when EMS pulled him out, but Caryn was already dead.
* * *
THE FROST ESTATE
DEARBORNE, MARYLAND
Denieve
____________________________
Oh. My. God.
I eased down on the bed, trembling with shock and drowning in a sea of untested emotions: rage, fear, betrayal, confusion.… Who was this person he’d just described? Had everything she told me been a lie?
“Caryn Gilson started that fire in a murder-suicide attempt,” Braeden said. “I had no idea she had feelings for me, much less how unstable she was.”
Neither did I. Sure, she’d had anger issues growing up, but nothing close to this. What the hell happened to her?
I kneaded my brow as a headache worked its way into my left eye. “So the independent fire investigator Rachel hired was right. It was arson. Only Caryn was the one who started it.”
Animosity twisted his mouth. “Indeed, but we buried it to keep investigators from digging deeper. I had enough bad publicity as it was.”
“Who did you pay off?”
“No money was exchanged. It was Xavier. He has…connections.” Jaw tight, he paused as his angry gaze slid over me. The disgust on his face was palpable. “If that woman is still walking this earth, then I have serious doubts about her agenda. She was sick in life, and I can only imagine how sick she is in death.”