Always Look Twice

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  Allie hung the canvas on the wall, taking down another picture and putting this one in its place. Everyone fell silent.

  Olivia wondered if they expected her to snap right into a vision, to see the killer’s face or to get an image of him slashing his victims.

  “This might take some time,” she said.

  Allie and West didn’t respond.

  Talk about pressure, she thought.

  Finally Allie spoke up. “I’ll clean the kitchen.” She looked at West. “And you can help.”

  He rose from his chair. “Aren’t you going to eat first?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll have a grapefruit later.”

  Olivia breathed a sigh of relief. While her sister and the FBI agent cleared the table, she gazed at the painting, trying to get a reading on the killer, trying to feel his emotions.

  But nothing happened.

  Nothing but Allie and West talking among themselves, trying to behave as casually as possible. Then West made a remark about the Valentine candies dotting the counters.

  “I assume those are for the ghost,” he said. “My grandfather taught me not to eat food that had been left overnight because ghosts might partake of it.”

  Allie perked up and began telling him about their dad, about how she thought he was trying to protect them. And then she blurted out that Olivia was worried that West might die.

  He spun around to challenge the guilty party. “You’re trying to kill me off?”

  Olivia walked away from the painting. “It was a feeling I had. I couldn’t help it.”

  “She had visions about kissing you, too,” Allie said.

  “Really?” Now West had the gall to grin. “That was before I died, right?” He paused to roam his gaze over Olivia’s body, taking in every curve. “Somehow I don’t see you as the postmortem type.”

  She wanted to strangle him, right after she strangled her sister. “Go ahead and laugh it off. But when you’re six feet under, I’ll have the last laugh.”

  He pinned her in place with those strange gray eyes. “You wish.”

  Peeking around his shoulder, Allie made a face. She looked like a kid who’d gotten caught with someone else’s lunch money. “I think I’ll have that grapefruit now,” she said.

  West remained where he was, a bit too macho for his own good, squaring off with Olivia. Sooner or later they would end up in bed. She knew her vision wasn’t a lie. He seemed to know it, too. And it humored the hell out of him.

  Too bad he didn’t take the possibility of dying more seriously. That he considered it a joke, as well.

  Ignoring him, Olivia turned away and focused on the painting instead, on the symbol the killer had drawn onto his victims.

  Allie came over to her, still holding the knife she’d used to slice her grapefruit. “I’m sorry, Olivia,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

  The rest of her sister’s apology never reached her ears. The only thing she could hear was the rain, water pounding from the sky.

  And then a horrifying image crashed into her mind.

  But it wasn’t the killer.

  It was another victim. A lady with long black hair, a motionless woman positioned on an antique bed. Part of her body was draped with a white sheet, streaks of blood staining the material. On her abdomen she wore the signature of the Slasher.

  His calling card. The heart. The arrowhead.

  Olivia slid to floor, clutching her knees to her chest, fighting a bout of dizziness.

  Allie knelt beside her. “What’s wrong? What did you see?”

  Olivia looked into her sister’s soft, brown eyes, then glanced up at West, who towered over them like a tall, dark shadow. “The Slasher killed her,” she said. “He killed our mom.”

  Chapter 5

  Ian dropped to his knees, assessing the situation. Working with psychics was never easy, but this case was getting more complicated by the minute.

  Olivia still sat on the floor, clutching her knees to her chest. Her sister remained beside her, just as stunned, just as emotional.

  He searched Olivia’s gaze. “I need to know exactly what you saw.”

  “She saw our mom,” Allie said, tears flooding her eyes.

  “I know. I’m sorry.” He removed the knife from Allie’s hands, nearly prying it from her fingers. “But I need details.” He needed to know if Olivia’s subconscious had conjured her mother’s murder or if the woman was really dead.

  He removed a small spiral notebook from his jacket. “Tell me, Olivia.”

  While she recited the details, he took notes, staying close to her and Allie, trying not to break the connection.

  When she finished talking, he closed his notebook. He wasn’t through taking notes, not by a long shot, but he didn’t intend to conduct the rest of this investigation on the floor.

  “Let’s go to the other room.” He reached for Allie’s hand, helping her to her feet. Olivia refused his aid, managing on her own.

  As tough as nails, he thought. As beguiling as a winter rose. The scar across her throat made her seem vulnerable. But he knew better. Olivia Whirlwind wasn’t a damsel in distress.

  They moved into the living room, where rain slashed against the windows. Allie lit several candles, then curled up on the couch. Olivia sat next to her, lending her support.

  Ian remained silent, allowing them time to absorb the shock. The picture Allie had painted was still in the kitchen, still haunting the walls. But even so, he doubted either sister would destroy it.

  Were all the women in their family steeped in magic? In danger? In death?

  “What happens now?” Allie asked, directing her question to him, looking for hope, for answers he might not have. “Where do we go from here?”

  “I’ll investigate your mother’s whereabouts,” he told her, knowing this was going to be tricky. “I’ll consult the detectives on the Slasher case. But without a body, there’s not much we can do.” He turned to Olivia. “You know how this works.”

  She merely nodded. Apparently she’d been involved in police work long enough not to argue, not to fight him on an issue they couldn’t change. Psychic evidence wasn’t admissible in court.

  “Will you tell me about your mom?” he asked.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How about her name?”

  “Yvonne Catherine Whirlwind.”

  “And her maiden name?”

  “Nanchez.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

  “Twelve years. I was seventeen when she walked away, when she left my father for another man.”

  He reached for his notebook. “That’s what I figured. If she were still part of your life, you would have dialed 911, gone straight to her house, done what frantic people do.”

  Olivia lifted her chin. “I did that for my father.”

  “But it’s too late for your mother?”

  “It was too late for my father, as well.”

  And now I’m sleeping in his motel room, Ian thought. Getting cold at night, imagining his restless spirit.

  “I didn’t wish this upon her,” Olivia said. “And neither did Allie. Our mother hurt us, but we didn’t want her to die.”

  Contemplating her words, he stopped writing. He’d spent a week poring over police reports, autopsies, lab results, maps, sketches and photographs. He’d reconstructed the crimes, studied the victims, done his damnedest to analyze the killer. And all along, this case was connected to the psychic, to her family.

  “What did that vision tell you?” he asked. “When did Yvonne die? Was she the Slasher’s first victim? Was she his last?”

  “I don’t know.” She glanced out the window as if she were trying to see beyond the sheet of rain. “I’m not sure.”

  When she turned back, their gazes locked. An unholy alliance, he thought. He was already in too deep, already wrapped up in a game Olivia Whirlwind had started.

  She looked dangerously erotic with her sultry-shape
d eyes and bad-girl clothes. She was toying with him, even now, in the height of her crisis.

  Ian moistened his lips, fighting a sudden thirst. He was toying with her, too. Not about this case. But about the energy that bled them both dry.

  He was lusting after a woman who’d accused him of being a witch, who drove him half-mad and claimed he was going to die. Things couldn’t get much worse.

  “Tell me about this man Yvonne ran off with,” he said. “Who he is? How long had she been involved with him?”

  Olivia sighed. “We don’t know anything about him, not even his name. We never saw him. We didn’t even know that she was having an affair, not until she packed her bags and disappeared.”

  “Did she leave a note?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  She shook her head. “Dad destroyed it.”

  Ian frowned. He’d considered destroying everything connected to his ex-wife, too. But in the end, he’d stopped himself from going that route, from making his marriage that important. He’d spent enough time nursing his bruised ego, imagining the woman he married in bed with another guy. “Is she the reason your dad pulled the trigger?”

  “She’s the reason his life fell apart.”

  Olivia rose from the couch, crossing her arms, hugging herself. Lonesome comfort, he thought. She was hurting more than she was willing to admit.

  He glanced at Allie. She was blinking back tears, trying to come to terms with all of this. But she wasn’t as delicate as she seemed. The little sister had inner strength. Somewhere deep down, she and Olivia were cut from the same cloth.

  “Do you have any pictures of your mother?” he asked, waiting to see who would respond. “Or did your dad destroy them?”

  Allie spoke up first. “We managed to salvage one. I’ll get it for you.”

  After she left the room, he shifted his gaze to Olivia. The rain-drenched window framed her in a cloudy light, creating the perfect ambience for a psychic.

  “Are you still going back to Virginia tomorrow?” she asked, reminding him that he was leaving on Monday.

  “Yes, but I’ll only be gone a few days. Muncy and Riggs can follow up on this until I get back.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Why? Are you going to miss me?”

  She ran her hands through her hair, spiking the choppy layers, creating sexy havoc around her face. “Not as much as you’re going to miss me.”

  No doubt, he thought. Olivia Whirlwind was getting under his skin.

  Suddenly the corners of her lips tilted. Just a little, just enough to suggest that she could read minds. And then she decided to check on her sister, making him wonder if they’d buried Yvonne’s picture in a trunk somewhere.

  Like a body that was about to be exhumed.

  Olivia found Allie in her studio, staring at one of the crime-scene photos. The younger woman looked up and made a troubled face. “I got paint on this.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure West brought you his copies. He’s probably taking them back to Virginia with him.”

  “He’s leaving?”

  “Just for a few days.” Olivia moved closer. The paint Allie had speckled on the photograph was red. Like a drop of blood. “Maybe he won’t notice.” Then again, West didn’t miss much. “Did you get Mom’s picture?”

  “I put it under here.” Allie lifted the stack of crime-scene photos. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”

  “I know.” She wondered if it was significant that Allie had buried their mother’s image. Of course, it had been buried before, stuffed in a box with old keepsake items they never looked at, never touched. “We can’t rely on Dad to keep us safe. You know that, don’t you?”

  Her sister picked at the paint, chipping the deep-crimson color. “Why? Because he couldn’t protect Mom? He must have known Mom was dead, and that’s what he’s been trying to tell us.” She stopped picking. “Do you think they’re together now?”

  It sounded romantic, comforting. But Olivia didn’t envision her estranged parents spending eternity together. “We should bring West those pictures.”

  “Do you think he’s going to ask us more questions about Mom?”

  “He might not press us for more information today, but eventually he will. It’s part of his job.”

  “What are we supposed to say if he asks us about her personality?” Allie smoothed her dress. It flowed to her ankles, making her look long and lean and mystical. “That she was a bitch half the time?”

  Olivia bit back a smile. Her sister never failed to blurt out whatever she was thinking. “We have to tell him the truth. And like you said, she was only a bitch half the time. We have some good memories of her, too.”

  “You’re right. West will understand how complicated Mom was. He probably has a sociology degree or something.” She paused, then chewed her bottom lip, peeling off the pale pink gloss she wore. “Are you going to sleep with him?”

  An honest question, Olivia thought, that deserved an honest answer. “I will if he makes the first move.”

  Her sister seemed surprised. “That’s never stopped you before. You always go after what you want.”

  “If I come on to him, he’ll act superior. He’ll have the advantage. He already annoys me.”

  Allie found the strength to grin, to fall into the humor of the moment, the girl talk that made being female fun. “And Kyle didn’t? He’s big and dumb. What could be more annoying than that?”

  “I like ’em big.” Olivia grinned, too. “And all men are dumb.”

  “West isn’t. He knows you want to bang his brains out.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Kyle wasn’t dumb, either. He was just shallow. He thought the world revolved around the size of his penis.

  Allie sighed. “If Dad can’t help us, then I’m going to paint an angel. The most gorgeous warrior that ever existed. Tall and rugged with dark wings.”

  “Sure. Why not?” She knew she couldn’t stop her little sister from expressing her emotions in her art. “Maybe he’ll come to life and sweep you off your feet.”

  “Or bang my brains out,” Allie said, making them both laugh.

  By the time they returned to the living room, their mood was no longer light. West stood at the window, taking the spot Olivia had abandoned. He looked deep in thought, watching the rain, listening to it pummel the earth.

  When he turned around to face her and Allie, his eyes had taken on that metallic glow. Olivia heard her sister suck in a breath. He was rather breathtaking.

  For a special agent with too much attitude.

  He came forward to take the pictures out of Allie’s hands. He flipped through them, noticed the speck of paint, arched an eyebrow and continued until he came to Yvonne. Her image stopped him cold.

  Olivia glanced at the photograph, all too aware of the slant of her mother’s cheekbones, the fullness of her lips, the pantherlike prowl in her eyes. She could tell that West was mesmerized. But most men were. Yvonne’s effect on the opposite sex coursed through their veins. “She was a dancer when she was young.”

  “How old was she here?” he wanted to know.

  “Forty. It was taken the same year she left.”

  “So she would be fifty-two now. Around the same age as the killer.”

  That got Allie’s attention. “You’ve figured out how old he is?”

  The killer’s age jarred Olivia, too. The LAPD had been working on a profile for months, but the witchcraft elements were making an accurate analysis difficult. She wondered if West had found a way to get past that or if his eyes were as powerful as they seemed, if he could see into the minds of madmen.

  She searched his gaze, looking for the answer. “Tell us about him. Tell us what we’re dealing with.”

  “Yes, please.” Allie spoke up quickly, just as anxious.

  He agreed, and they resumed their seats. Except this time Olivia took the bentwood rocker. It had been her mother’s chair, the place where she had lulled her daughters to sleep.

 
; “In my estimation, the perpetrator is Native American, divorced and lives alone,” West said. “He’s around five-ten, slim, slightly built. Attractive, dresses well. He appears to be a narcissist, someone driven by self-obsession.”

  Olivia tried to get a mental image of the killer, but all she could see was the motionless body of her mother, the tattoolike symbol on her skin, the red slashes staining the sheet.

  West continued, “I’m not an authority on narcissism, but I’m consulting a psychologist who specializes in this disorder. That’s part of my agenda, one of the reasons I’m returning to Virginia. I have a slew of meetings concerning this case.”

  Allie scooted to the edge of the couch, listening carefully. Olivia asked another question, “What else can you tell us?” She and her sister needed to arm themselves with information, with the power of knowledge.

  The special agent smoothed his hair. It was still damp, straight and dark and falling across his forehead. “At one time the perpetrator was connected to the arts, to Hollywood, and he still sees himself as part of that world. He’s an urban Indian, raised in the city, with access to money. I’m not sure if he left town and came back or if he’s been here all along. But, either way, he considers L.A. his home.”

  Olivia met his gaze. The rain continued, drumming in her head, pounding between them.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “As you know, he stalks his victims, using his supernatural ability to learn more about them. He’s been selecting them carefully, personalizing each woman with the drawing, making it look like a tattoo. That symbol is significant to him.”

  She shifted in her seat, then stilled the rocker when it creaked. “Is he punishing his victims?”

  “Yes. For cheating on their husbands, and in Denise’s case, for wanting to have an affair. He’s making his victims pay for someone else’s sin. A woman he considers a whore. Not his ex-wife, but the woman who destroyed his marriage.” He paused to glance at Yvonne’s picture. “I think this wound has been festering for a long time. Then something happened recently to set him over the edge, to turn him into a killer.”