Then again, was she surprised? His father had died and she’d sworn that there’d been something else recently in the papers about their family that was all kinds of dramalicious, but anyway, he was standing in a cemetery, before his family’s tomb, so yeah, he was probably troubled.
Wasn’t she also troubled?
“I didn’t know that,” he replied.
A tentative smile tugged at her lips. “Well, now you do.”
He was quiet for a moment. “What do they smell like?”
“Actually, these smell like roses, and I guess you could just get roses if you like that smell, but I’ve always thought that peonies were prettier.”
His gaze dipped to where she held them. “They are.”
Rosie’s smile kicked up a notch. “They’re yours if you want them.”
A moment passed and then he reached out to take the flowers. His fingers brushed hers as they curved around the bundle of stems. Her gaze flew to his face. There was a slight tilt to the corner of his lips. The touch was brief, but she thought . . .
Ugh. It sounded out there, but Rosie thought it was on purpose.
“I don’t imagine people do this often,” he said, looking down at the peonies and then back to her.
“Do what?” She lowered her hand.
“Search someone down in a cemetery to replace flowers they carelessly dropped,” he explained, lifting his gaze to the hum of a plane flying above, heading toward the airport. Then that pale gaze focused on hers again with the same intensity as before. “I’d figure most people wouldn’t have spared it another thought.”
Rosie lifted a shoulder. “I hope that’s not the case.”
“It is.” He said that like he didn’t have one ounce of doubt in his mind. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He nodded and then turned back to the crypt. Rosie took a moment to recognize the craziness of the situation. She was actually standing here, conversing with Devlin de Vincent, and she wasn’t badgering him about his haunted property.
She deserved a pile of beignets for resisting the urge and proving that she did, in fact, have the common decency to respect the fact that they were in a graveyard and this was neither the time nor the place for such topics.
She figured it was time for her to leave him, since she really needed to get to Nikki’s and he was owed his privacy, but she felt like she needed to say something. “I’m sorry about your father.”
And that was all she said, because she knew that when people lost someone the way Devlin had, no one processed it the same way. Some wanted—needed—the acknowledgment and wanted to talk about it. Others weren’t at that point yet, and his father’s suicide was recent.
Devlin faced her once more. His head tilted to the side as a wry look settled into his striking features. “You know who I am?”
Rosie laughed softly. “I’m pretty sure everyone knows who you are.”
“True,” he murmured, and that made Rosie want to laugh again. There was no reason to deny it. “Did you know who I was when I dropped the flowers?”
She did laugh again then. “No. Your back was to me and you were too far away. All I knew was that you were a guy.”
The way he studied her made her wonder if he believed that or not, but there really wasn’t anything she could say to change it if that was the case. A cloud passed overhead, and Rosie pushed her sunglasses up. She’d smoothed her curls back into a topknot this morning. If she hadn’t, she was confident her hair would be a frizzy mess in the humidity.
Something . . . weird flickered across his face as he stared at her. She had no idea what it was as she spun the key ring on her pointer finger. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time—”
“These aren’t for Lawrence,” he said, and she thought it was strange that Devlin called him that instead of Father. He stepped forward, crossing over the stone. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“I do?” She watched him kneel, and that was when she saw the name. Marjorie de Vincent. Was that his mother?
Devlin placed the peonies in the vase. “You know me, but I don’t know you.”
“Oh.” Rosie almost said who she was. It was on the tip of her tongue, but Rosie had kind of fixed Nikki up with a mutual friend who had been attempting to investigate the de Vincents for the local paper, unbeknownst to Rosie. She didn’t know if Devlin knew anything about that, but there was no point in running that risk. “It doesn’t matter.”
He turned to her, brows knitted in a slight frown. “It doesn’t?”
“No.” She smiled as her gaze flickered from him to where she saw the father’s name etched into stone. “You know, I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but it’s true. You may never really understand why your father did what he did, but it gets easier to . . . deal with.”
Devlin’s lips parted as he stared at her.
She felt her cheeks warm, because of course he knew. He already had experience with this, with his mother, and here she was, dispensing unnecessary advice like an idiot.
He stepped toward her, coming over the stone. “What is your name?”
Before she could answer, a phone rang. For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer it, but then he reached into his pocket, pulling it out.
“Sorry,” he said. “I have to answer this.”
“It’s okay.”
Devlin turned away, placing his hand on his waist as he spoke into the phone. This was her chance to make a clean exit. Taking just one more second to soak in the line of his jaw and the breadth of his shoulders, she slid her sunglasses back down as she backed up.
Turning with a soft smile on her lips, she walked away from Devlin de Vincent, knowing it was very unlikely that she’d see him again.
Chapter 2
Princess Silvermoon was her trade name, but Rosie simply knew her as Sarah LePen. Princess Silvermoon was, no question about it, a really absurd name, but in Sarah’s line of work, she had to stand out. Especially in a city where you couldn’t throw a rock and not hit a tarot card reader or a psychic, and calling yourself a princess did get you a lot of attention.
But Sarah was the real deal Holyfield.
She was a psychic medium whose feelings were almost always premonitions, and not only that, she was able to communicate with honest to goodness spirits. Rosie knew it was more than Sarah relying on finely honed intuition or being able to expertly read people’s body language. She’d seen Sarah in action many times over to know that she was connecting with someone, able to answer nearly impossible questions and impart shockingly accurate information to those who had her do readings.
Rosie had met Sarah through her friend Jillian several years ago. Jilly was the creator and co-owner of NOPE—the New Orleans Paranormal Exploration team, and in Rosie’s opinion, one of the best paranormal investigation teams out there. Jilly brought Sarah in while NOPE was investigating a house out in Covington. They had a previous owner of the home who hadn’t moved on and was making herself quite the nuisance in the home, banging around, stealing things and placing them in weird locations to scare the bejesus out of the kids. Sarah had managed to get the old lady to cross over, much to the family’s delight. And as far as Rosie knew, they still lived in that house. But sometimes spirits could be stubborn. There’d been times that Sarah couldn’t get them to cross over, and then it became up to the owners to either attempt to forcibly remove the spirits or learn to live with them.
Sarah had been engaged up until about four months ago, when a feeling had led her to come home earlier than normal, catching her fiancé with, as cliché as hell, his secretary.
So she’d recently moved into an apartment over on Ursulines, which wasn’t too far from Rosie, and where she was currently begging for forgiveness.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she told Sarah as she dropped her bag on the couch. “Today has been—it has been all over the place. I had to help my friend Nikki move and I had to help Jilly with one of the ghost tours. You know ho
w those things are.”
“A mess and they always run over?” Sarah laughed as she walked out of her kitchen. Her blond hair was pulled up in a messy knot that looked Instagram ready. She was a gorgeous woman who reminded Rosie of an older version of the actress Jennifer Lawrence. When Sarah was officially working, she wore flowing gowns and bracelets that sounded like wind chimes every time they clanked together. When she was off, like she was now, she wore black leggings and a black tunic. “You have no reason to apologize. It’s okay. I have nothing else planned tonight. I never do on this night.”
“But it’s Friday—”
“And we have a standing date every year, on this date, so it’s okay.” She carried two small pillar candles and placed them on the coffee table.
Sarah was correct.
For the last six years, Sarah had attempted to communicate with Ian on the anniversary of his death. Like Houdini and his wife, Rosie and Ian had a code word. A word only they would know. It was something they’d come up with one night, after drinking about a gallon of wine and watching a marathon of The Dead Files on one of their lazy Sundays. Since he’d been just as into the paranormal as she was, it wasn’t that out-there that they’d come up with a word that would prove a medium was really communicating with one or the other.
It had taken Rosie four years to get the point that she was even remotely ready for something like that. She didn’t really have any questions for Ian. She just wanted to know if he was . . . okay. That’s all.
And for the last six years, Sarah had never been able to reach him. Rosie didn’t know what that meant. Sarah had always told her that didn’t mean he wasn’t around her. He just wasn’t coming through. Maybe he wasn’t ready to talk. Maybe he . . . maybe he wasn’t there, wherever there was.
Either way, Rosie was in awe of Sarah, and maybe even had a little girl crush on her, too. The fact that she could talk to those who had passed absolutely fascinated Rosie. Sarah had been more than open about what it was like and how it was when she was a child, but Rosie really couldn’t understand or even begin to know what it was like to hear voices that others could not, to feel what others couldn’t.
Sarah and those like her, who were truly gifted, were heroes in Rosie’s book.
“How was the tour?” Sarah asked.
“Not bad.” Being familiar with the drill, Rosie walked into the kitchen and grabbed the other two candles. She brought them into the living room, placing them in the center of the coffee table. “It’s just that a lot of people had questions, which I don’t mind, but we got hung up near the Sultan’s house.”
Sarah rolled her eyes as she turned off the overhead lights. The room was cast in soft, flickering shadows. The blinds were already closed, shutting out the bright lights of the city. She’d already turned on music. Well, it really wasn’t technically music. It was the low sound of ocean waves, background noise that helped Sarah concentrate and to drown out the sounds from outside.
Making her way back over to Rosie, Sarah knelt down on a thick, sparkly blue cushion. “You mean the house where there is absolutely no evidence of a Sultan or a Sultan’s brother living there? Or any evidence of a bloody, horrific massacre?”
Chuckling, Rosie dropped down onto her pillow. It was also sparkly, but pink. “One of the tourists wanted to know why we weren’t taking them to the Gardette-LaPrete House, and I tried to explain that there has never been any historical evidence that such a massacre took place there and while the place is beautiful, we don’t include stories where there isn’t some level of historical evidence. He argued, listed all these facts, which aren’t facts, and anyone with a degree in Googling could’ve figured that out.”
“Mansplained you, did he?”
“Yep.” She crossed her legs. “I told that guy that no one was saying the house wasn’t haunted. Just that there wasn’t anything factual supporting the legend. Not even a single report in any newspapers about the murders, and with something as bad as this supposedly was, it would’ve been in a newspaper.”
Sarah stretched her neck to the left and then the right as the flame of the candle danced over her face. “The place does give off weird vibes and I wouldn’t live in one of those apartments, but ya know . . .”
“Yep. Either you believe the Gardette-LaPrete House murders are real or you don’t. There is no in-between. Anyway, the debate caused us to run over. So, did you spend your evening arguing over a mass murder that may have never taken place?”
She laughed softly. “No. I kind of wish I had. I did a private reading with this couple who’d just lost their child.”
“Oh no.” Rosie’s shoulders slumped. Those readings had to be the worst, and Rosie wasn’t sure how Sarah managed to deal with them—the grieving family and friends who were so desperate to speak to their loved ones just one more time. But no matter how distraught those people were, Sarah wouldn’t lie to them. She wouldn’t tell them vague things like some mediums would to make them feel better. Sarah was always honest, even when it hurt. “Did you reach the child?”
Sarah brushed a loose strand of hair off her cheek. “No. Kids are . . . it’s always hard with them, especially when the passing is recent. I tried to explain that, but they wanted to try anyway. They want to try again, but I was able to convince them to give it a couple of months.” She smiled, but it was sad as she placed her hands on the coffee table. “By the way, you’re still planning on going to the Masquerade with me next week, right?”
Rosie nodded enthusiastically. “Hell yeah! I’m just glad you’re still going, but thank you again for bringing me as your plus-one. I’ve always wanted to attend.”
The annual charity Masquerade was where the wealthiest and most powerful of New Orleans rubbed elbows and God knew what else, so Rosie never had a chance to attend. She didn’t hobnob with the highfalutin crowd.
Sarah normally attended with her ex, who got the exclusive tickets because he worked in the district attorney’s office. As far as they knew, her ex wasn’t going to be there. Rosie kind of hoped he would be, because their costumes were sexy as hell, and she wanted Sarah to be able to rub all that he threw away in his face.
“You’re just excited because the house is haunted.” Sarah grinned.
“Guilty as charged.” The bedroom upstairs, the last one on the left that faced the courtyard in the back, was one of the most haunted locations in the city. Legend said a woman who’d been murdered by a jealous ex-lover the night before her wedding haunted the room, full-bodied-apparition type of haunting, and Rosie was so going to check it out.
Sarah shook her head. “Let’s see if we can reach Ian. Okay?”
Rosie nodded. Sometimes Sarah needed personal effects, but she tried to make contact without them at first. Rosie wasn’t holding her breath that tonight was going to be any different than all the previous attempts.
But she was going to try, because that was the promise they’d made each other. And maybe it was just a silly promise, one that Ian hadn’t taken seriously, but Rosie did.
“Close your eyes and picture Ian,” Sarah said, her voice soft in the darkness. “I’ll let you know if he comes through.”
In other words, that meant Rosie needed to shut up and let Sarah concentrate. So, she did just that, because Rosie knew that Sarah didn’t want her talking until she asked her a question. After all, Rosie could accidentally feed information to Sarah, and because they were friends and Sarah knew a lot about Ian, it was already difficult for Sarah not to fall back on what she already knew.
Closing her eyes, she pictured Ian. Or tried to. It was . . . God, it sucked to acknowledge this, but it was getting harder to piece his features together. She had to try really hard for the details not to be blurry and it took effort. Rosie knew that was common, but it still burned a hole through her chest.
Ian was handsome.
He’d been tall and lanky. The kind of guy who could eat fried chicken wings smothered in every sauce known to man and hamburgers daily and never gain a pound
. Rosie so much as looked at a basket of chicken wings and put on weight, but not Ian. He’d had dark brown hair that was cropped close to the skull. Rosie liked longer hair on guys, but the short cut always worked for Ian since it showcased his high cheekbones. His skin had been a little darker than hers, courtesy of his father, and his eyes had been a rich, deep brown. Rosie held the image of him in her mind—an image of him smiling, because goodness, he had a beautiful smile. A smile that was so infectious that you couldn’t help but smile in return. And his laugh? Oh man, it had been just as—
“Someone is here,” Sarah announced, causing Rosie’s stomach to lurch. “The voice is faint. Very far away.” There was another pause. “It’s a female voice.”
Jolting out of her thoughts, her eyes flew open. Sarah sat across from her, her eyes still closed.
Her pale brows knitted together as her fingers curled against the coffee table. “Rosalynn . . .”
No one called her Rosalynn except for her parents or her sister when they wanted to be annoying. Then again, her grandmother always called her that.
Sarah’s head twitched slightly to the left. “You always . . . hated that name.”
A wry grin tugged at her lips. Everyone who knew Rosie knew she didn’t like her full name. Rosalynn June Pradine had been her full name before she married. After Ian’s death, she hadn’t changed it back. Didn’t see the point in it, but anyway, her sister’s name was worse, though. Their parents just had to be extra about everything and named the poor girl Belladonna, which meant she was named after an extremely poisonous plant also known as nightshade.
The weird name thing was unfortunately a family tradition on her mother’s side. Her mother was Juniper May Pradine. Bella was Belladonna February Pradine. Yes, there was a trend there. Their middle names were the months their parents swore they were conceived in. Apparently that weird tradition started with their grandmother.
And her granny sure as hell knew she didn’t like to be called that.
It obviously wasn’t Ian coming through, but if it was her granny, Rosie couldn’t complain. She’d come through before and actually told Rosie where her mother could find a necklace of Granny’s that her mom had been searching for forever.
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