CHAPTER 1
GENEVA
Ghost is corporeal, a man of flesh and blood.
He’s not the ethereal being the media has made him out to be. Or the elusive poltergeist the police think he is. As a criminal psychologist, I’d say that Ghost is barely human… if you consider the number of people he’s admitted to killing.
I make my way toward the courthouse steps that are packed full with people. My skin crawls at the idea of unwanted contact with strangers, each touch brought on by pushing and shoving. But it’s unavoidable if I want to witness this high-profile arraignment.
News reporters, with their cameramen right behind them, wield microphones like batons, nearly assaulting anyone who gets too close. Protesters carry their signs like badges of honor, hoisting the homemade signs into the air, their chanting loud and continuous. Some advocate for the death penalty, despite this being New York City. The other half pleads for mercy on behalf of Ghost, saying his crimes were justified.
Without a psychological profile on him, no one can know for sure.
I tuck my chin and ball my fists, prepared to do a little pushing and shoving of my own, if necessary. I’m almost at the top of the courthouse steps when someone slams into me from behind. My feet trip over themselves as I stumble. Before I can recover, I collide with a stranger.
A tall man with dark hair and medium build swings around to face me, his features twisted in a sneer. “You better watch where you’re going, bitch!”
I step back to gain some distance, but I’m still surrounded by people on all sides. And close enough to make out the scratches on his wrist. They’re not from a cat.
“I apologize,” I say calmly. “Someone pushed me, and I didn’t mean to bump into you.”
“Save your story for someone who gives a shit.”
“Fine.” When he doesn’t give me any indication that he’s going to move, I clear my throat. “You’re in my way.”
The man glares at me. I glare back.
He leans forward, towering over me. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
I square my shoulders and lift my chin, unwilling to back down. I’m getting in that courtroom, come hell or high water. Seeing Ghost in person is an opportunity I won’t miss out on because of some asshole with a complex.
I keep my gaze locked on the man in front of me, scanning his features for microexpressions and to analyze his body language for nonverbal cues. He crosses his arms, turning his torso away from me, indicating he’s uncomfortable with my challenging him. Due to the curl of his upper lip, along with his use of the word “bitch,” my intuition says he hates women. It’s highly doubtful thedeep scratches on his wrists were inflicted by amanhe recently attacked.
His position on the stair above me gives him a feeling of superiority, so I even the playing field and get on his level, continuing to hold his stare. His brows lift in surprise.
“You may like to hurt women to gain a sense of control,” I say, “but you only do it behind closed doors because you’re a coward. So, either man up and hit me, or get the fuck out of my way.”
My words have the intended effect. His mouth falls open and he blinks at me. Using his stupefied condition, I slip past him. The crowd of people closes around me, shielding me from his view. I don’t stop until I’m in line for the security check.
I take a deep breath and release it slowly, trying to rid myself of the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Even though I was pretty sure the man outside wouldn’t have hit me, there’s never complete certainty when dealing with human beings. Like animals, their behavior can be unpredictable when they’re in pain or mentally unstable.
The security guard waves a hand at me. “Ma’am, step forward.”
I walk through the metal detectors, earn a nod from the officer, and retrieve my purse just as my cell phone begins to ring. While making my way down the hallway and navigating through a crowd—that’s not as hectic as the one outside, but still too many people for my liking—I look at the screen.
Shit. It’s Mason.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Gen. I’m surprised you answered the phone. You haven’t lately.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose hard enough to hurt, and tokeep my thoughts about his “charm” to myself. “I’ve been busy. What’s up?”
“I was hoping I could come over to your place tonight… It’s been a while.”
“Mason, you don’t need to be coy about wanting sex.”
He laughs, the sound airy and fake. Like our relationship. I only agreed to the term “girlfriend” to discourage the guys at the office from hitting on me. I’m more turned on by my work than by men. That’s either really pathetic… or serves to exemplify the quality of males I’ve encountered.
