Miraculously, it had worked, and Reece had stayed with him, had calmed down and even been able to laugh. And for a moment in that office they’d been so close they could have touched, empath body heat radiating off of Reece like a micro furnace, their eyes locked together, his smaller frame fitting perfectly into the space made by Grayson’s body.
Grayson rarely got that close to anyone anymore, unless handcuffs and an arrest were involved. And it had gotten a lot harder for Grayson to ignore his attraction after that.
But it still didn’t matter. Just because your body wanted something didn’t mean you could or should have it. Grayson didn’t chase his body’s desires, because the Dead Man didn’t have time for anything but work. That work was protecting the world from corrupted empaths, and nowhere in his job description was there room for anything else—especiallywhere an empath was concerned. Grayson had to be ready to stop empaths if the corruption set in.
Not to mention there was never going to be a chance Reece would be interested. Grayson was as repulsive as a rotting corpse to empaths: a face they couldn’t bear to see; a voice that made them sick; a touch so rejected it knocked them out.
An empath would never be interested in the Dead Man, and good thing too, because he didn’t have any business climbing in bed with one.
He looked himself in the eyes in the mirror.
No business. None whatsoever.
The hotel lobby had a breakfast buffet, about half the tables full. A woman with a messy topknot and pink pajama pants side-eyed Grayson as he grabbed three plastic-wrapped hard-boiled eggs and a yogurt before filling a paper coffee cup, skipping the half-and-half and instead adding milk from the cereal station. As he headed out to the rental car, his phone rang with a call from Dr. Easterby.
“You’re already awake?” he asked, as he answered. Wasn’t even five a.m. yet on the West Coast. “You got an early flight?”
She made a sound of affirmation. “Jamey’s on her way. Got your coffee?”
Grayson sipped the weak, lukewarm drink. “Supposedly.”
“Hotel coffee is never up to Cuban or Lebanese standards. Our mothers would have been disappointed,” she said. “And I need you to ask for more blood tests for the murdered empath.”
“Whichever ones you want. Any particular reason?”
“I looked at the pictures you sent over. Her eyes are as bloodshot as a case of conjunctivitis,” said Easterby. “Empaths don’t do drugs on their own. I want to know if someone slipped her something before they bashed her over the head.”
“I’ll make sure they work up a panel, if they haven’t.” Grayson had to use a little extra force to get the icy car door to open. “But then that begs the question—why drug an empath before you kill them? They’re not gonna fight back or even defend themselves.”
“Because you’re afraid of empaths,” Easterby said bitterly. “The kind of creep who not only murders an empath but takes the time to position her corpse to make her gloves obvious.” Her voice dropped a little lower. “You’re going to get the bastard who hurt this empath, right?”
A memory flickered like a movie projected on a distant screen: an underground bunker, people screaming, fire everywhere.
Grayson, in the center of the room, a Magnum .44 in hand and nothing in his heart.
He blinked and the memory was gone. “It’s what the Dead Man does.” He hesitated, then said, “I realize I’m the last person on this planet to advise anyone on feelings. But don’t push yourself too hard here.”
Easterby’s voice was quiet. “You know I can’t promise that, Evan.”
After they hung up, Grayson sat in the SUV as the windshield defrosted, flicking through his phone. Gretel Macy had put up something new on theEyes on Empathsblog the night before, a few dry paragraphs on AMI president Beau Macy’s remarks at Stone Solutions’ headquarters. AMI membership was skyrocketing on the West Coast; an empath had been murdered on the East Coast. Tensions around the empaths were higher than ever, the empath agencies tightening the leashes while people like Cedrick Stone ran secret experiments and tried to justify it as necessary to protect non-empaths.
And in the middle of it all were the pacifist empaths, who kept getting hurt.
One thing was certain: the Dead Man’s complicated job wasn’t getting easier anytime soon.
It was still the predawn dark of a winter morning as Jamey turned down an unassuming Capitol Hill street, her GPS landing her in front of a redbrick building with stairs leading up to the front door. Small businesses lined the other side of the street: a teahouse, a combination books-and-gifts shop, a fashion boutique.
She pulled Liam’s Corolla to the curb. She’d given her previous Charger back to the Seattle Police Department but hadn’t replaced it yet. At least she wasn’t borrowing Reece’s little Smart car, where her head came close enough to the roof that speed bumps became a hazard to her skull and the keys would only be handed over with an unsubtle list of safe driving rules.
She put the car in Park, idling in front of the redbrick building. Leaving the force had been the right decision, but what did she do now? For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted her job to involve protecting other people. She’d become a detective like her dad so she could stop murderers; transitioning to private investigator sounded like she’d spend too much time snooping on people having affairs.
There was, however, a different job out there. And if she was being honest with herself, she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about joining whatever Grayson’sVanguardswere.
But she was never, ever going to trust Evan Grayson.
She glanced out the windshield just as the door at the top of the stairs opened and a pretty woman stepped out, dressed in blue jeans and a pink puffy coat with a bright purple scarf and matching weekender bag on her shoulder. Her deep brown hair was swept up in a ponytail and her coffee-colored eyes were framed by thick black glasses like Liam’s, and she was waving at Jamey with a big smile.
Aisha Easterby, on the other hand, Jameydidtrust. Maybe it was working a case together, maybe it was having Aisha’s help when Jamey was teetering on the brink of madness, but somewhere along the line on that wild November night, they’d become friends.
