No doubt about it, she was gorgeous, and when she smiled, she could make the hearts of the men around her race.
But right now, her smile was fucking
freaky
.
Under her feet, they suspected, were dozens of bones. Unmarked graves.
The location of a serial killer’s little playground. Or maybe his burial ground.
But she smiled. It was a peaceful, beautiful smile—a Mona Lisa smile, and it didn’t belong in the place of death and decay, the tech thought.
Fucking
freaky
. He muttered it under his breath again and went to turn away, only to realize he was the subject of intense scrutiny.
Special Agent in Charge Taylor Jones was staring at him, and he did not look pleased. If Desiree Lincoln was fucking freaky, then Jones was fucking scary, and that look never boded well.
Swallowing, he held that steely blue gaze and prepared himself for the fact that his head just might be rolling across the ground, figuratively speaking, in a second or two.
But all Jones did was stare at him—long enough to make sure the point was made.
I
DIOT.
Taylor Jones didn’t much like having any of his people being called crazy—they were unique, all of them. If they weren’t unique, they wouldn’t work for him. But unique didn’t make them crazy—didn’t make them freaks.
The tech flushed, and after another fifteen seconds Taylor looked away.
Still, he knew the tech’s thoughts were echoed by a number of others. At least among the techs. Those on Taylor’s team understood, on some level, how Dez’s gift worked, and they were no longer surprised by her reactions, even in a place as disturbing as this. Others, though . . . they didn’t like to see a woman smiling when she stood in the middle of what was likely an unmarked mass grave.
Perhaps, if he didn’t know Desiree, he’d agree with them. He knew her, though, and her gift had long since stopped unsettling him. Other things about Dez might unsettle him, but not her gift. He knew she didn’t smile because she stood atop the possible grave sites of murder victims.
She smiled because one of them, at least, would find peace tonight.
To Dez, that meant a lot.
Taylor wished he could find some solace in that, but all he felt was a fiery hot rage, carefully hidden under a cold, professional veneer. Somewhere, buried under all of it, was exhaustion.
He couldn’t let that cold professionalism crack and he couldn’t give in to the rage. Later, sometime much, much later, he could give in to the exhaustion, though.
They already had the killer in custody.
Correct that
, he thought to himself.
The
alleged
killer
.
Alleged,
my ass
. Keaton Weiss was a brutal, sadistic bastard who had spent the past fifteen years preying on the Miss Lonelyhearts type, stalking them, seducing them . . . then kidnapping them, raping them and killing them. Bodies had never been recovered, although one victim had managed to get away, and that was how they had finally managed to catch Weiss.
And catching Weiss was what had led them here.
No . . . it was what had led Dez here.
All Taylor had to do was place her in the room where Weiss had committed untold atrocities on untold women and, one by one, the ghosts had started to whisper to her. Most of them, though, had been too weak, too faded or still too traumatized to connect with Dez.
She would work with them and hopefully, over time, she could help them move on.
But one of them had been able to establish a tenuous link with Dez, and that link had proven strong enough for her to lead them here. Here, they’d find the evidence they needed to put the bastard away.
Jones didn’t have the gifts Dez had but he knew his people, and judging by the looks on the faces of some of them, they had hit the crime jackpot here. Some of them were all but chomping at the bit to get out there and start their own hunt, but they knew they needed to give Dez her space.
If they screwed this up for her, the ghost may never find the peace she needed.
Some of the ungifted techs didn’t quite understand that. While Taylor was impatient in the extreme and itching to get out there, he knew if that ghost didn’t find any sort of peace, she’d linger with Dez.
And that would torment her.
He couldn’t do that.
Not to her.
He tried to force up some semblance of the cold, hard shield he’d perfected so long ago—he didn’t have any sort of special interest in Dez Lincoln. He wouldn’t wish the unrest of an agitated ghost on any of his people, that was all. He needed them all at their best, all the time.
But even as he told himself that little line, he knew it for what it was.
Nothing but shit.
He did need his people at their best.
All the time.
He wouldn’t wish the unrest of an agitated ghost on any of his people. But he most certainly had a special interest in Dez Lincoln. And he had from the very beginning.
Not that it mattered, though.
She was a member of his unit and that made her off-limits.
And even if that wasn’t an issue, Taylor Jones didn’t do relationships.
Period.
W
ILL you find him? Stop him?
It was the third time Tawny Lawrence had asked Dez that question. The departed so easily forgot things, especially when they were agitated, and Tawny was most definitely agitated. Agitated, angry . . . and as they’d drawn closer to her unmarked grave, she’d gotten sadder as well, as though she’d felt the gloom and the darkness looming over her.
But Dez didn’t mention the repetitive questions—she simply answered as she had the first and second time. “We have found him. He has been stopped. He won’t do this to anybody else.”
They were often confused—especially once they realized she could see them, hear them . . . talk to them. Some of them had spent years and years unable to speak to anybody, not even one another. A lot of the time, the souls of the departed were trapped in their own personal hells and until they could break free and move on, they weren’t aware of anything or anybody.
Unless somebody like Dez could penetrate that shield.
Tawny’s face, pretty and sweet, softened with a smile, and just like that, the darkness surrounding her began to lift. She didn’t look like a ghost, didn’t look like a murder victim.
In Dez’s experiences, the departed were a reflection of how they remembered themselves in life . . . a washed-out mirror reflection. Tawny’s pale face faded even more and she closed her eyes.
How long? Do you know?
Dez said gently, “You disappeared seven years ago.”
Seven years . . . my God.
She sighed and her image flickered. Then she focused on Dez’s face. As her gaze focused, the air around Dez grew colder and the tension was thick enough to cut.
My son. I have a son. Do you know what happened to him?
“Your ex-husband took him. Raised him—he misses you but it looks like his father did his best to make sure he had a good life. He’s graduated from high school and he’s in college. Going for a degree in criminal justice.” A faint smile curled Dez’s lips and she said, “I think because of what happened to you.”
Something that might have been tears glimmered in Tawny’s eyes.
He’s a good boy. I’m glad . . . thanks for telling me.
Dez wasn’t surprised the woman had asked. She’d skimmed the file as they traveled up here, preparing for just this sort of thing. A lot of them had questions, and nothing made it harder for them to pass over than
not
knowing.
Unwilling to be the one responsible for holding somebody back, she did her best to make sure she could answer whatever questions came up. But she couldn’t always answer every question, and often, those unanswered questions were the hardest.
What happens to me now?
Tawny stared at her, her gaze sobering.
“That’s not so easy to answer, Tawny. What do you think happens?”
Tawny just smiled.
And as easy as that, she faded away.
Sometimes they asked so many questions. But the answers Dez had didn’t always suit those who had passed over, and she hated like hell to cause any more grief to those whose lives had been ended all too soon, and almost always in an ugly, violent manner.
Once Tawny was gone, she turned and faced the rest of the team.
Her gaze locked on Taylor’s.
He lifted a golden brow.
She nodded.
That was all he needed. Without a word from her, he turned away and the team sprang into action.
And just like that, Dez’s job was done and she was relegated to the sidelines.
Good thing for her she’d brought a book.
She knew Taylor wouldn’t be leaving here anytime soon.
CHAPTER 2
“
Y
OU’RE not supposed to be here,” Taylor snapped, his voice flat and cold.
Dez ignored him, staring at the house with a rapt expression.
The voices . . . they called to her.
Their
call was impossible to ignore. The whispers were like a siren’s song in her head. Responding to Taylor’s blunt statement was pointless, especially since she couldn’t even explain
why
she was here. She just knew she
had
to be here.
She hadn’t been notified and that meant nobody thought her skills were required. If Taylor wanted her here, he would most definitely have called her.
After all, she lived just a little outside of Williamsburg. It wouldn’t take her any time to get to the small, upscale subdivision where all hell was currently breaking loose. It made her gut hurt to think about the hell happening inside this posh, designer neighborhood. Some people thought bad shit didn’t happen in places like this.
Dez knew better.
“There’s a child in there,” she said quietly.
“No there’s not.” It was Colby Mathis, one of Jones’s newest bloodhounds, and under most circumstances she would have listened to him, agreed with him. She liked the guy, respected him, and she knew he knew how to do his job. He was the hard-core psychic and she was the one who talked to ghosts.
But he was wrong, this time.
Because there was a ghost standing at the door of the house, staring at Dez with desperate eyes, her mouth open in a silent scream.
“He’s got a child in there, Taylor, and if you all move on him like you’re planning, he’s going to kill her,” Dez said, her voice strained.
Colby swore. “We don’t have time for this, Jones. The fuck’s slipped away from us before—he’s
not
doing it again.”
Taylor looked from Colby to Dez and Dez stared into Taylor’s eyes.
“Colby, give me one minute.”
Taylor saw the frustration simmer in the other man’s eyes, but the agent gave a terse nod and retreated, falling back a few steps as Taylor reached out and caught Dez’s arm. He tried to ignore the soft, silken, warm skin of said arm, just as he’d tried to ignore the way his heart had skipped a beat when she had moved to stand beside him earlier.
He hadn’t even seen her, and he’d known it was her.
Felt it, somewhere deep inside.
Guiding her away from the crush of bodies, he said, “You can explain what you’re doing here later. But for now, tell me why you think there’s a kid in there when all my intel is saying otherwise.”
Dez flicked a look past his shoulder. “Something woke me up and I just knew I needed to be somewhere.
Here
. So I got up, got dressed and headed out. Ended up here—I didn’t even know you had a team here, by the way.”
For a period of about five heartbeats, all thought stopped. Taylor could think of nothing else but those words—
got dressed
. Meaning . . . what? Had she been sleeping in pajamas? Something slinky and silky? Something sensible, practical? Or had she been naked, that sleek, warm brown body bare?
Blood drained out of his head and he clenched his jaw, jerked his attention away from her and stared at the house until he could remember what he was doing, why he was here.
What he was about. He didn’t have time to be thinking about Desiree Lincoln and her sleeping attire—or lack thereof—he had a job to do.
A mission.
The
mission. It was all that mattered. All that could matter.
But his body didn’t want to listen to reason, and he had to dredge up dark, ugly memories to remind himself
what
he was about,
why
he did this. To remind himself of the mission—had to think about the mission.