Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author

GENA SHOWALTER

‘One of the premier authors of paranormal romance’

—No. 1 New York Times bestselling author Kresley Cole

‘The Showalter name on a book means

guaranteed entertainment.’

—RT Book Reviews

Haunted

Gena Showalter

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To she-just-gets-hotter P. C. Cast—

aka Miss P. C. Snowater-Cole—for the phone calls, the emails and the laughs. I had so much fun playing in your sandbox! And of course, I love you!

To my editor Margo Lipschultz for the keen insight and kind assurance!

To my agent Deidre Knight, for always being in my corner!

To Jill Monroe, for bouncing ideas and making me laugh with her stories of dog vomit. (But if you baby talk just one more time … I’ll still love you, sigh.)

prologue

The woman lay naked atop a cold slab of metal, her wrists cuffed above her head, her legs shackled apart. Frigid air that smelled of blood and disinfectant had turned her skin into a layer of ice over muscle too weak to even tremble. Determination to escape had drained out of her after the thousandth attempt, though the tears she’d shed forever ago were still crystallized on her cheeks.

This was it for her, she thought. The last day of her life. Sadly, there would be no changing course. The ship had already sailed and the storm had already begun.

She hadn’t asked for this, certainly hadn’t wanted it, but she’d gotten it. Now all she could do was fight. And she would. With every ounce of her strength, she would.

A muffled mewling sound echoed somewhere beyond her.

Though she was bound too tightly to twist and look, she knew her replacement had just woken up and realized she was locked inside a dog cage, only a metal slab and another female’s shame visible. She knew—because she had once been locked inside that cage herself.

She had been forced to watch as the psycho who’d stunned her and stuffed her inside of his car had finished off the other woman who’d been on this slab. The one before her, now dead, killed in the most horrendous way.

“Do yourself a favor and shut up,” she told the girl. Now wasn’t a time for gentleness. “It’s better to remain silent than to give him what he wants—and he wants you to cry. He wants you to scream and beg and tell him how badly it hurts.”

The mewls increased in volume.

“Or continue doing that and make him the happiest murderer in the world,” she added with a grumble.

The thump of booted footsteps suddenly filled the room. Her heartbeat spiked into a too hard, too fast beat. One second passed, two, before the hinges on the room’s only door groaned. Sickness churned in her stomach.

He was here.

Was she really going to do this?

“Good morning, my lovelies.” Such a smug tone, layered with threads of glee and malicious intent. “How are we feeling today?”

Yeah. She was.

Cries emerged from the cage as she said, “I’m feeling like it’d be fun to do a role reversal with you. What do you think? You on this bed, me with a low IQ, a tiny penis and—stop me if I’m wrong—big-time mommy issues.”

A hiss of breath slithered in her direction. “You will never mention my mother again, do you hear me?” Anger had replaced the smugness, knives and other toys clanging together as he searched for the instrument he desired.

“If by ‘never mention again’ you mean ‘never stop talking about it,’ then, yeah, I heard. So, why don’t you pretend I’m your therapist and this is a free-of-charge session?”

“Enough!”

Hardly. “Tell me. Did Mommy Dearest not breast-feed you? Or did she breast-feed you far too long?”

A heavy silence crawled through the small enclosure.

Dig the knife deeper—he soon will. “Come on, you can trust me. I’ll keep everything on the down low, and only bring up your deep, dark secrets on my blog. Well, and maybe my Twitter feed. Oh, and Facebook. Possibly a video diary on YouTube. Other than that, my lips are sealed.”

The metal crashed together with more force. At last he found what he wanted—an eight-inch serrated blade. Holding it up so that the silver gleamed in the too bright overhead light, he turned to face her, a half grin, half scowl lifting the corners of his lips.

“Darling,” he said to the other captive, pretending to ignore her. He couldn’t hide the clenching of his teeth. “You’ll want to pay special attention to what happens next because if you displease me, you’ll experience it yourself.”

The cries became muffled whimpers, the cage rattling as the female tried to slink through the bars.

Never again will I give him that kind of satisfaction. “Oh, goodness, oh, no,” she said, mocking him. “The psycho killer has a knife. Someone cue the spooky music and my terrified screaming.”

His narrowed gaze landed on her, and he waved the blade back and forth, back and forth. “Have you not yet realized the beast you provoke?”

“Uh, hello. Obviously I have. He’s as tiny as the rest of you, which is why I’m grinning.”

He popped his jaw. He wasn’t an ugly man, was actually quite beautiful, with golden curls, eyes of the sweetest honey and features as innocent and guileless as a child’s.

Such a cruel, cruel mask.

When she’d first woken up in that cage she’d thought he was here to save her. A notion quickly disabused as he hauled her out, cut away her clothing and laughed with chilling delight.

“I can make this painless … or excruciatingly painful. Watch yourself,” he snapped.

“Did I hurt your feelings?” she said. “Bad prisoner. Bad, bad, bad prisoner.”

Steps slow and measured, he approached her. “Think you’re so brave? Well, let’s see what I can do to change your mind, shall we? I know you can’t see her, but the girl in the cage is—drumroll, please—your only real friend. You remember her, don’t you? Of course you do. She’s the pretty one.”

The first spark of heat ignited in her chest as she craned her neck to try to peer into the cage, but again, as tightly bound as she was, she was unable to contort herself as needed. She saw only the wall of pictures. Photos he’d taken of the other females he’d violated.

Tomorrow, her image would join them.

“You’re lying, trying to hurt me because you’re a miserable little runt whose heart has rotted and you can’t find any other way to get to me.”

Hatred flared in his eyes, creating deep, dark pits of evil. “You think so? Well, why don’t you ask the girl and find out whether or not I spoke true.”

Her fingers curled into fists. He wasn’t lying. Was he? A liar would not appear so satisfied. Would he? “Say something,” she commanded the girl.

Silence.

His smug chuckle resounded between them. “My deepest apologies, but she’ll not be saying anything. She’s mouthy, your friend. You know she is. I’m afraid I was forced to cut out her tongue.”

Another spark of heat, this one containing fiery strands of rage. Growing … growing … Her friend was mouthy, and this man was vile enough to take her—and just cruel enough to stop her from ever speaking again. Anything to add to the torment he’d already unleashed.

How dare he abduct her friend! How dare he force such a precious girl to endure the horrors he’d visited upon her! Growing … growing …

“You sick, disgusting … argh!” she rasped, jerking at her cuffs. No description was foul enough. “I’ll end you. You’ll never be able to hurt her again. Just wait … I’ll … end … you.” Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry. But she was having trouble catching her breath, forming words.

With his free hand, he stroked along her brow, his touch gentle, almost tender. “You’ve always thought yourself stronger than you really are. It’s your biggest flaw. One I’ll enjoy culling from you.”

She tried to bite him.

He laughed. “I can’t wait to show my newest plaything pictures of our time together. Think she’ll be jealous?”

The rage spread through the rest of her, burning, blistering, causing any hint of tears to evaporate. “You can kill me, but I’m staying here, I promise you.” There was her voice, stronger than before, dripping with determination.

He quirked an eyebrow in mock fear. “Oh, scary. And just how will you manage that, hmm?”

“I’ll find a way. There’s always a way, and good always overcomes evil.”

“So certain,” he said, and tsked under his tongue. “I’ve heard a strong spirit can prove victorious against anything, even death, but, darling, as I’ve tried and tried and tried to tell you, you aren’t very strong.”

“We’ll find out.” An accepted fact in their world: there was indeed an afterlife. Some people moved on to a better place. Some, to a worse place. But she wasn’t going anywhere until her friend was safe.

“Well, I hope you’re right. Just think, if you remain here on earth, we can be together again.” He raised the blade, grinned—and plunged the metal deep.

1

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

SIG-Sauer: eight hundred dollars.

Case of bullets: thirty dollars.

Shooting your neighbor in the face for going through your trash after you’d already warned him there would be consequences if he ever dared to do it again: priceless.

And I’ll do it, too, Detective Levi Reid vowed as he polished the gun in question. My stuff is my stuff. Even my trash!

He’d moved into the King’s Landing apartment complex three weeks ago, but he still wasn’t sure why. Or how. Fine, he knew how. He didn’t like it, and would never admit the truth to anyone but himself, but every day he experienced some sort of blackout. He would snap out of it missing anywhere from five minutes to five hours. Or, in the case of this apartment, seven days.

Honestly, here’s what he knew about the events leading up to such a major loss: he’d followed a suspicious-looking guy to the building’s back entrance. The end. He’d next woken up inside this very room, all of his things surrounding him. He had no idea when he’d packed his stuff, given his home of six years to a stranger or rented this spacious though rundown two-bedroom hellhole totally not suitable for a king.

His coworkers hadn’t come looking for him because he was currently on a forced leave of absence. He didn’t have a girlfriend and had already canceled all of his “mandatory” appointments with the shrink. So, he’d decided to stay put, just in case another blackout struck and he came to someplace worse.

First he’d fumed about his total lack of control—and there were holes in his walls to prove it. Then he’d sunk into a (manly) depression. Manly: no crying or whining, just staring stoically—if not sexily—into the darkness. Now he pondered. He should have manned up and moved somewhere better, but some part of him had actually grown to like it here, despite everything.

Situated at the edge of downtown Oklahoma City, his new home gave him an up close and personal view of the homeless who littered the streets, the prostitutes who constantly hunted prey and the dealers who made back-alley sales day and night. He’d come to this area countless times while on the job, and it had always given him the creeps. (Again, in a manly way.) And okay, okay. The building wasn’t as bad as he remembered. Someone had fixed it up, made it habitable.

His neighbors weren’t so bad, either, he supposed. They had their quirks, but who didn’t?

The guy in 211 skulked around every corner as if a serial killer had his number—and that number was up. Any time Levi heard a suspicious noise and decided to check the halls, the guy glued himself to Levi’s side, crying and begging Levi to help but refusing to answer any questions or share any details.

The girl in 123 liked to tiptoe up and down the halls at all hours of the day and night, stopping to attempt to X-ray vision her way past every door she encountered. Any time Levi walked past her, her attention would swing to him and she would say something spine-chilling like, “I miss my baby. Will you be my baby?” Or, his favorite, “What will you do when you’re dead? Dead, dead, dead, you’re so dead.”

The guy in 409 was Mr. Dumpster Diver.

As of last week, a redheaded stunner and her pretty blonde roommate had moved in. They might be as weird as the rest of them, but he was thinking about asking the redhead out. He wasn’t a fan of dating, but he sure did like getting laid.

Right now he sat at his kitchen table, his SIG in pieces and mixed with his cleaning supplies. He greased the gun’s rails, put the slide on, removed the slide and wiped off the rails, each action automatic. He’d done this a thousand times before, and now found the act calming.

Calm, something he was supposed to maintain. Apparently, if you were on the job and attacked an alleged serial killer who liked to store body parts in his freezer, you’d be told you had “temper issues” and needed to take time to “think and rest.”

What he really needed was a distraction. So, okay, fine. No more thinking about asking Red out. He’d just do it. Hopefully, she was into rough-looking homicide detectives who were possessive of their stuff but trying to learn to share. Also, Levi wasn’t interested in one-night stands and actually expected commitment. And despite popular opinion, he did know how to smile.

A hard knock at his door brought his head snapping up. Probably just another neighbor here to ask to hide from Johnny Law or to tell him the end was near. “Go away. No one’s here.”

Another knock, this one harder, more insistent. “I won’t bite,” she said. “At least, not more than a few times.”

He liked her voice. Soft and sweet, yet determined. Still, an intelligent person didn’t offer to nibble on strangers.

Motions swift, he put his gun back together and shoved it in the back of his running shorts. The weight created bigtime sag, never a good thing but especially not when he was shirtless. His uninvited guest would probably get a peek at his goods, but by the time he finished with her that wouldn’t be the worst of her worries. She needed to learn the consequences of this kind of behavior.

But … then he glanced through the peephole and spied the redhead’s roommate, the pretty blonde. Teaching her a lesson took a backseat to getting rid of her. Last time he’d seen her, she’d made him feel a tide of guilt and shame. Why, he didn’t know. Didn’t care. He just didn’t want to deal with her.

The moment he opened the door, however, urgency took a backseat to concern. She was highlighted by flickering overhead light, chewing on her nails and shifting nervously from one foot to the other. Crimson specks marred her cheeks and splattered her hands. Blood?

Frowning, he opened the door wider. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

Eyes of ocean-blue narrowed on him, her gaze becoming a laser that sliced through flesh. She stopped chewing and shifting at least, and no feelings of guilt or shame rose to the surface. “Ma’am? Did you just call me ma’am?”

“Yes, ma’am. Are you okay?”

“Wow, that hurts!” she said, ignoring his question a second time. “Just how old do you think I am?”

A minefield of a query, and one he was better off disregarding. He motioned to her stained hands with a tilt of his chin, even as he reached for the handle of his gun. “Let’s try this again. Are you hurt?” He scanned the walkway. Empty. No suspicious shadows, marks or noises. “Is someone following you? Bothering you?”

“Why would you—” She glanced down, chuckled and wiggled her fingers at him. “This is paint. I’m a painter.”

Paint. No mortal danger, then. His concern faded, and the surliness resurfaced. “Then what are you doing here?” Okay, so he probably should have pretended to be nice. She’d tell her friend he was a tool, and the friend would tell him she’d rather date a dishrag when he finally asked her out.

“As I was saying,” she continued blithely. “My amazing art does not contain …” A shudder of revulsion shook her. “You know.”

What? Blood? Probably. So many people had an aversion to the stuff, but he’d never had such qualms. “‘You know’?” he parroted.

“Yeah. The elixir of life.”

You’re kidding me. “And the elixir of life is?” Levi was having what he suspected was fun for the first time since his suspension. The girl was brave enough to knock on a stranger’s door and demand he open up, but she couldn’t say a certain five-letter word? How cute was that?

She ran her tongue over her teeth and whispered, “Fine. I can do this. It’s B-L-O-O-D.” Another shudder shook her.

Would it be rude to laugh at her? She’d actually spelled the word rather than said it.

His stance softened, and he allowed his arm to fall to his side. “So you’re an artist, huh?”

“An amazing artist.”

“I don’t know about amazing,” he said, “but you’re definitely modest.” And she was more than cute, he realized. She was short and curvy, her face something you might find on a little girl’s favorite doll, with big blue eyes, a button nose and heart-shaped lips. She was utterly adorable.

“By the way,” he added, “being called ‘sir’ would be a reason to have a hissy. Ma’am’s all good. I say that to everyone with—” his gaze automatically dropped to give her a once-over, but he got caught on her breasts, which were straining the fabric of her pajama top. He managed to jerk his attention back up and choke out “—estrogen.” Girl was stacked.

“Good point,” she said, tossing that tumble of pale hair over one shoulder, “but I assure you, I’m all woman.”

Noticed. Believe me. Rather than voice the sentiment aloud—and risk finding his testicles in his throat—he gave her a single nod of affirmation. “No argument here.”

A relieved breath left her. “Thank you for not telling me I need to double-check my woman card.”

“A double check isn’t necessary.” Are you … flirting?

“Well, isn’t the big, strong he-man sweet?”

“Yes, ma’am, he is.”

He wasn’t the type to flirt, but yeah. Yeah, he was flirting, and she was flirting back.

He’d planned to ask the redhead out, not really wanting anything to do with the blonde and all that guilt and shame she’d caused, but now, with the emotions out of the way, he changed his mind. He wanted this one.

In female-speak, that meant he wanted to get to know her better. In male-speak, he wanted her in his bed, like, now.

She was young, probably in her mid-twenties, with that cascade of wavy blond hair, blond brows and blond lashes, those delicate doll features and the fair skin of someone who preferred to hiss at the sun rather than to bask in it. And she was—

Familiar. He knew her, he realized. Somehow, someway, he knew her. Finally, an explanation as to why he’d felt what he’d felt when she’d first moved in, and yet he had no idea when or where they would have met.

“You’re staring,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip.

A nervous habit, definitely. One that made him think she was slightly … broken.

A protective instinct he usually only experienced on the job sprang to life. Annnd, yes, there was the guilt and the shame again.

Why? Why would he feel this way about her?

Well, no matter the answer, Red was back in the running. Levi didn’t date the broken. Ever. He protected, he avenged, but he didn’t fix. How could he? He couldn’t keep his own life on track. Besides that, he didn’t like feeling this way.

“Seriously. What?” she demanded.

“Just wondering if we’ve met before.” Even as he asked, his arms felt heavier, the muscles tense, as if memory had been stored there and he was now reliving his time with her. But … that would mean he’d held her. That wasn’t something he would forget.

Her nose scrunched up endearingly. “Is that a line? Because that sounds like a line.”

“Actually it’s a question—” can’t date her, can’t date her, really can’t date her, even though you dig her straightforwardness “—and an answer would be nice.”

“Oh.” Was that disappointment in her tone? “Well, the only answer I can give you is no. I would remember someone with your particular … attitude.” Her gaze raked over him, and the little tease shuddered as if they were discussing B-L-O-O-D. “And for your information, I’m entirely lacking in modesty about my paintings because there’s no need for it. I’m an incredible artist. Incredible!”

Confidence was more of a turn-on than straightforwardness, and she possessed more than most. There was no way she could be the broken girl he’d imagined her. Right? And guilt and shame weren’t that bad. Right?

“Never said you weren’t incredible. And what’s wrong with my attitude?”

“It kind of sucks, but I’m sure you’re told something similar all the time.” Up her hand went, her nail back in her mouth, her teeth nibbling. “I, uh, smell coffee,” she said, a sudden tremble in her voice, “and yes, I’d love some. Thanks.”

She darted around him and breezed inside, a waft of cinnamon and turpentine accompanying her. As he watched, momentarily speechless, she stalked to his kitchen.

His brain eventually chugged out of the station. Who did she think she was? His home was his sanctuary and strangers were never allowed. Not even hot ones.

To be honest, this girl was the first person other than himself to ever step inside the apartment. His partner was avoiding him, and his family was … well, he had no idea where. At eighteen, he’d left home and had never looked back. His parents had died when he was six, and none of his relatives had wanted him, so he’d hopped from one foster family to another until the age of thirteen, when a depressed housewife and her emotionally abusive husband had adopted him. Good times.

So, yeah, call him paranoid, call him domineering and selfish and rude, but what was his was his, and he never shared.

But you’re learning to share, remember?

Not anymore!

He would kick her out after scolding her for her daring—

and, as a courtesy, he wouldn’t shoot her in her pretty face—and then they could discuss going to dinner, maybe a movie.

He would have the blonde or no one, he decided.

But he took one look at her and found himself rooted in place. Her motions were stiff, jerky, as she gathered the supplies she needed. A cup, the sugar, a spoon. As many interrogations as he’d conducted over the years, he knew when someone wanted to say something but hadn’t yet worked up the courage. His new neighbor was desperate to confess a secret; she just needed a little push.

Take control of the situation. “Hey, lady. You need to get something straight.”

“‘Lady’ is just as bad as ‘ma’am.’ I’m Harper,” she called over her shoulder.

Harper. The name didn’t quite fit her.

He closed the distance, checking the living room to make sure he’d cleaned up after himself. Besides the shirt and pants he’d draped over the side of his couch, he had, thankfully, done a little picking up. As for his furniture, the dark leather of his couch and love seat were scuffed but of high quality, his coffee table as polished as his gun, and his rug threadbare only where he liked to pace. The floorboards creaked with his every step, but then, creaks, groans and moans as wood settled and hinges dropped were the standard sound track, blending with chatter that could be heard through the ultrathin walls.

“Listen up,” he said.

“Okay, I’ve waited long enough for you to offer,” the woman—Harper—interjected. “What’s your name?”

“Levi. Now why are you here?” He gripped the counter to stop himself from shaking her. Shaking was bad. Very, very bad. Or so his captain was always saying.

Clutching his cup, sipping his coffee, she turned to face him. Only, rather than spilling her reasons, she grimaced and gasped out, “What is this crap? Because honestly? It tastes like motor oil.”

So he liked his joe strong. So what? “Maybe it is motor oil.”

“Oh, well, in that case, it’s actually pretty good.” She took another sip, sighed as though content. “Definitely grade-A motor oil.” Her gaze slipped past him. “You know, your place is so much bigger than mine, with much better lighting. Who’d you have to sleep with to get it?”

She’s as weird as the rest of them. “Who says I had to go all the way?” Apparently, I am, too.

A laugh bubbled from her, and she choked on the coffee. “Dude. Do you know what you just implied?”

“Uh, yeah. That’s why I said it.” Now, then. He’d allowed her to dominate the conversation long enough. He needed to move this along before she gave another one of those laughs. Gorgeous.

He sidestepped the counter, moving closer to her, closer still, the fragrance of cinnamon thickening the air between them, the turpentine fading. He claimed the cup, set it aside and crowded her personal space, forcing her to back up until she ran into the cabinets.

She peered up at him, those ocean-water eyes haunted … and, oh, so haunting. Just then, she reminded him of a fairy with a broken wing.

Broken. There was that word again.

Muscles … tensing again …

In his experience, everyone had secrets. Clearly Harper was no exception. He recalled the day she moved in. She’d kept her eyes downcast, the long length of those pale lashes unable to mask the shadows underneath. There’d been a hollowness to her cheeks that had since filled out, and a stiffening of her spine every time someone had neared her. And wow, he’d noticed a lot considering he’d hadn’t allowed himself to watch her.

“You have five seconds to start talking,” he said more harshly than he’d intended. There was no reason to break her other wing, but dang, his instincts to protect those weaker than himself were taking over, every part of him rebelling at the thought that someone had hurt her. “Why. Are. You. Here?”

She gulped, and her trembling increased. “Can’t a girl get to know a guy before she begs him for a favor?”

“No.” Evasion never worked with him. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Color darkened her cheeks, even as the rest of her blanched to chalk-white. “Not exactly, no.” Softer voice, danger hidden by silken threads of … fear? Yeah, definitely fear. No longer was her gaze able to meet his.

More gently he said, “Explain ‘not exactly.’”

And there went her nails, smashing into her teeth. “Word on the street is, you’re a detective with the OKCPD.”

“I am.” No reason to mention his forced leave of absence.

Those ocean-water blues finally returned to him, so lovely in their purity his breath actually snagged in his throat. “What kind of cop are you?”

“A detective, as we’ve already established.”

“Like there’s a difference. A badge is a badge, right? But I meant, are you the good kind or the bad kind? Do you care about justice, no matter the cost, or do you just like closing a case?”

He pressed his tongue into the roof of his mouth and reminded himself that he was a calm, rational being (with a gun) and she probably hadn’t meant to insult him and his coworkers.

“Harper.” A swift rebuke, her name uttered as though it was a curse. He should have called her “ma’am” again, but since he’d teased her about how he’d gotten the apartment, formalities were out. “You’re seconds away from being arrested for public intoxication, because only a drunk person would say something like that.”

A relieved sigh left her. “The good kind, then. Otherwise, you’d try and convince me of just how good you are, rather than taking offense.”

“Harper.”

She swallowed. “Okay, fine. I told you I’m a painter, right?”

“An incredible painter.”

Her chin lifted, those haunting secrets in her eyes momentarily replaced by affront. “Well, I am,” she said, having to speak around her fingers. “Anyway, I, uh, hmm. I knew this would be hard, but wow, this is worse than the time I had to tell Stacy DeMarko her butt did, in fact, look fat in those jeans.”

I am not amused. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her hand away from her mouth.

The contact jolted her, and she gasped. It jolted him, too. Her skin was unbelievably soft, decadently warm, something out of a fantasy. Her pulse hammered erratically, every pound caressing him. He let her go, stepped away.

“Last chance, Harper. Just say what you came to say. That’s the only way to get what you need.”

She rubbed at the elegant length of her neck, the picture of feminine delicacy, and whispered, “I’m painting something … from memory, I think, and … the problem is … I don’t really remember, but it’s there, in my head, the horrible image, I mean, and … and … I think I witnessed a murder.”

2

Aurora Harper, named after Sleeping freaking Beauty—and if anyone dared call her by the awful name they’d soon get a personal introduction to the razor in her boot—sat “calmly” on her neighbor’s couch. He was peering at her, silent, waiting for her to answer his latest question.

Her tongue felt thick and unruly, unusable, and there was a lump growing in her throat, making it difficult for her to swallow. She hated talking about this, hated thinking about it, and would have given anything to slink away unnoticed, soon forgotten.

Thing was, Levi would not be forgetting her. After her grim announcement, he’d gone stiff and jarringly quiet, then had ushered her into his living room, gently pushed her onto the couch cushions and pulled a chair directly in front of her. He’d spent the next half hour drilling her for information.

She’d had no idea what to expect from him, had known only that he was the most rugged-looking man she’d ever seen. Oh, yeah, and every time she’d glanced in his direction he’d made her heart pound with an urge to fight him or to jump into his arms and hold on forever—she wasn’t yet sure which.

He had wide shoulders, muscled forearms and the hard, ridged stomach of an underwear model. Dressed as he was in black jogging shorts, she could see that he had scarred knees and calves. He was barefoot and his toes were strangely cute.

She forced her gaze up. Black hair shagged around a face honed in the violence of a boxing ring, or perhaps even the down-and-dirty streets, with still more scars crisscrossing on his forehead, his cheeks sharp and skirting the edge of lethal, and his nose slightly crooked from one too many breaks. A shadow of a beard covered his jaw.

He was just as bronzed up top as he was below, and she would guess his ancestry Egyptian. His eyes, though … they were the lightest green, emeralds plucked from a collector’s greatest treasure. Long black lashes framed those jewels, almost feminine in their prettiness.

Not the only thing pretty about him, she thought then. His lips were lush and pink, the kind her best friend and roommate Lana would “kill to have … all over me.”

And, okay, enough of that. Harper wasn’t here for a date, wasn’t sure she’d ever date again. The past few weeks, she could not tolerate even the thought of being touched. Maybe because every time she closed her eyes she felt phantom hands whisking over her, heard the laugh of a madman who enjoyed inflicting pain, and smelled the coppery tang of blood deep in her nostrils.

She could have written off the sensations as an overactive imagination, except … sometimes she fell asleep in one room and woke up in another. Sometimes she would be in her kitchen, or in her studio room painting, or anywhere, really, and would blink and find herself standing in a neighborhood she didn’t recognize.

The blackouts freaked her out, filled her with soul-shuddering panic, and each time she realized she was someplace new, her mind would paint her surroundings with blood, fill her ears with screams … such pain-drenched screams.

The only explanation that fit was that she’d witnessed a murder, but had suppressed the details. Suppressed until she painted, that is, the blurred images of horrors no one should ever have to bear taking shape and emerging unbidden. Either that, or crazy had razed the edges of her brain and she needed to be locked away for her own safety.

“Honey, I asked you a question and you need to answer it.”

The harshness of Levi’s voice jerked her out of her mind. Guess he was done calling her by her name and even the old-lady “ma’am,” and was now resorting to endearments that sounded more like curses.

“No,” she said, just to pick at him. “Not ‘honey.’ I told you. I’m Harper.”

One black brow arched into his hairline, and for a moment he appeared amused with her rather than accusatory. “Is that a first or last name?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah.”

She popped her jaw, finding strength in the familiarity of an irritation she’d never been able to shake. Her mother had named her after a fairy-tale princess and had expected Harper to mimic her namesake. Years of training in manners and deportment, followed by years of competing in a pageant circuit she’d despised, had nearly drained the fighting spirit out of her. Nearly. “Well, I’m not telling you the rest of my name.” He’d laugh; he’d tease her.

He shrugged those beautifully wide shoulders. “Easy enough to find out. A few calls, and boom.” He paused, clearly waiting for her to jump in.

“I will never willingly volunteer it, so you’ll just have to make those calls.”

A gleam of challenge entered those green, green eyes. “So be it.” He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned closer to her, the scents of minty toothpaste and pungent gun oil intensifying. Scents she really, really liked, if the flutter of her pulse points was any indication. “Let’s backtrack a bit. Tell me again what you think you’re painting.”

This was the third time he’d demanded that information, and she’d watched enough cop shows to know he was testing her, looking for any mistakes between her first and subsequent telling. If he found them, he could write her off as a liar.

“Shouldn’t you be taking notes?” she said, stalling.

“No.”

“You’ll forget—”

“I never forget.”

“Anything?”

“Not anything like this.”

How intriguing. “Really, because that’s—”

“Talk,” he barked.

His intensity gave her the strength to obey. “Okay.” She closed her eyes and forced the painting to the front of her mind. “There’s a cold metal slab, stainless steel, I think, and it’s splattered with dried b-blood. There are shackles at the top and bottom, holding a woman’s wrists and ankles, and those are also splattered. There are holes on the slab and floor … drains, I think, and they’re splattered, as well. There’s a man. He’s clutching a knife over the woman’s abdomen.” Every word caused her heart rate to quicken and little beads of sweat to dot her skin. Sweat, yet her blood had thickened with ice.

“Describe the man.”

“I can’t.” Her lashes fluttered open as a shudder rocked her. Nausea rolled through her stomach, a common occurrence these days. “I haven’t yet painted his face.” Wasn’t sure she wanted to see it. Even the thought of him made her want to hide under her covers and cry.

“What have you painted of him?”

“His lower body. His arms. Some of his chest.”

“And he’s wearing …?”

Good question. She’d been so focused on what was happening in the picture that she hadn’t paid any attention to the little details her mind had somehow caught. “A white button-up shirt and dark slacks.”

“Possibly a businessman, then. Gloves?”

“No.”

“Is he pale, tan, black, what?”

“Tan, though not as tan as you.”

“Okay, now describe the woman.”

“I can’t,” she repeated, a mere whisper. She flattened a hand over her stomach, hoping to ward off even a little of the sickness. “Not her face, I mean. She’s naked, and her skin is pale.”

“Does she have any birthmarks or scars?”

Harper licked her lips, pictured the female and shook her head. “If she does, I haven’t added them yet.”

His gaze sharpened on her, more intense than before and kind of, well, terrifying. This was not a guy to anger, or taunt, or even to play with. He would retaliate, no question. “How much of her have you painted?”

“All but the head.”

“Is she a brunette, blonde or redhead?”

“How would I—”

His pointed gaze explained for him.

“Oh. Uh, I don’t actually know. The bottom half of her is blocked by the man’s torso.”

“Is she alive or dead in the painting?”

“Dead, I think.” And probably happy to have escaped the pain.

Silence once again permeated the room, thick and oppressive, reminding her of exactly why she hadn’t wanted to come here. She’d known he would doubt her—as she sometimes doubted herself—or suspect her of playing a part in the murder.

Lana believed the woman was indeed real and Harper had stumbled upon the scene. As an employee of the Oklahoma City branch of After Moonrise, a company specializing in grisly murders and the spirits those murders sometimes left behind, she ought to know. But her belief stemmed not from the painting, but from the fact that there were two weeks neither Harper nor Lana could account for. Harper could have been trapped with the man and his victim, and somehow, miraculously, have managed to escape.

Her friend had showed the painting to her coworkers, but they hadn’t taken the case. Lana had even begged—which, in her case, meant she’d cracked heads around—and they’d finally given in and said they would look into it, but so far, they’d discovered nothing. If they’d even tried. Lana was doing everything she could on her own, but as someone used to dealing with spirits rather than bodies, this wasn’t her area of expertise.

So, when Lana heard a detective was living in their building, she had insisted Harper nut up and speak out.

This tormend you, she’d said in a Lithuanian accent that came and went with her moods. When she was happy, she sounded as American as Harper. When she was scared or angry, hello, the accent appeared, as thick as if she’d just stepped off the plane. So often now, she was sad, and at the time she’d been filled with so much sorrow over what Harper might have endured that her teeth had chattered. Let man help you. That girl … she deserve peace, rest. Please.

I can’t. He’ll suspect me of hurting her.

Maybe at first, but then he see the trut …. Please, do for her, for you, for … me.

Given the fact that Lana had spent every night of the past few weeks sobbing for the pain Harper suffered over the entire ordeal, well, Harper had been willing to do anything her friend asked, no matter the consequences to herself.

“Harper.” The curt bark of Levi’s voice jolted her out of her thoughts. “You with me?”

“Well, I am now,” she grumbled. “Do you have an inside voice?”

His lips twitched at the corners, hinting at an amusement he’d so rarely shown. That humor transformed his entire face. Those emerald eyes twinkled, little lines forming at the corners. His mouth softened, and his skin seemed to glow.

“Have you ever painted anything like this before?” he asked.

“No. I love painting people, but not like this. Never like this. Why does that matter?”

“Once, and it’s plausible you stumbled upon some kind of scene. Twice, and it’s more plausible your mind manufactured everything.”

Okay, that made sense. “Well, it was only once. And just so you know, I can’t see the dead, so it wasn’t a bunch of spirits putting on a show for me, either.” She wasn’t like Lana, who had always had the ability to see into that other realm.

“I’ll need to view your new painting, as well as a sample of your usual work,” Levi said.

“All right. The new one isn’t done, though. Obviously.”

His head tilted to the side, his study of her intensifying. “When did you begin painting it?”

“About two weeks ago.” She tried not to squirm or wring her fingers under such a probing stare—until she realized that his probing stare was a good thing. Criminals would not stand a chance against this man’s strength and ferocity. If her painting were a depiction of a real-life event, Levi would find out the identity of the man responsible and punish him. “Little by little, I’ve been filling in the details.”

Another bout of silence before he sighed. “Let’s switch gears for a minute. Forgetting the fact that you’ve never before painted anything like this, what makes you think this is a memory?”

Bottom line, she wasn’t ready for a stranger to know about her blackouts and to, perhaps, use them against her, yet neither was she ready to lie to a man who could have kicked her out but hadn’t. He’d listened to her, had asked her questions and truly seemed interested in helping her.

So, she said, “I’m struck by moments of absolute terror,” and gazed down at her feet. Her pink snakeskin boots were one of her favorite possessions. She’d had to sell four paintings to buy them, as well as live off peanut butter and jelly for a month, but she’d never regretted the choice. So pretty. “Moments I can almost feel the shackles around my wrists and my ankles.”

“Delusions hold that same power,” he pointed out.

Don’t act surprised, you knew it would come to this. And better this than the other avenue he could have taken: blame. “Well, I hope it is a delusion,” she whispered.

“Me, too, Miss … Harper?”

“Just Harper.” She would not be tricked into revealing her full name, thank you.

“Had to try,” he said with a shrug. “What if you discover you were the one on that table, that you somehow escaped but repressed what happened?”

“Impossible. I was only gone—” She pressed her lips together, stopping her hasty confession before it could fully emerge. “I would have had bruises at some point, and I haven’t.”

He sat there a moment, silent again, before nodding as if he’d just made a decision. He pushed to his feet and stuck a finger in her face. “Stay there. Do not move. I’ll get dressed and we’ll walk to your apartment together. Nod if you understand.”

“And there’s that lovely attitude again,” she muttered.

“Nod.”

Oh, very well. She nodded.

“Good. Disobey, and I’ll cuff you faster than you can say, ‘I’m sorry, Levi, that was the dumbest thing I ever did.’” Without waiting for her reply—because he clearly didn’t expect her to have one—he turned on his heel and headed for the hall.

“Uh, just thought you should know that your gun is showing,” she called.

Just before he disappeared around a corner, she thought she heard him say, “Honey, you’re lucky you’re only seeing the butt of it.”

She wasn’t that bad. Was she?

Harper waited. The click of a closing door never sounded. Well, she wouldn’t let that stop her; she stood with every intention of walking around his place and checking out his things.

Maybe she was that bad.

“I told you not to move,” Levi called with more than a hint of annoyance.

He’d heard the quiet swish of her clothes? “Tell me you don’t talk to your girlfriend with that tone.” The moment her words registered in her head, she groaned. Basically, she’d just asked him to marry her and have a million babies.

“No girlfriend.” A tension-ripened pause. “You?”

“Nope, no girlfriend, either.” The jest served a dual purpose. One, lightening the mood, and two, discovering whether or not he cared to know her lack-of-boyfriend status. If he pushed for more info, he might just be as fascinated by her as she was by him.

And she was, wasn’t she? Fascinated by this rough-and-gruff detective with the jewel-toned eyes. Thought you weren’t interested in dating anyone. She wasn’t. Right? She hadn’t taken one look at a grumpy cop and changed her mind, right?

“Boyfriend?” Levi barked out, and she nearly grinned.

You’re in trouble, girl. “Nope, no boyfriend.”

She scanned his walls. There were no photographs, no artwork, nothing hanging anywhere to inform her of his tastes so that she could peel back the curtain surrounding his life and reveal the man he was with others, when he was relaxed. Did he ever relax, though? Probably not. Judging by his perma-frown, it would take a miracle.

“Your decorating … did you decide to go with Minimal Chic?”

Stomping footsteps echoed, and then he was there, in front of her again, tall and dark and ruggedly delicious, an erotic dream come to life in a black T and black slacks.

She’d bet his gun was still at his back. He was a warrior, a protector. A danger. Sweet heaven, but she had to paint him, she decided. He wasn’t handsome in the classic sense, but, oh, he was so much more. He was interesting.

She’d always favored interesting.

“We’re not discussing my decorating,” he said.

“You mean your lack of decorating.”

“Whatever. Lead the way.”

“So you can stare at my butt?” Sometimes her tongue got the better of her, and now was definitely one of those times. There was no way he could respond to that without—

“Exactly.”

—making her sigh dreamily.

She was in big trouble. “I’m not interested in dating anyone, just so we’re clear.”

He glared down at her. “Good, because I was thinking about asking out your friend.”

Oh, ouch. Yet wasn’t that always the case? Men slobbered all over Lana like babies who’d just found fuzzy candy on the floor.

“Good!” she said with a huff. “Rude isn’t my type.” She turned, giving him her back, and marched out.

“But then I met you and changed my mind,” she thought she heard him grumble from behind her.

3

Harper was utterly baffled when Levi gave her painting a once-over, asked a single question, then turned and left her apartment. He did this after she’d overcome her urge to vomit and placed the wretched canvas—though perfectly painted—in the heart of her living room, just for his benefit. Sure he’d paused to eye Lana, as any man with a pulse would have done—and even some without, surely—but he hadn’t so much as called out a token “Don’t leave town.” Or even a very necessary “I’m on the case, no worries.”

The door slammed ominously behind him, echoing throughout the somewhat dilapidated two-bedroom apartment with plush furnishings Lana had restored with loving care, a hobby of hers. Their decorating style was Match Smatch. Every piece was an odd color and shape, and nothing harmonized.

Levi’s question played through her mind. “You said there was blood. Where is it?”

The answer was simple. Seeing the blood on the canvas freaked her out, so every morning, after her subconscious mind forced her to add it back, she erased it, leaving the walls pristine and clean.

“That has to be a record for you,” Lana said, her Lithuanian accent nonexistent because her darker emotions weren’t yet engaged.

Harper purposely kept her back to the gruesome scene of torture and death she had created and kept her gaze on her friend. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Had the painting disgusted Detective Snarls? Was he even then searching for his handcuffs, intending to take Harper into lockup? No. No way. He would have dragged her with him, not allowing her out of his sight. He wasn’t the type to cross his fingers and hope she stayed put. Even when he’d left her alone in his living room, he’d kept his bedroom door open so that he could hear her movements.

“I’ve seen you scare off a man within an hour of meeting you, but five minutes? You must have done something really special to this one.”

Harper snorted. “Wasn’t like I asked him to meet my parents or anything.” And, bonus, she never would. Three days after her fourteenth birthday, her dad had taken off and never looked back. After that, Mommy Manners had forced her to become even more involved in pageants, and Harper had eventually cracked, poisonous words she still regretted spilling out. Though she’d tried to make amends, her mother hadn’t spoken to her in years. “But you know, he could have had the decency to invite himself to breakfast.” They had details to hammer out, right? “I mean, he wants to ask you out. Shouldn’t he try to butter me up or something, so I’ll put in a good word for him?”

“Uh, no, no, he not be asking me out.”

“He said he would.”

“Well, he lied or changed his mind because that man has a jones for a hot blonde with a taste for destroying fairy-tale princess.”

Hope fluttered through her, causing her heart to skip a beat. “First, the taste is justified. Sleeping Beauty sucks. Evil showed up and instead of fighting she took a nap.”

“Is that reason enough for you to buy figurines of her likeness just to smash when you’re angry?”

“Yeah. And second,” she continued, “there’s just no way you’re right about the cop wanting me. But go ahead and tell me why you think so, beginning once again with how smoking hot you think I am and ending with how you think he’s willing to drop to his knees and beg me to go out with him, and don’t leave out a single detail.”

Lana rolled her eyes. The bold shadow she wore gave those eyes an exotic, smoky look, extending all the way to her temples in glittery points. “You are hot. He will beg. You will say no—and don’t try to deny it. I noticed your antiman campaign. I will call you stupid. You will paint a mustache on my face while I sleep. I will carve the legs out from under your bed. We will laugh. The end. Now, tell. Will he help you or not? Because I will hurt him if not.”

Okay, so it wasn’t the story she’d hoped for but it was true nonetheless. “I might have you hurt him, anyway. After I’m done with him, of course.” He was surly with a capital S-U-R-L-Y, glaring at her when she’d entered his apartment after he’d clearly invited her in—with his eyes. “He needs someone to turn his frown upside down. By hanging him out of a window by his ankles.”

“Just say a word, and it is done.”

Oh, how she adored Lethal Lana.

They’d met in junior school, when Lana’s family moved to the States, and their instant connection had changed the very fabric of Harper’s life. Harper, the “lady” of her mother’s dreams, had been fascinated by Milana Buineviciute, the wild child of her mother’s nightmares.

A (now reformed) smoker, drinker and full-time cusser who never backed down from a fight, Lana had taught Harper how to get down and dirty with brass knuckles and steel-toed boots. Harper had taught Lana to channel the jagged edges of her emotions into art, and the exchange had bonded them.

They balanced each other, even in looks. Lana’s hair was naturally dark, almost jet, but she’d bleached the straight-as-a-board strands and then dyed them neon red, a color that complemented her cream-and-rose complexion perfectly. Her features were bold, aggressive, and yet her green eyes were always at half-mast, a sultry invitation to peel away her clothing and have your wicked way with her. Or so Harper had gathered from any man who’d ever looked at her.

Even as fatigued as Lana currently appeared, and had, for these past few weeks, with bruises marring the delicate tissue under her eyes, her lips chapped from constantly being chewed, and the weight she’d dropped from her already slender frame, the girl was a showstopper.

“Maybe we should move,” Harper said. “We’ll just pack my precious valuables and your crap and—”

“No!” Lana shouted, then repeated softly, “No. I stay here.”

A relieved breath escaped her.

After Harper had snapped out of her first blackout and seen what she’d painted, she had walked the streets trying to reason things out. Lost in her thoughts, she’d unknowingly entered the worst part of town. She’d ended up in front of this building, and a desire to live here had instantly consumed her. She’d raced home to tell Lana, and Lana had paled, burst into tears for no reason. Well, there had been a reason, but she still refused to say.

Eventually Harper managed to talk her friend into subletting their place and moving here. But where Harper had thrived, Lana had declined all the more. And yet, she couldn’t be dragged out with a tank.

Harper felt guilty about that, she did, but she had no idea what to do.

“By the way, we are not done talking about the cop,” Lana said, calm now and rubbing her hands together with glee. “I saw the way you looked at him so I must ask. By ‘done with him’ did you mean you will hurt him when you jump into his arms and beg him to marry you?”

Harper rolled her eyes, and it was then that she noticed the black shadow creeping along the walls of the living room. Dread poured through her veins, hot and as slick as oil. She knew that shadow, had battled it each time a blackout descended, and knew it would crawl down the walls, consume the entire room and try to swallow her whole.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” she muttered, grabbing her purse and stalking into the hallway outside their apartment, overly warm air enveloping her. The darkness would catch up to her, but that wouldn’t stop her from running.

The floor whined with her every step, other apartment doors slammed closed and the overhead light flickered on and off, on and off. Creepy, yes, but it suited her new frame of mind.

Lana, in her long-sleeved top and pajama pants with a tool belt painted around the waist, stayed close at her heels. “You okay?”

“I will be.” I hope. Only Harper was able to see the shadows, and she could guess why. Either she was halfway down the road to crazy or she was already standing at the edge, waving goodbye to the life she’d once lived.

She quickened her pace. As always, a pretty young girl stood in front of one of the doors, trying to peer inside an apartment that was not her own. Black hair fell in silky waves to her shoulders. Usually when Harper passed her, the girl remained quiet and unaware, her attention locked on whatever she saw through the obstruction. This time, her head whipped in Harper’s direction and violet eyes more otherworldly than human pierced her to her soul.

“Such a naughty girl,” said the teenager in a voice chilled by lack of emotion. “You should have known better.”

Surprised, Harper stumbled over her own foot.

Lana flipped the girl off and said, “Tu mane uzknisai.” She waited for Harper—who knew she’d just told the girl how ticked she was—to straighten up before hurrying on.

“What’d I do?” Harper demanded of the girl, looking over her shoulder. She hadn’t had a serious boyfriend in over a year and hadn’t been on a date in months, even before her whole “no touching” rule. There’d been no naughtiness in her life. None. Well, not until today, when she’d eaten Levi up with her eyes. “Were you listening through the cop’s walls while I was with him, you little—”

“I never should teach you to fight.” Lana motioned her forward. “She clearly out of mind. Pay no attention or she drag you into her insane.”

Another full-on appearance of her accent, proving Lana was as affected by the girl’s taunt as Harper. For that reason, she let the subject drop. Until Harper solved the painting mystery, Lana had enough to deal with—whatever “enough” entailed.

A few minutes later, they were outside, the pulsing heart of Oklahoma coming into view. Tall structures with chrome and glass on every floor knifed toward a baby-blue sky with no hint of clouds. Thick green trees with curling branches lined the river walk and overly crowded sidewalks. Sidewalks far more crowded than usual, in fact. On the streets, cars of every color whizzed past, the speed limit clearly a suggestion not to be heeded.

There was a deep chill in the November air, yet Harper remained unfazed. “So, anyway,” she said, getting them back on track, “if you hate the apartment so much, why do you want to stay?” She asked even though the very idea of leaving made her quake. She asked even though she’d asked before and Lana had not answered.

“I don’t hate the place. I belong there.”

That was something, at least. “But—”

“Give me another but, and I smack yours!”

Harper laughed, she just couldn’t help herself.

A man and woman walking toward them jumped, as though startled by the sound of her voice. The pair gave her a strange look before passing her. So she was in her winter pj’s, like Lana. So the heck what!

“So where we go?” Lana asked.

After a moment’s thought, a heavy sigh left her. “Let’s go to the place that started us on this journey. Maybe if I figure out what happened to me, I’ll stop hearing screams of pain in every single one of my dreams.”

REMAINING IN THE SHADOWS, Levi kept pace behind the two females. What a striking pair they made. The tall redhead and the petite blonde, both feminine beyond imagining. Nearly every guy that passed them stared at the redhead, dismissing Harper as if she just couldn’t compare.

Idiots, he thought. There was a delicacy to Harper, a fragility, yet when she opened her mouth you discovered just how much of a ballbuster she was. The contrast was exhilarating.

But those blue, blue eyes of hers—those haunted eyes with their secrets and pain and a thousand questions waiting to be answered—continued to, well, haunt him. As much as they would have turned him off any other woman, and should have turned him off her, he wanted her more with every second that passed. The shame and guilt were completely gone, and now, every time he caught sight of her, an urge to protect her rose up, one stronger than before, nearly overwhelming him.

A man had to touch a woman to protect her, and he really wanted to touch Harper again. That softness … that heat …

Figure out her mystery first.

He’d walked into her apartment, and for a second he’d seen crumbling walls, even a rat racing across his feet. But then in a snap, he’d seen freshly painted walls of bright yellow and blue, colorful furniture and every surface scrubbed clean. The momentary hallucination had freaked him out, but he’d said nothing. Then, after viewing her painting, a gruesome thing to be sure and exactly as she’d described it—a man standing over a bound, battered and naked female, a knife in his hand—he’d needed a moment to collect himself. Part of him had wanted to gather Harper close and make sure she was kept safe, even from the past. The other part of him had wanted to shake her for not coming to him sooner.

If what she’d painted hadn’t sprung from an overactive imagination, the only way to have witnessed such a scene was to have been in the room with the killer. A room like that wouldn’t have windows. So, discarding the overactive imagination argument for the time being—something he would do until proven otherwise—she had either aided and abetted the killer or had been captured herself and had somehow managed to escape. Levi doubted the first. Harper’s aversion to blood was real; no one could fake the draining of color from their face. And that, of course, left the second option ….

Actually, there was a third possibility, he realized. She could have been captured and killed.

Death wasn’t the end of life. He knew that beyond any doubt. Knew spirits existed eternally. Only problem was, he’d never developed the ability to see the spirits in the unseen realm, and at thirty-four, he doubted he ever would.

He’d been told only specifically gifted people could see into the invisible world around them. He’d also heard that with specific exercises, the gift could be developed over time, but he’d never tried any of them. Now he kinda regretted that. Two of his coworkers possessed the ability and they always uncovered answers pertaining to the worst of cases, even those deemed unsolvable, when no one else could.

Levi could have used some of that uncovering now.

He’d get his answers soon enough, though. He always did. And yeah, he should be on the phone, finding out what he could about Harper and her past, as well as her roommate’s past, but he’d heard the pair stomping and chattering down the hall and he’d decided to follow them instead. He was glad he had.

A few interesting tidbits he’d already picked up. They loved each other, were comfortable together. They talked and laughed, teased each other good-naturedly. Yet ninety percent of the people who passed them eyed them as if they were certifiable, even the males drooling over Lana. And as beautiful as the redhead was, and as fragile as Harper appeared, not a single male approached them.

Of the remaining ten percent, well, five percent eyed them with amusement, but the other five eyed them with fear. That same remaining five-and-five eyed him with sheer terror. He was used to people turning away from him, or outright running from him, as if he were a mass murderer with a blood vendetta or something. But usually those people were criminals, and he’d just caught them committing heinous crimes.

Finally the two women stopped in front of an art gallery, their happy moods draining and leaving only grim expectation. The place was small but open, with big glass windows staring into an elegant space with columns and hanging lights.

Harper flattened her hand on one of the panes. “I was here, I remember that much.”

“Yes, and you sold bazillion paintings that night.”

The accent … Czech, maybe.

“And you …”

“Left early on arm of some loser.” Guilt saturated the redhead’s tone.

“Yes, and I failed to come home.”

Neither female knew he was here, listening. The fact that they were searching for answers ruled out the possibility of an overactive imagination entirely. Yeah, people could convince themselves of the strangest things and actually think they were real, but they usually couldn’t get someone else to agree with them.

The hand on the pane, so delicate and tiny in comparison to his, fluttered to Harper’s neck. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, seeming to ponder the fate of the world before a slow smile curled her lips, lighting her expression with a mix of pride and sadness. “I was so happy by the end of the show, my nervousness gone. My first genuine presentation was a raging success, more so than I could ever have dreamed, even as amazingly talented as I am, and every painting sold.”

Yeah, there was no way this woman could have aided a murderer. He knew criminals, had dealt with them on a daily basis for years, and yeah, some of them were good actors, well able to mask the monster within, but that smile … that sadness … combined with her physical reactions, there was just no way this was an act.

If he was wrong, he’d shoot himself in the face.

He was going to find out the truth. He was going to help her.

“What next? You remember?”

He watched as a tremor rocked the curve of Harper’s spine, spiraling into her limbs. Nearly knocked her off her feet. “I … I …” She wrapped her arms around her middle, skin turning a light shade of green.

“You do not do this now,” the redhead rushed to add. “We come back later.”

“No,” Levi said, stepping from the shadows, “you won’t. You do this now, Harper.” As sick as she currently appeared, she might not work up the nerve to return.

In unison, both women spun to face him. Harper reacted first. With a face bathed in panic and a mouth hanging open to unleash a scream, she jacked up her knee—and nailed him in the balls.

4

Deserved this, Levi thought. He never should have snuck up on Harper. He’d known better. Women were more unstable than C-4.

What? They were.

Silence permeated the tension-filled space between Levi and Harper as he struggled to find his breath and forget the fact that his testicles would probably need to be surgically removed from his throat. Even the crickets were too uncomfortable to laugh about what had just happened.

Harper’s eyes were wide, her hand now over her mouth, and the friend was—doubled over laughing, he realized as the haze of pain gradually faded. Okay, so she wasn’t too uncomfortable. Suddenly he was glad he hadn’t gotten around to asking her out. So not my type.

Harper, on the other hand … His fairy with the broken wing and secrets in her ocean eyes had a nasty flight-or-fight response. It wasn’t such a wonderful thing when he was on the wrong end of her knee, sure, but it’d be white-hot sexy when he wasn’t, he was certain.

Still. Lesson learned. Never again would he underestimate her. But next time—and considering the amount of time they would have to spend together, working this case, there would be a next time—if given a choice, he would much rather chase her. Then, at least, he’d get to tackle like the good ole days when he’d played for OU.

Finally oxygen passed through his nostrils, filled his lungs. He smelled car exhaust and sunshine and … cinnamon. Her. He liked the smell of her.

Her hand fell away from her mouth. “I’m not going to apologize,” she said, chin lifting. With the morning sun stroking her exposed skin, flushing her cheeks to a deep rose, she practically sparkled with vitality. “You scared me, and I reacted. Deal with it.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I do.” He rubbed the back of his neck, grunted out a quick “Sorry” and left it at that. It was more than he’d given anyone in years, and you know, it hadn’t left the bleeding, gaping wound that he’d expected.

The stiffness drained from her, and she worked up a beautiful grin that lit her entire face. It was genuine, with no hint of sadness, and she looked as if she’d swallowed the sun. Her hand fluttered just over her heart as she said, “Wow. Never has a more poetic apology been spoken. I’m all warm and tingly inside.”

His body reacted to her words—warm and tingly—heating, tensing. He really had to get this attraction thing under control. He didn’t mind wanting her, liked it, in fact, but he did mind the growing intensity of that wanting. “So you disappeared from this place?”

“I think.” The grin was the next to drain away, followed by that gorgeous light. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I just remember bits and pieces.”

He heard the frustration and anger in her tone and sympathized. Levi knew he’d attacked the serial killer, but didn’t know what he’d done or what had provoked him. He had flashes of flying fists, could even hear grunts of pain, but that was it. And for a man who prized his memory, having never forgotten a locker combination or even a file number, that irked.

“Ever talked to the owner of the gallery, asked questions? Ever talked to anyone who was there the night you’re speaking of and might know?”

“No, but—”

“I have,” the redhead said.

He arched a brow at her, a silent demand for her to continue.

Harper waved a hand between them. “Levi, meet Lana. Lana, meet Levi.”

“You are so pleased to meet me, I know. Now, no one knew or saw anything,” Lana said, the accent vanishing with an obvious, concentrated effort. Her hand had fluttered to her neck, where her fingers tapped against her pulse, seeming to mimic the cadence of her voice.

“I need the names of the people you talked to, and anyone else you remember being there.”

As she rattled off the names, he read the hours of operation listed on the gallery’s window. It was eight in the morning, and the place wouldn’t open for another hour. He checked the door. Locked. He knocked, just in case someone was in back doing inventory or something. No one answered.

“Shouldn’t you be writing down these names and numbers?” Lana asked.

“No,” he said without looking at her.

“Apparently, he remembers things,” Harper said drily.

He rattled off every name, every number, and both women gaped at him. With two fingers, he helped Harper close her mouth. “Anything else either of you want to share before I start looking into this?”

Harper gave a little gasp, as though surprised by his agreement to help—or by his touch—and shook her head, but Lana shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Suddenly suspicious, he homed his gaze in on her. She licked her lips, narrowed her eyes, shifted from one foot to the other. He remained silent, waiting for her to crack. They always cracked.

Determination filled those green eyes. “Nope, nothing,” she said.

Oh, she knew something, and he would find out what it was. But not here, and not now. He’d dig up some details about her, Harper, the art gallery, the owner, the people who had attended Harper’s gala, and go from there. The more armed he was with information, the better chance he’d have of intimidating Lana and forcing her to talk.

He only hoped Harper was safe with her.

Has been so far, he told himself. “I’ll swing by this evening,” he told Harper, crowding her backward and forcing her to stop against the building. Their gazes were locked, the air charged between them. For a moment, her breath hitched in her throat.

He leaned down, careful not to touch her a second time—would she gasp if he did?—and whispered straight into her ear, “Consider this your first and only warning. Next time your knee goes near my balls, I’ll retaliate. But don’t worry … I think you’ll like it.”

WHEN THE ELEVATOR DINGED and opened up to the OKCPD bull pen, Levi tensed and he wasn’t sure why. He recognized the sights: guys in button-ups and slacks, guys in uniforms, cubbies and desks, computers, criminals cuffed to chairs, papers all over the walls. He recognized the sounds: heavy footfalls, the clack of high heels and the stomp of boots, inane chatter, angry shouting, fingers tapping keyboards, phones ringing. And the smells: coffee, aftershave, soap, unwashed bodies, perfume, sugar.

He just wasn’t sure he belonged here anymore. He felt disconnected, separated, and wasn’t sure it had anything to do with his suspension. So … why?

Your neighbors’ crazy is rubbing off on you, that’s all.

Small comfort. He maneuvered around the cubbies, throngs of people headed in every direction, each too busy to pay him any attention. He reached his partner’s office and rasped his knuckles against the already open door. Vince sat behind his desk, head bent over a file. His gaze flicked up, landed on him, but quickly returned to whatever he was reading. His features were pale, drawn, and lines of tension branched from his eyes. Though he was only thirty-four, he appeared fifty and unable to care for himself, his cheeks hollowed, his sandy hair disheveled and his white shirt coffee-stained.

“Ignoring me still?” Levi asked. Vince had yet to forgive him for attacking the suspect and placing himself in the line of fire.

A reel of memory suddenly played, startling him. He and Vince had stormed into a small basement room. The perp had raised his arms, seemingly accepting of his arrest, and smiled. Smiled, smug and proud of all he’d done to his victims—and silently promising to do it all over again if ever he was released.

Levi had worked too many gruesome crime scenes because of the man, the last one enough to turn even his iron stomach. A young female had been staged, her lifeless, bruised and battered body pinned to a billboard for all of Oklahoma’s downtown commuters to see as they hurried to work.

That smile had razed the jagged edges of his already shaky composure, a desire to protect the rest of Oklahoma’s females rising up inside him. A desire he hadn’t been able to fight. He’d rushed forward, busted the guy around—and gotten busted around himself.

In the present, he experienced a pang in his side. His kidney must have taken a couple shots.

“Come on, Vince,” he said, and was once again ignored.

Detective Charles Bright stalked down the hall, spotted him and did a double take. “Levi?” His gaze roved the area just over Levi’s shoulder before returning. “What are you doing here?”

He watched as Vince finally glanced up. Jaw clenched tight, he gritted, “What do you think I’m doing here, Bright? Working. Maybe you should do the same.”

Talking through him. “Real mature,” Levi said, flipping him off.

Bright waved Vince off, then led Levi to the office at the end of the hall. He closed and locked the door, and motioned for Levi to sit as he claimed the chair behind a desk scattered with papers.

Levi had always liked Bright. Guy had dark skin and eyes and kept his head shaved to a glossy sheen. He was a laugher, truly cared about the victims he fought to protect and would work himself to death to solve a case.

“I can’t believe Vince is so mad he refuses to speak to me.”

A soft, sad smile greeted his words. “Had you put him in danger, he’d be over it and you’d be forgiven. But you put yourself in danger, and that’s harder to forget. He loved—loves—you like a brother.”

“He better still love me.” Vince was all the family he had.

“He does. Give him time. He’ll come around.”

Levi understood the need for time, he did, but his balls were sore and he wasn’t exactly in the best of moods, so he decided to forget Vince for now. “Listen, I’m not actually here to beg my partner’s forgiveness. My neighbor thinks she witnessed a murder and I promised to help her find out the truth. I can’t access any databases, so I need your help.”

Bright frowned, instantly intrigued. “Your neighbor?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if I told you but I moved into an apartment building downtown, close to Brick Town. She just moved in, too.”

“Her name?”

“Harper.”

“And the rest?”

“Just a minute.” Levi shifted to dig in his back pocket. He withdrew the driver’s license he’d slipped from her purse when he’d backed her into the building. After reading the text, a laugh bubbled from him. “Aurora Harper.” How freaking adorable. Aurora fit her in a way Harper did not.

Fingers clicking on the keyboard, Bright was silent for a long while. He would stop and read, then type again, then stop and read again, then type again. With every pause, his frown deepened. The wait for answers nearly drove Levi to pace, punch a wall, something.

“Okay, here’s what I know,” Bright finally said, propping his elbows on his desk. “Your Aurora—”

“Harper. She prefers Harper, and she isn’t mine.” He paid no attention to the fact that having her referred to as “his” affected his body just as strongly as her nearness had. Heat and tingling and want … so much want.

The denial earned him a swift grin. “All right. Well, Ms. Harper is twenty-seven. Five foot two. One hundred and ten pounds. She’s gotten three tickets for speeding, one for parking illegally, and was in a car accident two years ago, but it wasn’t her fault and she walked away with only a few bruises.”

Silence.

“That’s it?” Levi demanded. “That’s what had you frowning?”

Bright drew in a deep breath, slowly released it. He settled back in his chair and folded his arms over his middle. “Milana Buineviciute, her roommate, works for After Moonrise and has the ability to see and communicate with the dead. Ms. Buineviciute reported her missing five weeks ago.”

Milana Bonnie Wee Cutie. Now there was a name. Five weeks ago. Early October. She’d been in the apartment for a week, so that left four weeks unaccounted for. And the After Moonrise thing wasn’t a point in her favor.

A few times, an After Moonrise agent had helped the OKCPD with a case. And for each of those few times, Levi had had to deal with a wealth of irritation. A.M. came in with their fancy equipment and superior attitudes and simply took over, acting as if the detectives couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag. But his favorite? They’d called him a “norm,” as if it were a four-letter word.

Wait. It was. Whatever! It had ticked him off.

“Inquiries were made, and it was discovered that Harper was last seen at Carmel Art Gallery, on October fifth around midnight.” Bright paused, flicked his tongue over an incisor. “That gallery certainly has been popping up on our radar a lot lately. Seems your boy Cory Topper bought a few paintings there. Only came to light a few days ago, since the sales were made under the table. We didn’t think to tell you because you’re, uh, off the case.”

His stomach clenched. Topper. The serial killer who’d kept pieces of his victims in his freezer. The lunatic who’d tortured women in his basement. The psychopath who’d left a dead body on a billboard. The smug little ant whom Levi was now suspended for brutalizing.

To find out there was a connection between Topper, a dirt-bag scum with evil in his veins, and Harper, a delicate, fragile little thing with knees of iron … he didn’t like that. At all. But to learn that she’d been missing, to now know beyond any doubt that something had happened to her, was even worse.

He brought her painting to the forefront of his mind. The male Harper was bringing to life certainly fit Topper’s body type, he realized now. Average height, slim build, deceptively gentle-looking hands.

“Where was Harper found?” he rasped. “When? And where had she been?”

“Oh, hmm.” Bright glanced at the screen. “She wasn’t found. At least, nothing has been entered into the system.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“The case is still open.”

Irritation laced with anger flooded him, and he popped his jaw. Why hadn’t Lana reported her as found? Why hadn’t Harper come forward? Fear that Topper would find her again? But then, that would mean she remembered him, if he was truly the one responsible, and it was clear that she didn’t.

Levi replayed his new memory of the night he’d come face-to-face with Topper. Topper had been standing beside …

what? All he could picture were rivers of blood. Lots and lots of blood, flowing this way and that way and all around. Had there been any secret rooms? Someplace Harper could have been stashed, bound and helpless, forced to watch? Someplace she could have accidently stumbled upon and hidden?

A cage flashed through his mind.

A cage?

“Was there a cage in Topper’s home?” he asked. “Actually, don’t tell me. Just give me the crime scene photos.” He’d never seen them.

“You know I can’t do that,” Bright said sternly.

“All I want is a glance at them.” He could compare them with Harper’s painting.

A sigh met his words. “I’ve always been a sucker. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks. So how’s our man Topper doing?”

Bright rolled his shoulders, easing tension. “He recovered from the injuries you gave him and is now locked up without bail, awaiting trial. We managed to find evidence of his crimes after his arrest.”

Meaning, everything they’d found the day they’d arrested him had been thrown out because of Levi and they’d needed something new. And thanks be to God, they’d gotten it. Levi had read what had been fed to the media and knew there was more, but he wasn’t going to ask. Yet.

Don’t make everything a battle, son, his dad told him once. He didn’t remember this on his own. He’d seen a home video of the two of them together. You do, and you’ll never win ‘em all.

“You got anything else on Harper?” he asked.

“A bit.” Bright gave the computer screen another read. “The night of her disappearance, the art showing had wound down and only the owner remained in the building when she left, but he claims he was counting receipts in the back room and heard nothing unusual.”

“Any connection between Topper and the owner?”

“Not that we’ve found.”

“Are there any suspects in Harper’s case? An ex-boyfriend with an ax to grind? A neighbor with a record? A stepdad with a grudge?”

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