curve of a steel-like forearm. A rolled cuff, an oddly bright color, encircled the arm below the elbow, but above that, a biceps strained against the thick material, attesting to the strength it encapsulated. Then my gaze slipped farther up to a shoulder, wide and powerful and unyielding.
The entity leaned in before I could see its face, pressed the warmth of its body into mine, and bent forward to whisper in my ear. It was so close, I could only make out its jaw, strong and shadowed with at least two days’ growth, and dark hair in need of a trim.
His mouth brushed my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “Dutch,” he whispered, and I melted into him.
This was my chance, my opportunity to ask if he was who I thought he was — who I hoped he was. But I’d spiraled back into my dream world, where nothing worked right. My hands had a will of their own as they lifted to his chest. The bones in my legs dissolved. My mouth wanted only one thing. Him. His taste. His texture. He smelled like rain during a lightning storm, earthy and electric.
I curled his shirt into my fists — whether to push him away or pull him closer, I wasn’t sure. Why couldn’t I see him? Why couldn’t I just convince myself to step to the side and look at him?
Then his mouth covered mine and I lost all sense of reality. My world took his form, became his body, his mouth, his hands, skimming over me, surveying the hills and valleys of all that was me, his moon. His very own satellite seduced into his orbit by the sheer will of his gravity.
The kiss deepened, grew more urgent, and my body responded with a quiver of desire. He groaned and pushed farther into me, his tongue delving between my lips, not just tasting, but drinking every part of me, melding my soul with his.
He pried one of my hands off his shirt and led it down his pants to cover his erection. I sucked in a sharp breath, inhaling the heat that drifted off him. I felt a hand squeeze between my legs, and liquid fire pooled in my abdomen. I wanted him on me, around me, and in me. I could think of nothing else but the utter sensuality of this perfect being.
My hunger seemed impenetrable until I heard my name from a distance and the fog began to evaporate.
“Charley?”
I tumbled out of the dream and snapped to attention. Everyone in the room stared at me openmouthed. Uncle Bob stood halfway in the door with a quizzical expression drawing his brows together. Garrett looked on as well. Agitation flashed in his eyes. He turned and strode out the door, nodding brusquely to Uncle Bob as he walked past.
And then I realized it was gone. He was gone. No longer able to bear my own weight, I sank to the floor and stewed in my own astonishment.
“Were you just possessed?” Cookie asked after a long moment, awe softening her voice. “ ’Cause let me tell you, sweetheart, if that was possession, I’m selling my soul.”
CHAPTER 6
ADD. A lifetime of distractions.
While I wanted nothing more than to quiz the dearly departed about Reyes — Did they get a good look at him? What color were his eyes? Did he seem, I don’t know, dead? — Uncle Bob insisted on discussing the case. In the meantime, my sanity hung in the balance. My fragile sense of well-being. My ability to cope with the everyday realities of reality. Not to mention my sex life.
Was nothing sacred?
“Did you get an ID on the shooter?” Uncle Bob asked as we headed back into my office, currently dubbed the Dead Zone.
“No.” The room seemed cold now, probably because I’d just had a near-sex experience with a blazing inferno. I cranked up the heat and poured a cup of coffee before sitting down.
Uncle Bob sat across from me. “No? Well, are they, you know, here?”
“Yes.” How was this happening? Clearly Reyes wasn’t your everyday, run-of-the-mill corpse. If it
“So, you haven’t talked to them about it?”
“No.” If he was dead, how was he so … hot? Like literally hot? Then again, if he was alive, how was he incorporeal? How did he move so fast? How did he switch from one molecular state to another? I’d never seen anything like it.
Uncle Bob snapped his fingers in front of my face. I blinked to attention, then glared at him.
“Don’t get mad.” He showed his palms in a gesture of peace. “You keep going elsewhere, and I need you here. We had another homicide last night. Though they don’t appear to be related, I need to know for certain.”
“Another one?” I asked as he lifted an autopsy photo from the file jacket he carried. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I did. Your phone’s off.”
“Oops.”
“I’ve got the mayor breathing down my neck on this one. Three dead lawyers in one night looks bad on the evening news.”
I checked my cell. “Sorry, my battery bit the dirt.” I guess nothing was safe in the Dead Zone.
After I plugged my phone into its charger, Uncle Bob slid the photo across the desk. A bloated face, blue and purple, appeared before me. It had crusts of blood around several puffy wounds, as if the man had been in an accident. Considering the circumstances, I doubted any of his wounds were accidental. Whoever he was, death had not come easily.
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“He was tortured, then killed. But they weren’t after information.” He pointed to the guy’s mouth and throat. “They taped his mouth and kept pressure on his windpipe to keep him from screaming. So he’d either already given them the info they needed, or they knew what he’d done.”
I let my gaze stray, trying not to seem squeamish.
“The assailants wanted to inflict as much pain as possible before he died. If I had to take a street-educated guess, I’d say he snitched on the wrong guy. This kind of torture is usually reserved for traitors, either to a higher- up in a gang or to an entire group or organization. These days, crime syndicates are more hierarchical than English nobility.”
The lawyers gathered around my desk, so I held up the photo, angling it away from my line of sight. Sussman made a face and stepped back. I was right there with him. But Elizabeth and Barber studied it more closely.
“It’s hard to say for sure,” Elizabeth said. “Maybe if he wasn’t so blotchy…”
“It would help if we had a mug shot instead of an autopsy photo.”
“No ID yet,” Uncle Bob said to me before answering his ringing cell.
Sussman stared at Barber through his round-rimmed glasses. “Do you recognize this man, Jason?”
I glanced toward him. Barber looked stunned, struck speechless, pale despite the physiological impossibility. Since they lacked blood and all.
“That’s him,” Barber said. “That’s the guy who asked me to meet him.”
Elizabeth glanced back at the photo. “That’s your mystery man?” she asked.
“I nearly know it is,” he replied.
Sussman stepped forward and studied the photo again. “Are you sure?”
Barber gave a shaky affirmation. “I wouldn’t bet my life or anything.”
“Too late for that anyway,” Elizabeth said, still gazing at the photo, her face morphing into varying degrees of revulsion.
Uncle Bob shut his phone. “Carlos Rivera. He has an arrest record as long as my legendary and much-envied memory.”
