Lingering Touch: The Summer Park Psychics, Book 3 (2 page)

Jazz pointed at it. “Are you sure this will protect her?”

“It should,” Rachel said. “She’s been lucky.”

“What about a salt circle? Would that help?”

“If she can control when she travels, yes, that would keep spirits away. I’m not sure how the circle would affect her, though. It might trap her inside or keep her from being able to get back. We can run some experiments and see.”

Chloe needed to be there when that happened. Her experience would be invaluable. But Jazz was getting ahead of herself.

“She’s not going to want to try anything until Dante is better. Since she can control her ability by not being around any art, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Art?”

“That’s what triggers her ability. I guess it’s like you only seeing spirits in reflections.”

Rachel nodded. “That will buy us some time.”

The knots in Jazz’s stomach lessened a tiny bit. Elsa was safe for the moment. Dante was doing well. Garrett was apparently at-ease enough to take a shower, which was a relief, since he’d been so busy taking care of everybody else he’d been neglecting himself for the last two months. That left Rachel.

“What about you?” Jazz said. “Are these poppets enough to keep spirits from bothering you?”

“That plus spraying salt water on all the doors and windows. Florida is so humid and there’s already salt everywhere from the ocean being close. It doesn’t take much extra to ward entryways.”

Jazz had never bothered warding anything. She’d fix that as soon as she went home.

“I’ll keep that in mind. What do you do when you leave the house?”

Rachel paused for a moment before saying, “I don’t.”

What?

“You can’t stay here forever.”

“I’ll figure something out. If Dante and Elsa are staying in the city for a while, maybe I can stay at their place.”

“That isn’t what I meant. You can’t let ghosts keep you imprisoned for the rest of your life. They can’t hurt you, can they?”

“It’s difficult for them to hurt people physically through direct contact. They’re more likely to try to startle me so I jump out in front of a car or maybe impel an animal to bite me or something.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s hard for spirits to control animals. They’d have to be extremely willful and focused. Death tends to distract people and scatter their thoughts. It takes them a while to regroup and be able to think rationally.”

The most recent ghost that Jazz could think of was also the worst. Michael.

You
will
think about Michael if it helps Rachel be safe.

Michael Angelo, the brilliant artist whose works inspired such a visceral response in viewers because his paintings were made from the blood of women he
killed
. Jazz felt her stomach heave, but clenched her muscles, willing herself not to be sick. His works had been set to exhibit in Jazz’s gallery—
her own fucking gallery
.

He had targeted Rachel and Elsa, kidnapping Rachel first. Elsa’s ability had been triggered when she went into Michael’s exhibit room. She’d traveled to where Rachel was being held in Michael’s garage.

On one level, Jazz was grateful. If Elsa hadn’t seen the paintings, she and Dante wouldn’t have been able to run to the rescue, having Jazz call in reinforcements in the form of EMTs and the police. But if Jazz hadn’t brought Michael’s pieces into the gallery, her friends might not have been hurt at all.

Heightened ability to read people’s character. Right.

Michael had shot at Dante and injured him, had strangled Elsa, and had…tortured…Rachel. And then Rachel had shot him. A lot. If Michael’s spirit wanted revenge, she would be his first target. The first of many.

“What about—”

“Michael is dead and gone. His body was cremated. Without any remains, his spirit can’t linger.” Rachel recited the information as rote. She and Garrett must have already covered this ground.

Jazz let out a huge breath and nodded. “Okay. What about these other yahoos? How do we get them to stop bugging you?”

“I’m still working on my long-term plan.”

“There’s more you’re not telling me. I want to help.”

“The best thing you can do is get this to Elsa.”

Rachel held up the finished necklace. It was gorgeous. The stones were secure, but still showcased. She had even added little flourishes with the silver wire, making spiral patterns on the stones.

“You are a miracle worker,” Jazz said. “I keep telling you I could sell your work in the gallery easily.”

“I have a trust fund, remember?”

A trust fund from parents that didn’t give a damn about Rachel. Her dad was absent except for photo shoots, and her mom was a grasping, conniving, undercutting woman. Jazz wasn’t into hating people. It took too much energy. Rachel’s mom had earned it, though, after too many gallery openings where she attended seemingly just to humiliate Rachel.

Even with a trust fund, Rachel had wanted a job. Wanted to contribute. How the hell had such a beautiful person come from that pair?

“Is that why you fought me so hard on getting a paycheck?”

Jazz almost managed a smile at the memory. Rachel worked hard at the gallery. Jazz had to shove a check in Rachel’s purse and threaten to fire her if she didn’t cash it.

“The knowledge you’ve shared with me is worth more than any paycheck. You’ve given me a chance to do something meaningful that I love.”

Something that had almost gotten her killed.

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve learned more from you than anyone.”

“If knowledge is all you wanted, you could have gone back to school,” Jazz said.

“There are no schools that could give me the experience I’ve gained working with you.”

Experiences like being chained to a wall and exsanguinated for a painting. Jazz bit back the acerbic comment. When Rachel was ready to talk about what happened to her, Jazz would be there. But she wasn’t going to bring it up herself.

Dammit, she was tearing up again. Rachel didn’t need to see that. Jazz coughed to clear her throat, but it was still tight when she spoke.

“Is there anything special I need to do when I give the necklace to Elsa?”

“No, but I need to charge it with an intention first. If you give me a moment, I can do that now.”

Jazz nodded, then leaned back. Rachel held the necklace in her closed hands, presumably to block out any of the ambient energy floating around the room. She shut her eyes and murmured something so quiet Jazz couldn’t make it out.

After a few moments, Rachel opened her eyes and set the necklace on the coffee table. She flicked her hands to shed any residual energy. Yeah, she knew what she was doing in the energy-manipulation department. That still seemed like a very small-scale ritual.

“Seriously?” Jazz asked. “That’s it?”

“The simplest solutions are usually the most powerful.”

That sounded like something Chloe would say.

“I might have taught you about running a gallery, but I’m guessing you had other mentors.”

“I had two teachers,” Rachel said. “One on each side.”

“Each side of what?”

“One was a spirit. The other was a medium.”

“I suppose that makes sense. Actually, a lot of things I wondered about you are making sense now. Like why you try to get people to think you’re scatterbrained when you’re actually brilliant.”

Rachel’s eyebrows hiked up her forehead and her mouth dropped open. She let out a fake laugh, trying to throw Jazz off her scent. It was way too late for that.

“I don’t know about that,” Rachel said. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

“It wasn’t a compliment. It was a statement of fact. And you’re doing it right now.” Jazz sighed. “I wish you would stop.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Forget it. I’m just glad you’re away from your mother. I’ve been trying to get you out of that pit since we met. Garrett’s going to get a deep discount on his next piece for accomplishing that.”

“A pit? I’ve been living in a mansion.”

“That’s putting lipstick on a pig. Your mom could suck the joy out of a sold-out opening show. I’ve seen her do it. Belittle your accomplishments and demean you in front of a room full of people.”

Rachel’s laugh was tinny and hollow. Jazz could only imagine the things echoing in Rachel’s mind. Ghosts were probably easier to deal with than memories of her mother’s passive-aggressive abuse.

“You’re the one who makes the sales,” Rachel said.

“Stop. Now you’re doing it to yourself.”

“You sound like Garrett.”

“Good. If we all remind you to disregard the crap she’s told you over the years, it might help you to stop telling yourself the same lies she taught you.”

Rachel’s eyes filled with tears and she muttered, “Thanks.”

This topic was too sensitive. Jazz needed to distract Rachel. Immediately.

Jazz nodded and asked, “Will it disrupt the energy if I touch the necklace?”

“It’s best if others handle it as little as possible.”

The silver chain had come in a velvet bag. Rachel slid the finished necklace into the little pouch and handed it to Jazz.

“I’ll see that she gets it tonight,” Jazz said. “But what about you? How do we get all these ghosts to leave you alone?”

“I can take care of myself.”

Jazz grabbed Rachel’s hand and held on tight. “We take care of each other. Now more than ever.”

Rachel was trying to say something, but only little coughing sounds came out. If her throat was as tight as Jazz’s, it was no wonder.

No more talking. No more thinking. Just this offer of comfort.

She knelt next to Rachel and pulled her into a hug. Rachel buried her face in Jazz’s hair and hugged her back, hard.

Jazz pulled away and sniffed. “You need me—you need anything—you call. Understand?”

Rachel nodded.

“Okay.” Jazz put her hands on Rachel’s cheeks and kissed her forehead as she stood. They both needed time and space to collect themselves, to give the emotions and memories they had stirred up a chance to settle. “Give Garrett my regards. And be sure to lock the door after me.”

Rachel nodded. She didn’t walk Jazz to the door. It was probably for the best.

Chapter Two

Finn splashed cold water on his face, hoping it would chase off the aftereffects of his latest nightmare. It didn’t.

He dried off, then chucked the towel on a pile of dirty clothes. He needed to do laundry, but hadn’t been able to motivate himself to do much of anything lately. Dad was stuck doing all the dishes and Daphne was cooking for them both. Finn needed to get this under control.

Letting out a snort, he shook his head. Nothing was under control.

He ran his fingers through the tangled mess of his hair and it stayed standing on end. He needed a shower. Dammit, he was
going
to shower. And get dressed. And leave the apartment. Today.

“Finn! Get in here.”

After he found out what Dad needed.

“Coming.”

In his thirties, and his dad still shouted for him like he was a kid. Finn shook his head as he headed for the kitchen.

Dad was sitting at the table, a grim expression deepening the lines on his face where time had left its mark. His hair was almost entirely gray, though it had once been dark brown. He was chewing on his lower lip. The upper was hidden beneath a full mustache.

“What’s up?”

Finn was already in the room when he noticed Daphne leaning against the counter. Her dark curls hung loose around her shoulders and she stared at him with warm brown eyes. She was already dressed for working the bar downstairs—jeans and a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

Finn was in his boxer-briefs.

“Dad, warn me next time.”

“It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before. Sit down.”

Finn paused, already halfway back out of the room. He looked at their faces again. Very unhappy. Nervous.

“What is this, an intervention?” Finn laughed.

Neither of them smiled.

“Something like that,” Dad said. “Sit down. Please.”

If he hadn’t added that “please” at the end, Finn might have balked. But the strain on their faces was too much for him to walk away from. He sat across from his dad.

“What’s going on?”

“That’s what we’d like to know,” Dad said.

“What do you mean?”

Dad tapped his finger on the table. “You aren’t taking cases. You’re not looking after yourself.”

Finn shook his head and started to rise. He did not have it in him to deal with this right now. Dad reached for his hand, but Finn jerked it away. It was too dangerous for them to touch at the moment. The last thing Dad needed was to see the messed-up thoughts in Finn’s head. Since they shared the same psychic abilities, Dad would be able to read Finn in a heartbeat.

“Son, I know you’re still having nightmares.”

“Yeah, so you know it’s not a good idea to touch me right now.”

“Tommy.” Daphne’s quiet voice cut into the conversation, reminding them that they had an audience and shouldn’t just let each other have it.

Dad leaned back and took a deep breath. “I’m not trying to read you. Yet. But I’m getting close.”

He didn’t need to see the nightmares that were plaguing Finn or feel the hopelessness that grew every day. He wasn’t sure his dad’s heart could take it. If they touched, Finn wouldn’t be able to hide the darkness he was struggling with. He wouldn’t burden his dad with that knowledge. Not when they’d almost lost him a few months ago.

Anyway, whatever this was, it would pass. It had to.

He thought about the nightmares—of the woman chained to the wall and being tortured. The woman whose awareness Finn shared during his dreams. He felt every shuddering breath, every stab of the needle. He could feel death surrounding him. Every night, he saw her killer’s face.

It was too late for Finn to go after the guy. The serial killer known as Michael Angelo had not only been caught but killed. That case was solved, but not closed. Not for Finn. He had no idea why this one victim’s memories were so firmly implanted in his mind. He didn’t even know who she was.

On good days, when he felt like he might be able to accomplish something, he tried to find out more. He was amazed at how little media coverage there had been after Michael’s murders were discovered. Usually, serial killers were all over the papers, reporters swarming the story and splashing it on every TV screen they could reach. Not even the local media had run with the story. It had been buried.

Finn had learned more from Garrett, who had been at the scene when the cops arrived. Elsa and Rachel, two of Garrett’s other friends, had both been targeted by the killer. Bad move on his part. The pair had teamed up and taken him down—permanently.

Good for them.

They both had considerable resources. Elsa could probably buy and sell Dad’s bar a dozen times over. Rachel was both rich and the daughter of a powerful lawyer. The papers weren’t shy about her dad’s upcoming political campaign. In a town as small as Summer Park, the local papers couldn’t afford to piss him off by plastering pictures of his daughter next to a serial killer.

Garrett was torn up over the whole thing and sketchy on the details. Finn knew that Dante, the guy Garrett had originally thought was a threat to Elsa, had been hurt pretty bad. Finn had cleared Dante as a suspect when Garrett first became aware that someone was after Elsa.

Finn’s investigation had revealed that he and his dad weren’t the only people in Summer Park with special gifts. Summer Park was a happening place for psychics.

Garrett was supporting Elsa as best he could, and now that Dante was in his good graces, Garrett would do everything in his power to help. From the sound of things, his friend Rachel needed him too. So Finn would get by on his own.

He wouldn’t call, even to check in. Garrett knew Finn too well and would be able to tell that something was wrong. It would have been great to have Garrett to talk to, though. Finn missed him.

Garrett had a tight circle of friends who all supported each other. Finn was more like a satellite on the periphery. He would have loved the chance to join their club, but since he and Jazz split, that wasn’t an option anymore. It never really had been.

He couldn’t believe how much it still hurt that she didn’t want to include him in her life anywhere outside the bedroom or Dad’s bar. Finn had been in the same room as Elsa, but never been introduced. He’d never laid eyes on Rachel. Garrett didn’t know Finn and Jazz had been a couple. She had insisted on secrecy.

Finn had offered her everything he had, everything he was. She hadn’t wanted to be seen in public with him. Not as a couple, anyway.

In private, though… He could feel the warmth she kept locked away. Her smiles would make him forget whatever had been bothering him. Her touch had ruined him for other women, and not just because she was the only person he’d ever met that he couldn’t read.

“Finn?”

Dad’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Dammit, it was so hard to focus.

“I didn’t say anything when you buried yourself in your work or when you dropped most of your friends except Garrett. But you’re not even hanging out with him now. You don’t talk to Daphne. Or to me.”

“Dad—”

“You’re isolating yourself. It’s not healthy. You wake up screaming every night and drag around here all day. You haven’t been right for years. You’ve been living like a monk ever since—”

“Not everything is about Jazz, okay!”

Finn picked up the salt shaker on the table and chucked it at the wall across the room. It embedded itself in the cheap plaster. Daphne gasped and stepped away from the counter, as if she was concerned Finn wasn’t done with his tantrum.

Shit.

Finn took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He covered his eyes with one hand as he tried to get control of himself.

Nothing was in control.

Dropping his hand, he said, “I’m sorry. Look, I’ll fix it later. Today.” He was going to get a handle on this, dammit.

“I’ll take care of it,” Daphne said.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” she said. “But I will.”

“If you don’t want to talk to us, fine,” Dad said. “But you need to talk to someone. Call Garrett.”

Finn was glad
that
was the name Dad had chosen. Usually when Finn was in a funk, Dad bugged him to call Jazz and see if he could patch things up. Beg her to come back to him. If only Dad knew—Finn was the one who had broken things off. Still, he doubted she’d be coming back any time soon. Or ever.

For some reason, Dad never urged Finn to move on. It was like he knew that wasn’t an option.

Three years. Three years and Finn thought about her every damned day. When he wasn’t thinking about the woman from his nightmares.

Finn had seen a news story about Michael Angelo the day after he’d been killed. The details were sketchy, but Michael’s picture was in a little box on the screen as the reporter spoke.

“A serial killer who went by the name of Michael Angelo was caught and killed yesterday evening. Police are investigating several missing persons cases that may be related…”

Finn was shocked to recognize the killer from his nightmares. It didn’t take long for him to realize he was the creepy blond guy that had been stalking Elsa. Maybe it was the readings he did trying to track Michael down, but something about the guy had made it under Finn’s skin.

Even Finn’s powers had gone crazy. When Finn tried to read objects, he saw the memories attached to them as if he was the person involved—not as a detached observer. It was visceral, like he was there in that moment.

Touching someone to read their thoughts was even worse. The only way he’d made it out of their heads was when they jerked away, looking at him like he was nuts.

He had to get his powers back under control. Otherwise, he really would have to become a monk. Being around people was too dangerous.

Finn stood and started toward his room. Daphne stepped in front of him.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Out.”

He had a sudden urge to do something, to get out of the house, to leave. It was overwhelming.

The nightmares were tied to one of Michael Angelo’s victims. Finn was sure of it. He had to figure out why she was haunting his dreams. To do that, he needed to find out more about who she was and what had happened. He looked back at Dad.

“I do have a case,” Finn said.

And it started with Michael Angelo. That was Finn’s only lead.