Dutch sighed and picked Virgil up protectively. ‘‘Can we not fight about this?’’ he asked me.
I rolled my eyes and stomped into the kitchen. Normally, I like cats. I mean, I like them as long as they keep to themselves and don’t defecate on my things. But ever since I’d come here to recover, Virgil had been the bane of my existence, and Dutch refused to believe his feline was out to get me.
I strolled back into the living room, about to continue the argument, but the phone rang. Dutch gave me a ‘‘saved by the bell’’ smile and moved toward it. Glancing at the caller ID before he picked it up, he said, ‘‘It’s Candice. That’s the third call this week. Think you’d better talk to her this time?’’
I sat down heavily on the couch. I wasn’t ready for this.
I make my living as a professional psychic, and three months ago I’d had a booming practice. All that changed one winter morning when I’d very nearly died after being shot at close range. Okay, scratch that—I technically
had
died, but only for a minute or two.
So ever since then, I’d been laid up here in my boyfriend’s home, tucked away in the lovely little city we both live in, Royal Oak, Michigan. For the first month I’d done little more than sleep. My doctor advisedme that when you’re recovering from a major trauma, like being shot, your body slows down considerably, and mine was no exception.
But over the past two months I’d steadily gotten stronger, and I’d been able to do more physically. Mentally, though, I just could not seem to get a grip. The prospect of going back to work actually terrified me, and even though my bank statements continued to show a decline in my liquid assets, I couldn’t motivate myself to get up off the couch and venture back to the office. I reasoned that I’d probably already lost most of my clients anyway. As a psychic, if you stop tuning in, you stop eating.
Dutch, who’s an FBI agent, recognized what I was going through. He had labeled it post-traumatic stress disorder, which sounded to me like a tidy way of calling me a loo-loo.
Now here I sat, not having done a single reading in three months, and one of my best clients was on the phone. Again.
I looked up at Dutch and gave him a winning smile. ‘‘Can you tell her I’m out and take a message?’’
Dutch smirked and answered the phone. ‘‘Hi, Candice. You looking for Abby?’’ I breathed a sigh of relief and sat back on the couch, thinking that I had a great boyfriend after all. ‘‘Sure, sure,’’ he said, nodding his head. ‘‘She’s right here. Hang on,’’ he said casually and extended the phone to me.
I mouthed, ‘‘I’ll get you for this,’’ and took the receiver. ‘‘Hi, Candice!’’ I said breezily. ‘‘Long time no talk.’’
‘‘Abby!’’ she sang. ‘‘Man, girlfriend! It is so great to finally hear your voice. How’re you feeling?’’
Dutch was still hovering nearby, and I cut him a look of death but continued to keep my voice light.
‘‘Oh, you know, taking it slow and easy. I still get a little tired, but what can you do?’’
Candice clucked into the phone and said, ‘‘You poor thing. I bet you haven’t gone back to work yet, have you?’’
‘‘No,’’ I said, fiddling uncomfortably with the tassel on one of the couch cushions. ‘‘I’m easing into the idea. I don’t want to push it.’’
‘‘That’s got to be a real drain on your finances,’’ she said. ‘‘It must be hard to maintain your mortgage and the rent on your office.’’
I wasn’t sure where Candice was going with this. She and I had never really had a normal psychic/client relationship. Candice was a private detective at a decent-sized firm in Kalamazoo, about 140 miles west of Royal Oak. On occasion she would call me and drive over to get my feelings on a case she was working on. We’d made a great team on the few cases we’d worked together, and I’d come to consider her a friend as well as a client. ‘‘Yeah, but I’ve got some pennies saved, so I should be okay for a while.’’
I couldn’t see Candice’s reaction, but I could have sworn I heard a hint of disappointment when she said, ‘‘I see.’’
There was a bit of a pause before I asked her straight out, ‘‘Want to tell me what’s up?’’
Candice giggled. ‘‘I never could be subtle with you. Here’s the deal, Abs. I’ve decided to hang my own shingle.’’
‘‘Really?’’ I said with a smirk. ‘‘Gee, now where have I heard that idea before?’’
Candice’s giggle turned into a laugh. ‘‘Yes, I know, you were right—again!’’ I had given her a reading about six months before, and in that reading, I’d told her that she was going to entertain the idea of starting her own PI firm, and that it was worth considering. ‘‘But here’s the catch . . .’’ she added.
‘‘Yes?’’ I asked when she paused.
‘‘I need to find cheap office space to work out of.’’
‘‘Have you tried the classifieds? I’m sure there’s plenty available in Kalamazoo.’’
‘‘No, not in Kalamazoo,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m moving in with my grandmother, so I’ll need to find a space close to her.’’
‘‘You’re moving here?’’ I asked. I’d met Candice’s rather eccentric grandmother, Madame Dubois, a few months before. She also lived in Royal Oak.
‘‘Yes. Just like you, I need to watch my pennies, and when Nana offered a room in that big house of hers, I couldn’t pass it up.’’
That was when the lightbulb went on in my head. ‘‘And you were thinking I could sublet you some office space.’’
‘‘I know, I know,’’ she said quickly. ‘‘I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just that I know you have that extra room in your suite, and I heard you’d all but quit the business, so I thought I could help you out until you got back on your feet, as well as give myself a little head start.’’
‘‘It’s a terrific idea,’’ I said as the right side of my body went light and airy, which is my sign for yeppers.
‘‘Really?’’ she said. ‘‘Oh, Abby, that’s awesome!’’
‘‘Absolutely.’’ I grinned. It had been a long time since I’d shared my office with anyone. The extra room in my suite had once been rented by my best friend and gifted psychic medium, Theresa, who had moved to California almost exactly a year ago. I’d entertained the idea of a suitemate since then, but no one had ever seemed quite right. Until now. ‘‘When would you like to move in?’’
‘‘I’m moving to Nana’s on Tuesday, so I’d really like to get a jump on getting things squared away with you too—if that’s okay.’’
‘‘That’s fine,’’ I said. ‘‘Come on over when you get into town and I’ll give you the spare key. We can talk rent then if you’d like.’’
‘‘Perfect. Thanks again, Abby. And I’m so glad you’re feeling better.’’
I clicked off with Candice and poked my head into the study in search of Dutch, who had stopped his eavesdropping around the time I’d agreed to sublet some space to Candice. ‘‘That was a dirty trick you pulled,’’ I said as I handed him back the phone.
‘‘Needed to be done,’’ he said gravely. ‘‘Now, have a seat. I want to talk to you.’’
‘‘Sounds serious,’’ I said. I plopped down in one of the leather chairs across from his desk.
He looked at me for a long moment and, as always, I felt my breath catch at the beauty of the man. Dutch Rivers is tall, blond, and incredibly handsome. But the most riveting thing about him is his eyes. They’re midnight blue in color, and whenever they bore right into mine, the way they were doing then, I knew I was in for a lecture. ‘‘I’m worried about you,’’ he began.
‘‘Here we go,’’ I said. Dutch was big on worry, but usually only where I was concerned.
‘‘I’m not kidding,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s time for you to think about getting your feet wet again.’’
‘‘But I took a shower this morning,’’ I said lightly.
‘‘Edgar.’’ He sighed. ‘‘You know what I mean.’’
‘‘I’m not ready,’’ I said as I looked down at my hands.
Dutch didn’t say anything for a long minute. Finally, he made a startling suggestion. ‘‘Not even if it’s to help me?’’
‘‘Pardon?’’ I asked, lifting my eyes to his. ‘‘This is a new twist, Agent Rivers.’’
Dutch picked up three folders on his desk and waved them at me. ‘‘When you were in there talking to Candice, it gave me an idea. These are the three cases I’ve been working this month, and I’m at a road-block on all three. I need a break, Abby, and I was thinking you could do for me what you usually do for Candice.’’
My jaw dropped. Dutch had
never
asked me for help on a case. In fact, he’d all but fought me off every time I’d tried to assist with an investigation. For him to ask me this favor meant he’d turned a corner of sorts, and the sneaky bastard had done so knowing full well I could hardly turn him down. Still, I was a bit doubtful that he was for real. ‘‘Are you fooling with me? Because if you are, that would be a low move on your part.’’
‘‘I’m dead serious,’’ he said, holding my gaze.
‘‘I see,’’ I said, weighing my decision. Half of me really wanted to help. After all, my boyfriend was legendary for his skepticism. I’d seen him run to the aid of a female ghost who’d disappeared before his very eyes, and he still tried to deny what he’d seen. He was also the type of guy who liked to be the hero, and asking for help wasn’t something he’d ever been comfortable with.
But if I were honest with myself, I’d have to admit that the trouble wasn’t so much on his end as on mine. I hadn’t used my radar to any real extent in nearly ninety days, which was an all-time record for me. In fact, I’d worked hard not to use it. The truth of it was, my intuition had failed me at the moment in my life when I’d needed it the most. I’d been sucker punched in the chest by a bullet that I’d had no idea was coming.
And that was what was really eating away at me— the fact that when I’d relied most heavily on my intuition, it had failed me. What if it failed me when I was sitting with a client? I just wasn’t ready for that hypothetical yet.
So Dutch was really throwing me a curveball with an offer that would allow me to step back into the ballpark with no risk of injury. I could give some remote impressions about a case in which I would never meet the actual players involved, and if I was wrong— so what? The FBI would continue to investigate, and hopefully the case would eventually be solved through good solid detective work, not dependent on whether or not my radar was having a good day.
‘‘Okay,’’ I said grimly. ‘‘I’ll help, but only on the condition that you continue to investigate the case outside of my impressions. Don’t rely solely on me to get it right.’’
Dutch smiled and extended his hand. ‘‘Deal,’’ he said, and we shook on it.
‘‘By the way,’’ I added, ‘‘you really need a haircut.’’
Dutch grinned and ran his hand through his unruly hair. ‘‘I know, I know,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve been swamped and haven’t had time for it.’’
‘‘You should make time,’’ I said.
‘‘Glad to know you’re keeping me aesthetically on track,’’ he shot back.
‘‘I’m your girlfriend,’’ I said, getting up. ‘‘It’s my job to keep you socially acceptable. I mean, at least try some gel or something until you can get to the salon.’’
Dutch gave me a withering look. ‘‘I don’t go to the
salon
—I go to the barber. And does it really look that bad?’’
I softened at Dutch’s suddenly self-conscious expression. ‘‘No, babe,’’ I said and came around to stand in front of him. ‘‘You could look like Cousin Itt and still do it for me,’’ I murmured, leaning in to kiss him just as Virgil jumped in his lap and slapped his shaggy tail in my face. ‘‘Plah!’’ I said and backed away.
‘‘Oops,’’ Dutch said as he set Virgil on the ground. ‘‘Now, you were about to kiss me?’’
I rolled my eyes. ‘‘Sorry, cowboy. The moment has passed.’’
‘‘Aw, come on, Abs. Don’t be like that.’’
I walked toward the door. ‘‘Try me later,’’ I said, cranky about the cat again.
‘‘I’ll go get my hair cut!’’ Dutch called as I left the room.
‘‘Promises, promises,’’ I replied over my shoulder, knowing full well that the stack of work on Dutch’s desk was preventing him from doing any of his errands. ‘‘Ah, well,’’ I said as I took my seat on the couch and snuggled up to Eggy. ‘‘Where were we?’’ I added, closing my eyes for one heck of a good power nap.
Later that evening, while we were eating dinner, there was a knock on Dutch’s door. ‘‘Expecting company?’’ I asked.
‘‘It’s probably Milo,’’ Dutch said. He got up from the table and headed to the front door.
Sure enough, when he returned, he had his best friend and former partner in tow. ‘‘Hey there, Abs,’’ Milo said jovially.
I smiled broadly in greeting. Milo was one of my favorite people. Tall and elegant, with mocha skin and an easy smile, he was a handsome, stylish man. He and Dutch worked the local detective beat together before Dutch landed at the FBI. ‘‘Hey there,’’ I said and waved him to an empty chair at the table. ‘‘Want some food?’’
Milo took in the delicious scent of pork tenderloin filling the kitchen. ‘‘Who cooked, you or Dutch?’’ he asked.
I gave him a dirty look. ‘‘Dutch,’’ I said.
‘‘I’m in,’’ he answered and headed over to the cabinet to extract a plate.
Dutch chuckled and returned to his seat. ‘‘The man knows what’s good,’’ he said, giving me a wink.
‘‘That’s it,’’ I said, tossing my napkin at him. ‘‘I’m taking a cooking class.’’
Both Milo and Dutch burst into gales of laughter. ‘‘What?’’ I demanded. ‘‘What’s so funny?’’
Milo wheezed his funny laugh a few times before saying, ‘‘I don’t know who we should feel more sorry for, the instructor or the fire department!’’
‘‘So I’ve filled the kitchen with smoke a few times,’’ I said defensively. ‘‘Dutch’s oven runs hot.’’
Dutch sputtered several more times, trying to regain his composure. ‘‘Maybe you should just stick to the crystal ball thing, Edgar, and leave the cooking to me.’’
‘‘Speaking of which,’’ Milo said as he took his seat at the table, ‘‘Dutch tells me you’re going to help him out on a couple case files.’’
I squirmed in my chair. ‘‘I was thinking about it,’’ I said, poking at my dinner and suddenly feeling pressured. ‘‘Jeez, Dutch, I didn’t realize you were going to tell the whole world I was helping you.’’