Shifting his
weight to one hip, Sean folded his arms over his chest. “You know why, Verity.”
“Yes, I know.
And I believe we have a solution for your quandary.”
“Quandary? Is
that what you call the destruction of two souls? A
quandary
?”
Her finger
wagged in his face, the ultimate chastisement. “Do not use that tone with me,
Sean Martino. My position in this realm makes me worthy of far more than your
rudeness.”
“Oh, you bet you
deserve more,” Sean snapped. “You deserve to roast in hell. Or since hell
doesn’t really exist, you should be sentenced to the same fate you placed upon
Luc Asante and Jodie Devlin.”
Verity’s deep
sigh neutralized the charged air as she shook her head. “Their story is no
longer our worry. Yours, however, is. And the Board is concerned about your
welfare.”
“Terrific.” He made the term sound more fearful than a death sentence. In his
opinion, any interference the enigmatic Board and its Council offered could
bode no good for him.
“Sit, please. I
don’t appreciate having to crane my neck to look up at you.”
Grudgingly, he
sank into the chair directly across from her, the seat he’d always had at his
mother’s table.
“You haven’t
been yourself lately,” Verity continued. “You’ve become impatient, surly, and
distracted. Therefore, the Board has decided to reassign you.”
Yippee.
“Your sarcasm is
grating, Sean,” Verity muttered, one eyebrow arched in disapproval. “I would
advise you to keep your animosity in control until you leave this auditorium.”
With that simple
admonishment, she transformed him into a petulant child. He’d forgotten the
sensory link that allowed her to hear his thoughts as easily as if he shouted
them. A flush of heat wafted over his neck and cheeks, and he ducked his head
to hide his reaction from her knowing gaze. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You should also
work on your sincerity. Your penitent act is a little weak.”
So much for
hiding. “Yes, ma’am.” He clasped his hands on the tabletop in the pose of
obedient schoolboy. Inside, however, his stomach roiled.
“Be that as it
may,” Verity said. “Your services in bounty hunting are no longer required. The
Board would like to transfer you to the Probation Department.”
His head jerked
up, and he studied her face for any hint of ridicule. He found none. The most
serene expression met his scrutiny. “Probation? For what? For disagreeing with
your destruction of two loving,
innocent
people?” He shot to his feet,
screeching the chair legs across the linoleum floor tiles. “Go to hell.”
“Sean.” A
warning tone, followed by a sigh and a light tap to the wrist, beckoned him
back into the chair. A command he refused this time. “
You
are not on
probation. Yet. But your continued animosity toward me and the Board will not
solve anything. I am urging you to forget about Luc and Jodie, for your own
welfare. Since you’ve seen the Chasm for yourself, I’m sure you don’t want to
find yourself banished there.”
He bit his
tongue to keep a perfect
fuck you
in check and shook his head. “No,
ma’am.”
“Sit.” She
jerked her head toward the chair where he’d eaten so many meals as a child in
Brooklyn. “We’ve much to discuss.”
Frowning, he
dropped into the chair again. Why the hell couldn’t he maintain some backbone
around her?
“And don’t
pout,” she chastised gently.
“I’m
not
.”
He meant the words to be a firm denial, but they came out an adolescent whine.
Verity laughed.
“My mistake, then.” She laid her hands palms-up on the table, and her happy
expression sobered without becoming harsh. “This isn’t a punishment or a
demotion. You obviously can no longer continue as a bounty hunter. The Board,
however, believes you can become an excellent probation officer. You’ll report
to that department immediately after we’re through here. Xavia is waiting for
you. But first, close your eyes. I want you to watch something.”
He barely did as
she directed before a vivid scene popped into his head. Unlike his last experience
with this neurosensory mind-meld, the details of Sean’s former lives did not
fill his senses. Instead, he saw a young woman staring into a medicine cabinet
mirror. Her eyes, glistening from the strip of lights above the cabinet and a
well of unshed tears, shot lasers into Sean’s heart. So much pain communicated
from those sweet teddy bear eyes. Unbidden, Sean reached out a hand to touch
her, only to draw back when he remembered he was viewing an image in his head.
Whoever the woman was, she resided on Earth, far from his place here in the
Afterlife.
Scrick-tick.
Scrick-tick.
The strange
rhythmic sound in her bathroom drew his attention. A bottle of prescription
painkillers, cradled between her trembling hands, rolled back and forth, the
plastic catching on the gold band on her third finger.
So much pain.
Where the hell
was her husband? Even separated by dimensions of time and space, Sean sensed
how alone she was. Alone, abandoned, and rapidly losing hope.
“Who is she?”
The question erupted before he could stifle his curiosity.
Verity frowned.
“Her name is Isabelle Fichetti. And as soon as she swallows those pills, she’ll
become your responsibility.”
When the pain
became too intense to bear, Isabelle Fichetti opened her eyes to white light
bright enough to sear her retinas. She blinked and managed to discern wavy
lines inside the blinding blankness. Another blink transformed the lines to
shadows. Finally, as her foggy vision sharpened, she took in familiar details.
A fourteen-inch television mounted on the pale yellow wall, a shabby end table
with a remote control on a cord, and a pink plastic water pitcher on a tray
table.
A hospital. A
fucking hospital.
She stifled a
groan and punched the scratchy sheets. No, no, no! She shouldn’t be here. She
should be dead. Instead, she lay in a lumpy bed with raised arm rails in a room
that reeked of wintergreen-scented disinfectant. An I.V. line snaked from the
back of her hand to a bag of clear fluid suspended from a metal pole. God, how
her stomach hurt! Rolling to her side, she brought her knees to her chest. The
pain didn’t ease. Jeez, she felt as if someone continuously jabbed her abdomen
with a red-hot branding iron. But worst of all, she was still alive. Of all the
rotten luck.
Dammit, couldn’t
she do
anything
right? Just wait ‘til the tabloids heard about this
disaster. She could see the headline now.
Shipp Wreck: Former Television
Star’s Failed Suicide Attempt.
Because, after all, no one really knew her
as Isabelle Fichetti. To the public, she was still Bethany Shipp.
For the last
fifteen years, she’d tried to live down the role she’d played for nearly a
decade, that of precocious Bethany Shipp, daughter of single mom and yoga
instructor, Camilla Shipp in the television sitcom, “Shipp Shape.” That damn
show had launched her into stardom. She’d grown up on the soundstage, from the
age of seven to just before her seventeenth birthday. The viewing public had
followed her journey through childhood into her chubby pre-teen years, seen her
with—then without—braces, watched the acne bloom on her face, and tracked all
the changes she’d undergone on her way to womanhood. Once the cameras stopped
rolling, however, her fans lost interest, having typecast her as that adorable
imp they’d grown up watching. So that, even years after the cancellation, she
couldn’t land so much as a feminine hygiene commercial. Washed up at
thirty-three years old.
The business had
chewed her up and spit her out. Yet, like a whipped puppy, she kept running
back for more. This last time, she really thought she’d nailed a co-starring
role in the latest movie adaptation of a
New York Times
bestselling
novel. But after weeks of waiting for the director’s call, she saw the blurb on
“Hollywood Inside and Out.” Her plum role had gone to some no-talent who’d
happened to snag a small part in last summer’s blockbuster. A hooker, for God’s
sake. Autumn Lefleur played a dried-up old hooker for five minutes on the
screen, and suddenly she was the next Meryl Streep.
Nothing remained
for Isabelle. No favors left to call in, no friends with connections. Her agent
had let her go three years ago. The days of being discovered, or in her case,
re
discovered,
at the local soda shop like Lana Turner were long gone. Nothing remained for
her. Except death, she’d thought. But even that final role eluded her.
And wouldn’t her
soon-to-be ex-husband burst into belly laughs over this latest screw-up? Carlo
Romanelli. He was, after all, just another cold-hearted bastard in Hollywood, a
place that bred cold-hearted bastards like cockroaches.
The door to her
room opened, and a well-stacked, bleached blond nurse strolled inside. “Oh,
good, you’re awake.”
“What’s so good
about it?” Isabelle grumbled.
“Well,” the
nurse replied. Her name tag pegged her as Nancy Julian, LPN. Her frozen face
pegged her as having undergone one too many Botox injections. And the bump at
the top of her nose suggested she’d used a sub-par plastic surgeon. “For
starters, it’s a beautiful day.”
The
Winnie-the-Pooh characters dancing on Nancy’s scrub top should have given
Isabelle a clue that she’d run into one of those perpetual glass-is-half-f
women. “This is L.A. It’s always a beautiful day.”
Nancy unwound
the stethoscope from around her neck while pushing a wheeled blood pressure
hookup toward the bed. “Could I just say, Ms. Fichetti, I’m a big fan?” She
slipped the cuff on Isabelle’s upper arm and smoothed the Velcro tab into
place. “I mean, you probably hear this a lot, but I grew up watching ‘Shipp
Shape.’ Your character, Bethany, was such an inspiration to me. I don’t think I
would have survived my rocky adolescent years without that show.”
As the cuff
tightened on her arm, Isabelle gritted her teeth into a smile and offered the
same response she gave all her gushing fans. “Thanks. The show was very special
to me, as well.”
Hypocritical?
Maybe. But in Hollywood, today’s nurse could be tomorrow’s studio executive.
From the barrista at the local coffee shop to the top plastic surgeon in
Beverly Hills, everyone in LaLaLand was obsessed with the business. They were
either in the business, trying to break into the business, or like Isabelle,
scrambling to get back into the business.
Apparently, her
trite reply satisfied because Nurse Nancy nodded, then stripped open a package
containing what looked like a white pen and attached it to another gizmo on the
blood pressure machine. “Open your mouth, please.”
The minute
Isabelle complied, the nurse shoved the pen thingy into her mouth. A disposable
thermometer. “Keep this under your tongue.”
On a hiss of air
and hum of machinery, the cuff’s stranglehold eased. A series of beeps drew
Nancy’s attention to the thermometer, which she withdrew from Isabelle’s mouth.
After tossing the plastic piece into the wastebasket, the nurse turned her
attention to the digital readout on the machines. She frowned for the briefest
moment. But before Isabelle could bat an eyelash, she had fixed a phony smile
in place. “There. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” She rolled up the cuff and
pulled the machine back into the corner of the room, near the grimy windows
that overlooked another brick-walled hospital wing. “I’m just going to page Dr.
Valentine, let him know you’re awake. He’s going to want to come in to talk and
review your records with you.”
Pushing the
button on her remote, Isabelle raised the bed until she sat upright, the
wafer-thin pillow settled somewhere near her hips. “Great. I’m ready for my
close-up, Mr. DeMille.”
~~~~
“Pause.” Xavia
Donovan halted the scene unfolding in the hospital room on Earth and scowled.
Not another
spoiled Hollywood starlet who expected untold gifts from the universe because
of a stroke of random luck in her youth. Cripes. In California, they grew the
pity-partiers faster and more plentiful than citrus fruits.
From her cushy
captain of industry chair in the Probation Department’s office, she studied the
ashen-faced Isabelle Fichetti’s image as it appeared on her clipboard and
scowled again. Wuss. Coward. Xavia had seen this one’s type too many times
before—both in her position here and in her lifetimes on Earth. How would any
of these spoiled divas handle
real
problems,
real
tragedies?
The index finger
on her left hand lazily traced the inside of her right wrist where, once, long
ago, she’d pressed a razor blade into her all-too-human flesh. Nothing remained
of that incident. One of the perks of death was the ability to re-circuit
herself to look the way she had in her prime of life—before her son’s death,
before her suicide. No wrinkles, no scars, no post-pregnancy pouch. Carefree.
But no matter how she looked on the outside, the bitter memories lingered on
the inside.
A
rap-rap-rap
on her door drew her away from her own painful past and Isabelle Fichetti’s
minor trials, up into the face of a man who stood on the threshold of her
office. Familiarity tickled her brain. Something in his vivid blue eyes, a
spark that ignited her synapses, woke up her awareness.
Not in a good
way. Her cells roiled as she stared at his boyishly handsome face, the curls of
blond hair that dipped low on his forehead, the wide expanse of shoulders in a
chambray button-down shirt. He leaned against her door jamb—insolent and
indolent—and watched her with an interest that bordered on feral. Testosterone
tickled her nostrils, made her mouth water. Despite her Amazon queen persona, a
persona she’d honed from her first day in the Afterlife, this man’s scrutiny
made her acutely cognizant of her femininity. And his oh, so obvious
masculinity.
On an impatient
huff, she pushed away the thought and gave him her most frigid stare. “Are you
looking for something?”
His equally icy
expression threw her off-kilter. “Not some
thing
. Some
one
. And if
you’re Xavia Donovan, I’m looking for you.”
The words,
combined with the intensity of emotion in his eyes, sparked a chill inside her.
“And you are…?”
“Sean Martino.
Your newest probation officer.”
The bottom fell
out of her stomach. Frazzled, she fumbled for the edge of her desk and upended
her clipboard, which fell to the floor with a clatter. She flinched, but he
never moved, not even in reflex. “You’re Sean Martino? The troublemaker from
Bounty Retrieval?”
“Is that what
they’re calling me these days?” The words pelted hot and hard, a hail of verbal
bullets.
“I’ve no idea,”
she replied as she bent to scoop up the clipboard. “Who are ‘they’?”
“They. The
Elders, the Board, the bastards who ruin lives after death. Whoever told you I
was a troublemaker.”
“No one told me
you were a troublemaker. I just assumed that fact since you were transferred.”
His posture
visibly stiffened. “And what? Everyone who’s transferred to Probation is a
troublemaker?”
“I wouldn’t
know.” With trembling hands, she set the clipboard in its slot on her desktop.
“In all the time I’ve been here, you’re the first transfer I’ve ever received.”
Back now ramrod
straight against her door jamb, he folded his arms over his chest. “I’d ask how
long you’ve been here, but we can’t ever know that for sure, can we?”
She understood
what he meant. Time didn’t exist here. While the living world continued to
revolve around the sun, the Afterlife—an entirely separate realm—remained
constant. No day, no night. No clocks, no calendars.
Rather than
discuss the particulars of Earth versus the Afterlife, she indicated the chair
opposite her desk. “Close the door and have a seat.”
He moved with
purpose, as if each stride brought him closer to his prey. When he sat across
from her, his focus locked on her face, and a jolt crackled through her senses.
She forced her gaze away from the deep shadows in his eyes, shadows so like the
pain behind her own brown eyes.
Business. Stick to business
. “I assume
you saw your first case? Isabelle Fichetti?”
He nodded. “Just
before she took the pills.”
“And afterward?
When she woke up?”
“No.” His
eyebrow quirked up. “Did I miss something?”
Oh, for God’s
sake!
Just the whole reason for your assignment
. “Where’s your
clipboard?”
“Back at my room
at the Halfway House.” He jerked his head over one shoulder. “I don’t carry my
board on a hunt.”
“Why not? You do
know you can miniaturize the board with simple manipulation until it fits
snugly into a pocket or your palm, don’t you?”
“Yes, but the
circuits often burn out on reentry into the Afterlife, so hunters are advised
to leave their boards in their rooms until their return from Earth.”
If he hoped to
make her feel foolish for asking, he was in for a shakeup. She didn’t shatter
easily. “Why didn’t you stop to get it before coming here?”
“Because there
was no time. The Elders caught me in Reception after my last bounty, told me
about the transfer, showed me Isabelle Fichetti in her bathroom with the pain
pills, then sent me on my way.”
Terrific. Of all
the half-assed ways to handle a transfer… She waved a hand in dismissal. “Never
mind. But in the future, as long as you’re working in this department, you’ll
keep that clipboard with you. We need to be in constant contact with our
offenders. This isn’t as simple as bounty hunting where you zip down, grab a
ghost, and zip back, easy-peasy. Probation is gut-wrenching work.”
His eyes
narrowed to dangerous lines. “Ever actually do any bounty hunting? My guess
would be no because you’re talking out your ass right now.”
“Wow.” She
didn’t attempt to keep her sarcasm in check. “Good thing you’re not a
troublemaker.”
He flushed. “Okay,
my comment was uncalled for. I’m sorry. Just don’t disparage bounty hunters,
and I’ll keep a civil tongue from now on.”
Touchy guy. Not
a good sign. Best he learned where he stood with her from the get-go. “I don’t
recall saying you could dictate terms to me, Mr. Martino.”
“Yeah, right,”
he grumbled. “Sorry again.”
Folding her arms
on the desktop, she leaned forward, holding her gaze steady on his. “I
understand that bounty hunting is primarily a solitary affair, but probation is
an entirely different matter. And I sincerely hope you won’t have trouble
adjusting to a female boss.” God knew she’d had to prove herself a thousand
times over to some of the he-men women haters who wound up here.