Ghost Whisperer Read online

  When Edwin clenches his eyes shut, I know that, more than anything else, has hit a nerve. "I knew he'd listened to me," he whispers. "I knew it. Jackie won't have it. She thinks he was being an idiot at a party. 'Being a teenager,'" he mimics.

  "She's just angry, and dealing with her grief because anger is easier to handle for mourning mothers than sorrowful weeping."

  I should know. I've seen countless grieving mothers. Thousands of them. Daunted dads, terrified brothers, horrified aunts.

  The grieving process isn't exactly unique to one person. It crosses generations, age groups, backgrounds. And yet, we all tend to follow a basic pattern to some degree.

  Sorrow and rage, denial and regret, guilt and horror.

  I'd say Edwin is hovering at the sorrow and horror part.

  Maybe I'll forgive him for not asking to sit down.

  I'm not usually such a stickler. Especially with someone in the middle of the grieving process, but...

  "Ah hell, but what, Jayce?"

  Ignoring Kenna's unhelpful outburst, and the fact she's looking way too pleased with herself, I focus on my client. He seems to realize he has my attention because he studies me a second, then turns awkwardly in his seat and his gaze darts about the room like he's just realized that I don't have the concentration of a two year old. He's managed to come to the conclusion he's not alone with me in the room.

  Who's a clever boy?

  "Is he here? Is David here?"

  The desperation in his tone has me shaking my head. "No. He's not. But someone who has spoken to him is."

  "Can they...?" He shudders. "I can't believe I'm asking this, but could they bring him to me?"

  "I don't hold séances," I warn Edwin.

  He frowns. "Then what do you do?"

  "I help the spirits, not their human counterparts."

  His frown deepens, but then it clears. "I think that makes me feel better."

  Wanting to roll my eyes again, I stop myself by drumming my fingers against the glass top of my desk. He eyes my fingers, then looks back at me. "Why don't you help your clients?"

  "Because they don't plague me."

  "Plague is a harsh word."

  "You've no idea how harsh my world is, Mr. Edwin," I bite out, then immediately regret snapping at him when Kenna harrumphs, offended by my words.

  Edwin looks at me a second then asks, "How many ghosts are here now?"

  "My usual entourage, plus the ones in residence here and some who have come to me for help but either aren't ready to hear the truth, or have nowhere else to go even if they have the answers they sought."

  "How many is that?"

  "I usually have around two dozen with me."

  His eyes widen. "So many?"

  "It fluctuates. Especially if I leave my apartment."

  "They're just wandering around?"

  "Yes. It's rather spooky if you're not used to it," I tell him, a brisk note to my voice.

  "I-Is David... how's he coping?"

  With this, I try to be cautious. "Not very well, I'm afraid. But, he was young and never expected to be taken so soon. It's normal for them to be angry at first."

  "He still swears he never took anything though?"

  I nod.

  "Could you arrange for him to be here?"

  "I already said I don't hold séances, Mr. Edwin."

  "I know, but it would make me feel better to know he's here. With me."

  "They always are. Whether in presence or not. We wear our lost like a winter coat. We just don't realize it."

  He eyes me. "You're not what I expected."

  "I never am."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means the chip on my shoulder is larger than the pot most people think I have for begging." I purse my lips. "People give me stuff, and I take it because it feeds me, houses me, clothes me. I don't ask for it."

  "They give you a lot. This zip code doesn't come cheap."

  "No, it doesn't. I've helped a lot of people. More than you could probably imagine."

  Something about this guy seriously rubs me up the wrong way. Shaking my head at my own silliness, because liking my clients was never a part of the deal, I tell him, "I make no guarantees. I need to confer with my spirits and see what they can do."

  "Can you do it now?"

  His impatience doesn't come as a surprise, but the notion of speaking with Kenna in front of him discomforts me. That alone makes me act without caution. For the first time since I realized speaking to fresh air was a no-no in polite society, I decide to break my self-imposed rules.

  "The coroner declared it an accidental death?" At his nod, I sigh. "Kenna, can you do anything?"

  "It's unlike you to chat with me in front of someone."

  "Tell me about it. I'm only doing it because if I left the room to speak with you, I don't think Mr. Edwin here would believe in me. Once a kook, always a kook, eh, Drake?"

  The man has guts, I'll give him that. He doesn't even bat an eyelash at my condemnation. Not that I wanted to shame him. Not particularly.

  "Well, Kenna? Can you?"

  She nods. "Probably. David is unsettled. Maybe seeing his uncle will make him feel better. It's not often we get such a chance."

  "How long will it take for you to collect him?"

  "He isn't a paper on the doorstep, Jayce." Kenna tuts.

  "I know, but how long. Give me a time. He'll want to know."

  "Twenty minutes, twenty days. I have to find him." She shrugs.

  "Bull. You can always find them if you want to." When she starts to preen, I coo, "You know you can, Kenna. And if you take him under your wing, I'm sure he'll cope better with his death."

  "If I do that, you'll add another to your entourage if he can't let go."

  It's my turn to shrug. "What's another one to the mix."

  Kenna taps a finger against her lips and murmurs, "Give me an hour." And with that, disappears.

  Leaving me with Drake Edwin.

  For sixty minutes.

  What the hell am I supposed to do with a living male?

  Dead ones I'm used to. It's when they have a pulse I get into trouble.

  Leaning an elbow on my armrest, I perch my chin on my fist and ask, "Why have you come to me?"

  He frowns. Like I thought earlier, his eyebrows tell me a tale by themselves. I'd hazard a guess he doesn't realize how much they give away. "Is it really possible for David to come here?" It comes as no surprise not to have my question answered.

  "Yes. Should be within the hour."

  "So quickly?"

  His astonishment has my lips twitching. "I have helpful spirits on my side." Sometimes. Not that I tell him that.

  Kenna can be a pain but once I kick her mothering instincts into gear, I can usually get her to do what I want.

  Seeing the sparkle of moisture in his eyes, and intent on switching his focus, I murmur again, "Why have you come here?"

  He looks at me, and I won't lie, he astonishes me by flushing. It takes a while for the burn of red to disappear from his tanned cheeks. By that time, an uncomfortable silence has settled between us. I let it drift, used to the quiet whether it's awkward or not. Eventually though, he murmurs, "Because a client of mine recommended you."

  My brow lifts of its own scornful volition. "You don't seem the psychic sort."

  "When you go to the cops, ask them to reevaluate a case, and have them shove you off like you're an idiot, you start to seek alternatives."

  "Maybe. Maybe not. I'm an extreme, aren't I?"

  "I don't know. You seem to have a reputation with the NYPD."

  That has me grinning. "A reputation is one way to put it."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means, they tolerate me, and I tolerate them."

  "I doubt it's as hostile as that. Why work with you at all if that were the case?"

  "Because I get results. And the Commissioner likes me. Plus, I have his aunty over there—Jessie just waved at you, by the way. When he ge
ts too big for his boots, she usually cuts him down to size for me."

  "Friends in high places," he says, turning to gawk at the invisible if smiling Aunt Jessie.

  "You can't get higher in the NYPD." I smirk. "I admit, it amuses me."

  "That's because you like to make waves."

  "I don't need the psychoanalysis."

  "Might as well if we have an hour to kill."

  "You could always come back," I remark, my tone hopeful.

  "You could always offer me coffee," he counters.

  This time his brusqueness makes me smile rather than piss me off, like his earlier lack of finesse did. "That's not a part of my process."

  "With that accent of yours, I'd have thought you'd be a born hostess."

  "Southern born, but not bred."

  "As thick as it is, I'm even more surprised."

  I shrug. "Traveled around a lot, stayed close to the family. It's a twang. That's all."

  "If you say so." His tone is doubtful enough that it makes me glare.

  "What is it with you? Are you trying to rub me the wrong way?"

  Edwin settles back in his seat. "I prefer honest reactions. If being offensive ensures I get what I'm looking for, then that's what I do."

  "So being a jackass is your usual MO?"

  His grin does something to my insides, something dangerous, something new.

  The bitch of it is, the thoughts in my head revolve around wishing I'd had the time to take a shower. Being reminded I'm female and alive shouldn't piss me off as much as it does, but...

  These things never end well.

  That's something I need to remember if cocky grins and mobile eyebrows are all it takes to bring my vanity to life. For me, attraction is a dangerous thing.

  Chapter Two

  Drake

  Obsessions can be dangerous things.

  In my practice, I've seen the trauma they cause, the fear, and anger.

  Yet, here I am. Sitting in Jason Ventura's office.

  When David died, the notion of visiting her immediately came to me. A patient, unable to deal with her sister's passing, had visited the psychic, and in our session, had mentioned her. That same day, Ventura had been on the news.

  Standing in front of a courtroom deep in the Mississippi heartland, the wind making her hair sway with the breeze, her clothes flutter against her supple form...she'd caught my attention.

  I'm a red-blooded man. Hell, I'm not perfect, and Jason—terrible name aside—is an attractive woman.

  But, there's something else.

  Something I can't understand. And when David died, the address my patient gave me started burning a hole in my pocket.

  I conceded defeat this morning. Mostly out of grief, not out of this odd need I had to finally meet the psychic taking the country by storm.

  She's less than I expected, but at the same time, more.

  In sweaty sweats, bedhead, and what looks like PB&J stains on her T-shirt—at least, I hope it's peanut butter—she's anything but polished. And yet...

  Her eyes. Gray, crystalline. White at the heart, before it surrenders to piercing black.

  There's grief there. Sorrow and pain. Weariness, fatigue.

  She doesn't glow with her gifts. She's drained by them.

  In a strong wind, she looks like one good gust could knock her down. Rather than get up, I can imagine her just lying there, staring up at the sky, studying the play of clouds, the burst of moisture as rain starts to fall. Uncaring that it's drenching her, the physical caress of the liquid soothing her in ways nothing else could.

  The notion has someone walking over my grave, as my Oma used to say. That weird involuntary shudder that has all the hairs on the back of your neck jerking to attention.

  The odd thing is, I feel like those hairs have been quivering with energy since I heard the name Jason Ventura in my practice.

  I grab hold of the armrests on my seat, and take a second to squeeze them. To gain a semblance of calm.

  I'm here for David. Then, I'm here to understand.

  "Does that mean you go out of your way to offend people?"

  Her return to our earlier conversation comes as a surprise. For the last ten minutes, she'd either been staring at me, a strange twist to her lips, or looking past me. The way her eyes had moved, flickering from side to side, told me she was watching something.

  Or someone.

  No one could replicate those tiny twitches of ocular muscle. She'd been watching something happening. Something involving movement. She hadn't been staring into space. Jason had been looking at the ghosts she said followed her about.

  Had Oma not been a batty old witch, the idea that I was sharing a room with one living woman and plenty of spirits might have spooked me.

  As it is, I'm just curious. And hopeful. I want to feel David here. In this room. I want to know he's with me, and more importantly, I want to say goodbye to him.

  "It's not that I try to be offensive, per se. I have some finesse because my job requires it. But for the most part, I opt for honesty, which does insult most people," I tell her, and for the first time in a long while, feel like I'm navigating a minefield.

  That I care what she thinks, after twenty minutes in her company, is more than disconcerting. It's unique.

  "The truth hurts."

  "It does. But only if we let it. Honesty is the best practice, in the long run, at least. The fewer tangled webs we have in our lives, the fewer calamities we bring upon our future selves."

  "That's an interesting way of looking at it."

  I shrug. "That's a part of my job."

  "The last shrink I went to was more interested in having me exorcised than understanding me. The dog collar got in the way of his just reasoning."

  Grimacing, I murmur, "I'm sorry you've had a negative experience with psychologists."

  "I think most people have."

  Her own bluntness switches my grimace to a smile. "I see you don't mind packing your punches, either."

  When she smiles back at me, white teeth gleam from between a set of lips that make a rose's petals look coarse. She's not acting the coquette, nor is she dressed in any conceivable fashion to entice, yet... she does.

  The slight twist to her upper left incisor, the faintly elongated right earlobe, the wickedly straight left eyebrow with a sharp tick as counterpoint on the right... the quirks are more attractive than the hottest pin up.

  My stomach twists at the sight of her. Literally wrenches.

  It's then I realize I do what I always do when I'm attracted to a woman—piss them off, make them hate me with my arrogance.

  Wanting to sigh at my own stupidity, I'm about to apologize when that right eyebrow of hers cocks up all of a sudden. "Kenna needs help?"

  My hand automatically jerks up to point at myself in indication. "Are you talking to me?"

  But she doesn't hear me. Her attention is focused on something else, one of those ghosts in her entourage obviously.

  "Why? She's never needed my help before," comes the suspicious retort.

  And suspicious is the right word. A full blown glare is being aimed at the center of the empty room.

  "She wants me to walk out on the Upper East Side dressed like a troll as punishment, doesn't she? Tell her I'll listen in the future."

  Jason's mouth curls into a sneer when she hears something she apparently doesn't like.

  "Tell her we'll be there in twenty minutes."

  When she nods at the bare room, I ask, "Is everything alright?"

  "Yes. I need to get changed."

  "Can't it wait?"

  She grunts. "Don't make me feel selfish. If someone spots me and takes a picture, it will be all over twitter and Facebook. Five minutes, that's all I need." Jason holds up a hand. "In fact, screw that, wait here. I don't have to answer to you."

  With a glare, she gets up and trudges out of the room. I peer over my shoulder at the space she was studying mere moments before and try to see what she just saw.
r />   But there's nothing.

  Empty space. Air.

  Not even a faint whisper of sound or a play of the light.

  Knowing that ghosts are here, in the room with me, makes it hit home that soon David will be, but I won't know he's there.

  I've preached enough about closure to understand its importance, so I'm praying this will be what I need to get my life back on track.

  The last few months since David died, I've been on autopilot.

  Like a robot, I've gone about my day but not really registered anything.

  Today, I'm registering stuff.

  The chance encounter with a patient, Patty Lisardi, as we clashed over the same cab—she's the woman who used Jason's services. The quick glance through the paper on the ride over, detailing a case where Jason had been pivotal to its success.

  Trouble comes in threes.

  Or maybe, in this case, it's salvation.

  I'm honest enough with myself to recognize a drowning man. Recognition hasn't been enough to act upon it though. Until today.

  Years of spouting crap about the grieving process being a hard, long and arduous path to peace, and my hypocrisy makes me wince. Without David, with his passing, and the way he died, drowning inadequately explains how I feel. Head under water, lungs burning, muscles writhing in agony...they're nothing to the wicked cramping around my heart.

  With my neck aching after gawking at the empty office for only God knows how long, I crank it back and ease the strain. Ignoring the tears that have started to burn, I use one hand to knuckle the moisture away.

  Tears don't help. Another trite remark I've made to countless patients over the years, and it's false.

  Does any advice I give have any practical aid?

  I'm starting to doubt it. Hell, I'm starting to doubt my own capabilities as a psychotherapist.

  Bustling sounds come from the hallway, thankfully jerking my attention from my unhelpful train of thought. I stand and head toward the noise, preferring Jason's acerbic company to the silence of being alone.

  Watching as she shrugs into a coat, I ask, "It's quite warm out, are you sure you need that?"

  "I think I know my own body temperature, thank you very much." Her comment is followed by her removing the coat, hanging it on a peg inside a closet door, and replacing it with a thick jacket.