And he was so angry because…
Because he had known Leslie. And he hadn’t believed in her at first, when she claimed to talk to the dead. But she had been legit.
And this girl sure as hell wasn’t.
He opened his eyes. He wasn’t at home, but he already knew that. He was at Genevieve’s. She hadn’t let him take a cab; she’d insisted he stay on her couch. Lacking both the will and the physical coordination to find a cab willing to go to Brooklyn at that hour, he had shrugged and agreed. And fallen asleep. Or passed out. One or the other.
He’d been doing all right last night, considering what he’d gone through with Leslie and her ability to commune with the dead, until that damned psychic had shown up on television. And then he’d started calling for the beers hard and fast.
Now, of course, he was ashamed of himself. Only cowards drank because they’d been spooked. And what a fool he’d been, besides. As far as talking to a dead man went, there was surely a logical explanation for what had happened. One, maybe the EMT had simply been wrong and Brookfield hadn’t died on impact. Or maybe, as Freud might have suggested, Joe had created the man’s voice as a tool to tell him to look for survivors in the car. There. That made sense—so long as he didn’t think about the fact that his inner voice had known the girl’s name.
And the fact that Lori Star was an annoying fraud seeking the spotlight. Well, hell, that made sense, too. She was just trying to get work.
So here he was, having had way too much to drink, sleeping on Gen’s sofa. It was a nice one, too. Antique, but restuffed and reupholstered. She loved things that were old and had a story. She and Leslie would have been great friends.
The thought made him wince and shut his eyes.
When he opened his eyes again, his face lined with tension, she was there.
Gen, not Leslie.
Thank God he was seeing the living, at least.
That caused a moment’s guilt to trickle down his spine. Leslie…I would love to see you. Your face…
But that wasn’t really true. He didn’t want to see ghosts.
No problem. This was Gen in front of him, and she didn’t seem to be judging him for his night of imbibing, even if she probably didn’t understand it.
He didn’t intend to explain.
Let her think that it was because he had been a witness to such an awful accident, or because he could have died when the car blew up.
“Good morning,” she said gravely, handing him a glass and a couple of aspirin.
He looked at her, arching a brow.
“Trust me,” she said. “They work for a hangover.” She shrugged. “And no, I don’t spend my life fighting hangovers. A lot of people thought I’d wind up on drugs or alcohol after the kidnapping, and this was a tip my doctor gave me.”
“Thanks,” he said briefly, swallowing the pills with the glass of water she’d provided.
He didn’t really want to look at Gen. He felt too much like the dregs of humanity to want to face her.
There wasn’t anything not to like about her, of course. Genetics had made her beautiful—Eileen, at forty-plus could still turn heads. Gen had the same perfect features, perfect skin and more-than-perfect build. She had rich auburn hair that looked more lustrous than silk and more wicked than sin. And her eyes…
Just saying they were blue didn’t do them justice. They were the blue of the infinite sky, the blue of the deepest sea. Blue that could hint at darkness, blue that spoke of wisdom, even though she was only twenty-odd years old.
They were eyes that had seen a lot. The child of privilege, she had wanted to help those who hadn’t been born with silver spoons in their mouths. She hadn’t jetted around the globe, hobnobbing with the rich and useless. She had gone to school, gotten a degree and gone into social work.
She had survived for weeks in the underground lair of a psychotic killer.
She was strong. She was…
She was alive because Leslie had taken the bullet meant for her.
He pushed that thought from his mind. Genevieve sure as hell hadn’t wanted that to happen, and he knew it. And Leslie had been gone nearly a year now. He liked to think that she was back with Matt, at last, but he didn’t really believe it. He could have sworn that he had once seen them together on a little rise in the cemetery where they were both buried.
Again, Freud would have helped him out.
He had seen them there because he wanted to see them there.
“You should feel better soon,” Gen told him, breaking into his morose thoughts.
Better than he deserved, she might have said.
But of course, she didn’t.
He leaned back, studying her. She was already up and showered, smelling both fresh and subtly exotic, rich tendrils of her amazing hair curling over the casual black sweater she was wearing over jeans. He noticed her hands—delicate, refined, manicured, but not fussily so; she kept her nails filed and polished, but at a reasonable length. And she wasn’t encrusted with jewels; she wore a simple claddagh ring on her left middle finger, gold studs in her ears and a plain cross around her neck.
She could easily have covered herself in furs and diamonds. Instead, she didn’t even buy designer sunglasses; he knew because she had laughingly told him once that she seemed to lose a pair a week, so it made sense to buy them off the street vendors.
And in fact, she knew the streets.
Once upon a time she hadn’t been regularly recognized. Despite her family’s wealth, she’d kept far from the public eye and worked for a pittance helping to get prostitutes off the streets.
What the hell was not to like about her? he asked himself silently, wondering why the question left him feeling so irritable.
“I’m all right,” he said gruffly.
She grinned, looking away. “Right. Real men don’t get loaded on too much beer.”
He groaned aloud and started to rise.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “Look, I know that what you saw must have been really terrible. I can’t even imagine,” she assured him.
Couldn’t she? he wondered.
Dead was dead.
Did it matter if death came with gallons of blood, mangled steel and mangled flesh? Or a neat little bullet hole that left a person looking as if she were at peace, merely sleeping.
She had seen enough, he thought.
And she had somehow risen above it all.
He felt even more like a lout, if that were possible.
“You have every right,” he agreed.
“That woman was a jerk,” she said. “Lori Star? I doubt it. I don’t know where she was getting her information, but I’m sure she’s not in touch with helpful spirits or anything like that.”
The way Genevieve looked at him, he knew that she was thinking about Leslie, too. She had known that her kidnapper had been determined to kill Leslie; she’d been at the top of his list.
Because Leslie had known things. She had seen things. He wasn’t certain that psychic was the word to describe her, but whatever she’d been, she’d been for real.
He waved a hand in the air. “Hey, I was a horse’s ass last night, and it was inexcusable,” he said.
“No, once you weren’t so angry, you were kind of cute.”
Kind of cute? Great. Just what he’d always wanted to be. A kind-of-cute drunk.
“Well, thanks for your forgiveness. And your couch.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“I need to get going.”
“Joe, there’s a meeting tonight,” she informed him, her eyes somber.
“A meeting?” Heaven help him, did she think he needed AA?
“Of the—the Ravens.”
He looked at her quizzically. “On Saturday night? Date night?” His tone was mocking; he was stalling her, he knew. “Must be a wild bunch,” he said.
“Joe, we’re going.”
“No.”
“Joe, you promised last night that—”
He lifted a hand. Damn, she was persistent.
“I said I’d take the case,” he told her. “And I’ll go to the meeting. But you aren’t going.”
“Of course I am!” she said indignantly.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Genevieve—”
“My mother is going to be there, Joe. There’s no way I’m not going to be there, too.”
He fell silent. What the hell was the matter with these people? If they all believed that Thorne Bigelow had been killed because he was a Raven, wouldn’t anyone sane think that perhaps they shouldn’t meet until the killer had been apprehended?
“It’s just stupid for them to be meeting,” he snapped.
“Stupid or not, it’s happening,” Genevieve said. “Besides, you’re the one who said that the whole Poe thing is a smoke screen.”
“I said it could be a smoke screen.”
“That…woman said that another Raven would be dead in a matter of days.”
“Gen…” He winced, lowering his head. He wasn’t sure if he was feeling the temple-pounding headache of a killer hangover, or a sense of mixed anger and dread. Gen was surely the most stubborn human being he’d ever met. She was like pit bull on behalf of the underdog or any cause she believed in. She rushed in where the sane wouldn’t go.
But he wasn’t angry with her, only upset that people liked to play so casually with the fears of others by claiming to know the future.
He lifted his chin, eyes on fire, and pointed a finger at her. “I said I’d take the case, and I will. But you’ll listen to me.”
“I always listen to you, Joe,” she said softly. That unnerved him.
Oh, yeah, she listened, in a perfect case of point noted—and rejected.
“Joe, honestly, I have to go tonight.”
“And you think the Ravens are just going to discuss some favorite masterpiece by Poe?”
She shrugged. “I’m sure they’ll talk about the murder.”
“We’re not members. Are you sure they’ll let us in?”
