Haunted

2

Aurora Harper, named after Sleeping freaking Beauty—and if anyone dared call her by the awful name they’d soon get a personal introduction to the razor in her boot—sat “calmly” on her neighbor’s couch. He was peering at her, silent, waiting for her to answer his latest question.

Her tongue felt thick and unruly, unusable, and there was a lump growing in her throat, making it difficult for her to swallow. She hated talking about this, hated thinking about it, and would have given anything to slink away unnoticed, soon forgotten.

Thing was, Levi would not be forgetting her. After her grim announcement, he’d gone stiff and jarringly quiet, then had ushered her into his living room, gently pushed her onto the couch cushions and pulled a chair directly in front of her. He’d spent the next half hour drilling her for information.

She’d had no idea what to expect from him, had known only that he was the most rugged-looking man she’d ever seen. Oh, yeah, and every time she’d glanced in his direction he’d made her heart pound with an urge to fight him or to jump into his arms and hold on forever—she wasn’t yet sure which.

He had wide shoulders, muscled forearms and the hard, ridged stomach of an underwear model. Dressed as he was in black jogging shorts, she could see that he had scarred knees and calves. He was barefoot and his toes were strangely cute.

She forced her gaze up. Black hair shagged around a face honed in the violence of a boxing ring, or perhaps even the down-and-dirty streets, with still more scars crisscrossing on his forehead, his cheeks sharp and skirting the edge of lethal, and his nose slightly crooked from one too many breaks. A shadow of a beard covered his jaw.

He was just as bronzed up top as he was below, and she would guess his ancestry Egyptian. His eyes, though … they were the lightest green, emeralds plucked from a collector’s greatest treasure. Long black lashes framed those jewels, almost feminine in their prettiness.

Not the only thing pretty about him, she thought then. His lips were lush and pink, the kind her best friend and roommate Lana would “kill to have … all over me.”

And, okay, enough of that. Harper wasn’t here for a date, wasn’t sure she’d ever date again. The past few weeks, she could not tolerate even the thought of being touched. Maybe because every time she closed her eyes she felt phantom hands whisking over her, heard the laugh of a madman who enjoyed inflicting pain, and smelled the coppery tang of blood deep in her nostrils.

She could have written off the sensations as an overactive imagination, except … sometimes she fell asleep in one room and woke up in another. Sometimes she would be in her kitchen, or in her studio room painting, or anywhere, really, and would blink and find herself standing in a neighborhood she didn’t recognize.

The blackouts freaked her out, filled her with soul-shuddering panic, and each time she realized she was someplace new, her mind would paint her surroundings with blood, fill her ears with screams … such pain-drenched screams.

The only explanation that fit was that she’d witnessed a murder, but had suppressed the details. Suppressed until she painted, that is, the blurred images of horrors no one should ever have to bear taking shape and emerging unbidden. Either that, or crazy had razed the edges of her brain and she needed to be locked away for her own safety.

“Honey, I asked you a question and you need to answer it.”

The harshness of Levi’s voice jerked her out of her mind. Guess he was done calling her by her name and even the old-lady “ma’am,” and was now resorting to endearments that sounded more like curses.

“No,” she said, just to pick at him. “Not ‘honey.’ I told you. I’m Harper.”

One black brow arched into his hairline, and for a moment he appeared amused with her rather than accusatory. “Is that a first or last name?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah.”

She popped her jaw, finding strength in the familiarity of an irritation she’d never been able to shake. Her mother had named her after a fairy-tale princess and had expected Harper to mimic her namesake. Years of training in manners and deportment, followed by years of competing in a pageant circuit she’d despised, had nearly drained the fighting spirit out of her. Nearly. “Well, I’m not telling you the rest of my name.” He’d laugh; he’d tease her.

He shrugged those beautifully wide shoulders. “Easy enough to find out. A few calls, and boom.” He paused, clearly waiting for her to jump in.

“I will never willingly volunteer it, so you’ll just have to make those calls.”

A gleam of challenge entered those green, green eyes. “So be it.” He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned closer to her, the scents of minty toothpaste and pungent gun oil intensifying. Scents she really, really liked, if the flutter of her pulse points was any indication. “Let’s backtrack a bit. Tell me again what you think you’re painting.”

This was the third time he’d demanded that information, and she’d watched enough cop shows to know he was testing her, looking for any mistakes between her first and subsequent telling. If he found them, he could write her off as a liar.

“Shouldn’t you be taking notes?” she said, stalling.

“No.”

“You’ll forget—”

“I never forget.”

“Anything?”

“Not anything like this.”

How intriguing. “Really, because that’s—”

“Talk,” he barked.

His intensity gave her the strength to obey. “Okay.” She closed her eyes and forced the painting to the front of her mind. “There’s a cold metal slab, stainless steel, I think, and it’s splattered with dried b-blood. There are shackles at the top and bottom, holding a woman’s wrists and ankles, and those are also splattered. There are holes on the slab and floor … drains, I think, and they’re splattered, as well. There’s a man. He’s clutching a knife over the woman’s abdomen.” Every word caused her heart rate to quicken and little beads of sweat to dot her skin. Sweat, yet her blood had thickened with ice.

“Describe the man.”

“I can’t.” Her lashes fluttered open as a shudder rocked her. Nausea rolled through her stomach, a common occurrence these days. “I haven’t yet painted his face.” Wasn’t sure she wanted to see it. Even the thought of him made her want to hide under her covers and cry.

“What have you painted of him?”

“His lower body. His arms. Some of his chest.”

“And he’s wearing …?”

Good question. She’d been so focused on what was happening in the picture that she hadn’t paid any attention to the little details her mind had somehow caught. “A white button-up shirt and dark slacks.”

“Possibly a businessman, then. Gloves?”

“No.”

“Is he pale, tan, black, what?”

“Tan, though not as tan as you.”

“Okay, now describe the woman.”

“I can’t,” she repeated, a mere whisper. She flattened a hand over her stomach, hoping to ward off even a little of the sickness. “Not her face, I mean. She’s naked, and her skin is pale.”

“Does she have any birthmarks or scars?”

Harper licked her lips, pictured the female and shook her head. “If she does, I haven’t added them yet.”

His gaze sharpened on her, more intense than before and kind of, well, terrifying. This was not a guy to anger, or taunt, or even to play with. He would retaliate, no question. “How much of her have you painted?”

“All but the head.”

“Is she a brunette, blonde or redhead?”

“How would I—”

His pointed gaze explained for him.

“Oh. Uh, I don’t actually know. The bottom half of her is blocked by the man’s torso.”

“Is she alive or dead in the painting?”

“Dead, I think.” And probably happy to have escaped the pain.

Silence once again permeated the room, thick and oppressive, reminding her of exactly why she hadn’t wanted to come here. She’d known he would doubt her—as she sometimes doubted herself—or suspect her of playing a part in the murder.

Lana believed the woman was indeed real and Harper had stumbled upon the scene. As an employee of the Oklahoma City branch of After Moonrise, a company specializing in grisly murders and the spirits those murders sometimes left behind, she ought to know. But her belief stemmed not from the painting, but from the fact that there were two weeks neither Harper nor Lana could account for. Harper could have been trapped with the man and his victim, and somehow, miraculously, have managed to escape.

Her friend had showed the painting to her coworkers, but they hadn’t taken the case. Lana had even begged—which, in her case, meant she’d cracked heads around—and they’d finally given in and said they would look into it, but so far, they’d discovered nothing. If they’d even tried. Lana was doing everything she could on her own, but as someone used to dealing with spirits rather than bodies, this wasn’t her area of expertise.

So, when Lana heard a detective was living in their building, she had insisted Harper nut up and speak out.

This tormend you, she’d said in a Lithuanian accent that came and went with her moods. When she was happy, she sounded as American as Harper. When she was scared or angry, hello, the accent appeared, as thick as if she’d just stepped off the plane. So often now, she was sad, and at the time she’d been filled with so much sorrow over what Harper might have endured that her teeth had chattered. Let man help you. That girl … she deserve peace, rest. Please.

I can’t. He’ll suspect me of hurting her.

Maybe at first, but then he see the trut …. Please, do for her, for you, for … me.

Given the fact that Lana had spent every night of the past few weeks sobbing for the pain Harper suffered over the entire ordeal, well, Harper had been willing to do anything her friend asked, no matter the consequences to herself.

“Harper.” The curt bark of Levi’s voice jolted her out of her thoughts. “You with me?”

“Well, I am now,” she grumbled. “Do you have an inside voice?”

His lips twitched at the corners, hinting at an amusement he’d so rarely shown. That humor transformed his entire face. Those emerald eyes twinkled, little lines forming at the corners. His mouth softened, and his skin seemed to glow.

“Have you ever painted anything like this before?” he asked.

“No. I love painting people, but not like this. Never like this. Why does that matter?”

“Once, and it’s plausible you stumbled upon some kind of scene. Twice, and it’s more plausible your mind manufactured everything.”

Okay, that made sense. “Well, it was only once. And just so you know, I can’t see the dead, so it wasn’t a bunch of spirits putting on a show for me, either.” She wasn’t like Lana, who had always had the ability to see into that other realm.

“I’ll need to view your new painting, as well as a sample of your usual work,” Levi said.

“All right. The new one isn’t done, though. Obviously.”

His head tilted to the side, his study of her intensifying. “When did you begin painting it?”

“About two weeks ago.” She tried not to squirm or wring her fingers under such a probing stare—until she realized that his probing stare was a good thing. Criminals would not stand a chance against this man’s strength and ferocity. If her painting were a depiction of a real-life event, Levi would find out the identity of the man responsible and punish him. “Little by little, I’ve been filling in the details.”

Another bout of silence before he sighed. “Let’s switch gears for a minute. Forgetting the fact that you’ve never before painted anything like this, what makes you think this is a memory?”

Bottom line, she wasn’t ready for a stranger to know about her blackouts and to, perhaps, use them against her, yet neither was she ready to lie to a man who could have kicked her out but hadn’t. He’d listened to her, had asked her questions and truly seemed interested in helping her.

So, she said, “I’m struck by moments of absolute terror,” and gazed down at her feet. Her pink snakeskin boots were one of her favorite possessions. She’d had to sell four paintings to buy them, as well as live off peanut butter and jelly for a month, but she’d never regretted the choice. So pretty. “Moments I can almost feel the shackles around my wrists and my ankles.”

“Delusions hold that same power,” he pointed out.

Don’t act surprised, you knew it would come to this. And better this than the other avenue he could have taken: blame. “Well, I hope it is a delusion,” she whispered.

“Me, too, Miss … Harper?”

“Just Harper.” She would not be tricked into revealing her full name, thank you.

“Had to try,” he said with a shrug. “What if you discover you were the one on that table, that you somehow escaped but repressed what happened?”

“Impossible. I was only gone—” She pressed her lips together, stopping her hasty confession before it could fully emerge. “I would have had bruises at some point, and I haven’t.”

He sat there a moment, silent again, before nodding as if he’d just made a decision. He pushed to his feet and stuck a finger in her face. “Stay there. Do not move. I’ll get dressed and we’ll walk to your apartment together. Nod if you understand.”

“And there’s that lovely attitude again,” she muttered.

“Nod.”

Oh, very well. She nodded.

“Good. Disobey, and I’ll cuff you faster than you can say, ‘I’m sorry, Levi, that was the dumbest thing I ever did.’” Without waiting for her reply—because he clearly didn’t expect her to have one—he turned on his heel and headed for the hall.

“Uh, just thought you should know that your gun is showing,” she called.

Just before he disappeared around a corner, she thought she heard him say, “Honey, you’re lucky you’re only seeing the butt of it.”

She wasn’t that bad. Was she?

Harper waited. The click of a closing door never sounded. Well, she wouldn’t let that stop her; she stood with every intention of walking around his place and checking out his things.

Maybe she was that bad.

“I told you not to move,” Levi called with more than a hint of annoyance.

He’d heard the quiet swish of her clothes? “Tell me you don’t talk to your girlfriend with that tone.” The moment her words registered in her head, she groaned. Basically, she’d just asked him to marry her and have a million babies.

“No girlfriend.” A tension-ripened pause. “You?”

“Nope, no girlfriend, either.” The jest served a dual purpose. One, lightening the mood, and two, discovering whether or not he cared to know her lack-of-boyfriend status. If he pushed for more info, he might just be as fascinated by her as she was by him.

And she was, wasn’t she? Fascinated by this rough-and-gruff detective with the jewel-toned eyes. Thought you weren’t interested in dating anyone. She wasn’t. Right? She hadn’t taken one look at a grumpy cop and changed her mind, right?

“Boyfriend?” Levi barked out, and she nearly grinned.

You’re in trouble, girl. “Nope, no boyfriend.”

She scanned his walls. There were no photographs, no artwork, nothing hanging anywhere to inform her of his tastes so that she could peel back the curtain surrounding his life and reveal the man he was with others, when he was relaxed. Did he ever relax, though? Probably not. Judging by his perma-frown, it would take a miracle.

“Your decorating … did you decide to go with Minimal Chic?”

Stomping footsteps echoed, and then he was there, in front of her again, tall and dark and ruggedly delicious, an erotic dream come to life in a black T and black slacks.

She’d bet his gun was still at his back. He was a warrior, a protector. A danger. Sweet heaven, but she had to paint him, she decided. He wasn’t handsome in the classic sense, but, oh, he was so much more. He was interesting.

She’d always favored interesting.

“We’re not discussing my decorating,” he said.

“You mean your lack of decorating.”

“Whatever. Lead the way.”

“So you can stare at my butt?” Sometimes her tongue got the better of her, and now was definitely one of those times. There was no way he could respond to that without—

“Exactly.”

—making her sigh dreamily.

She was in big trouble. “I’m not interested in dating anyone, just so we’re clear.”

He glared down at her. “Good, because I was thinking about asking out your friend.”

Oh, ouch. Yet wasn’t that always the case? Men slobbered all over Lana like babies who’d just found fuzzy candy on the floor.

“Good!” she said with a huff. “Rude isn’t my type.” She turned, giving him her back, and marched out.

“But then I met you and changed my mind,” she thought she heard him grumble from behind her.

3

Harper was utterly baffled when Levi gave her painting a once-over, asked a single question, then turned and left her apartment. He did this after she’d overcome her urge to vomit and placed the wretched canvas—though perfectly painted—in the heart of her living room, just for his benefit. Sure he’d paused to eye Lana, as any man with a pulse would have done—and even some without, surely—but he hadn’t so much as called out a token “Don’t leave town.” Or even a very necessary “I’m on the case, no worries.”

The door slammed ominously behind him, echoing throughout the somewhat dilapidated two-bedroom apartment with plush furnishings Lana had restored with loving care, a hobby of hers. Their decorating style was Match Smatch. Every piece was an odd color and shape, and nothing harmonized.

Levi’s question played through her mind. “You said there was blood. Where is it?”

The answer was simple. Seeing the blood on the canvas freaked her out, so every morning, after her subconscious mind forced her to add it back, she erased it, leaving the walls pristine and clean.

“That has to be a record for you,” Lana said, her Lithuanian accent nonexistent because her darker emotions weren’t yet engaged.

Harper purposely kept her back to the gruesome scene of torture and death she had created and kept her gaze on her friend. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Had the painting disgusted Detective Snarls? Was he even then searching for his handcuffs, intending to take Harper into lockup? No. No way. He would have dragged her with him, not allowing her out of his sight. He wasn’t the type to cross his fingers and hope she stayed put. Even when he’d left her alone in his living room, he’d kept his bedroom door open so that he could hear her movements.