Geordi comes back in with a large glass jar. He sets it next to the box and makes a show of unscrewing the metal lid before returning to his seat.
“Okay, James. Time to shit or get off the pot. What was the name of the woman you killed?”
Sue, the shade says, so soft I wonder if I’ve heard him right.
Sue Myhre. This time it’s louder, like saying her name has energized him. The woman’s ghost, who’s been little more than a shadow, is suddenly much clearer.
Bitch. I hated her. She wouldn’t fucking go out with me so I took her out, if you know what I mean.
The voice has even more force, the same signature I remember from the vision. James Smith was a bad person, and his shade carries all that evil energy. “Put him in the jar,” I say, startling all of us, myself included. The ghost nods her head in approval. “The global consciousness doesn’t need his bullshit.”
Brandon doesn’t look my way, though he moves his hand toward the jar, letting me know my words got through. “Last chance, Smith. How many people did you kill?”
More laughter, but before it ends, Brandon makes a quick toss and the light flies into the jar. The sound of the shade’s scream is cut off when he screws on the lid.
“There.” Brandon sits back, his posture softening. “You’ve got your name, and we’ve got him where we can find him if the police need more information.”
I try to imagine telling McGraw he can interview the murderer’s shade, now that it’s been raised by a necromancer. Shake my head.Nope. Not even.
“That was quite a performance.” Geordi reaches over to shake Brandon’s hand, then pins me to my seat with his gaze. “Now, I want to know how you came to have this vision in the first place.”
“I’m, uh, psychic.” Or the devil was talking to me. One or the other. I can barely drag air into my lungs.
“Psychic. Huh. You have many visions like this?”
My mouth is dryer than the desert sand. “Only this one.”
“Really?” He leans forward on his elbows. “What were you doing that brought on the vision?”
The air stops moving and the temperature rises. Some combination of heat and stress make sweat bead along my hairline. “Praying,” I say shortly.
Geordi’s eyes widen, like he can’t believe what I’ve said. “What would make you do that?”
I have to cough softly to clear my throat. “It’s how I was raised.”
“I see.” He nods, like whatever I’ve said makes sense. “We were probably all raised to mourn the dead, though. How was your upbringing different?”
I glance around. Everyone’s watching me, and I’m trapped by their curiosity and concern.Fuck. I literally cannot answer his question, and if I’m not very careful, this dude’s going to figure me out anyway, and then—I squeeze Damon’s arm again—I’m going to be so, so fucked.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Damon
This is it. Ezra’s body is rigid, a wild thing cornered. Whatever he’s been keeping from me is about to come out, and he really doesn’t want it to.
I don’t either. Anything he thinks is that bad can’t be good, and hell, I like the guy. I don’t want to learn some deep dark secret that makes me think less of him. I want him to trust me, to tell me things because he wants to.
Not because a trio of weirdos forces it out of him.
I scan the three of them. Micah’s curious, sure, but he’s got some sympathy in his gaze. Brandon’s neutral, though it’s not clear if he’s keeping his cards close or if he doesn’t much care. It’s their ringleader, Geordi, who isn’t going to let Ezra out of here without something more concrete thanprayer.
It’s Micah who asks the first question, though. “It’s more than mourning the dead, though, isn’t it?”
Ezra clasps his hands on the tabletop and doesn’t answer.
“It’s gotta be, or it wouldn’t have triggered a vision,” Geordi says.
Micah taps the tabletop, and for the first time I notice he’s wearing a sturdy gold band on the ring finger of his left hand.Huh. Married. He starts muttering about family traditions ofprayer, which distracts me from wondering what his wife—or husband—might be like.
