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But would his luck last?

The first time he’d woken up enough to have a coherent thought, he’d wondered if he was actually alive and if he would stay that way. Just because the Time Thief hadn’t killed anyone so far didn’t mean he wouldn’t start.

Nolan didn’t want to die. He just wanted to do bigger stories. To move to a larger market and report the sort of stories that made a difference.

The prick of a needle made him jerk.

“Wait! Talk to me.” The words sounded sluggish. Drunken. “Let me tell your story,” he managed, before the creep of darkness overtook his ability to get the words out.

Laughter echoed in the space around him, but Nolan couldn’t respond ... he barely hung on to a shard of consciousness.

“Not to worry, Mr. Baker.”

The words jolted him, but Nolan still couldn’t open his eyes or make his mouth work.

“Youare the story.”

13

Thursday, March 6Boyett FarmGood Hollow Road, Fayetteville, 6:30 a.m.

Vera stood in the shower until the water started to cool.

Dragging herself from the bed this morning had required enormous effort. Although she was confident the whiskey had helped her go to sleep and stay that way, she wasn’t sure the resulting hangover was worth it.

Her head felt stuffed with cotton, and that distant ache suggested it was only going to get worse.

She shut off the water and climbed out. Moving slowly to avoid contributing to the nausea threatening, she used the towel to squeeze and rub her hair partially dry, then swab the dampness from her body before hanging the towel over the side of the tub.

The steamy air in the room made breathing even more difficult. Never again would she drink like that on an empty stomach.

She walked to the sink and reached for her hairbrush. Her gaze snagged on the fogged mirror. Words were written on the steamy glass.

I’ve missed you, Detective

Vera stared at the mirror, squeezed her eyes shut, and then looked again just to make sure she hadn’t imagined the words staring back ather. She squeezed her eyes shut once more.Not possible.If she was lucky, it was a hangover hallucination.

But it wasn’t ... the words were still there. Her heart thumped harder and harder.

Her first instinct was to reach out and smear them away, but the deeply rooted cop training wouldn’t allow the move.

This was the Messenger’s MO. His wording ... but that was impossible.

Where the hell was her cell phone?

Her mind replayed her movements after dragging out of bed ... the window. Closing the door behind her to hold in the heat and steam, she rushed back to her room and grabbed the phone from the window ledge where she’d left it last night.

“Don’t be dead,” she muttered.

Five percent.Thank God.

She hurried back to the bathroom and snapped a photo of the mirror. Luckily, the foggy glass around the words kept her reflection from the photo. Having Bent or anyone else see her bare breasts was ...

“Stop.” She grabbed her towel and hurried back to her room. She stuck the charging cord into her phone, left it on the bedside table and went in search of clothes. Her usual fare. Jeans. Tee and sweatshirt. She tossed the items onto the unmade bed and dug for underthings. As quickly as possible she dried her body and dressed.

She sat down on the bed, and while she dragged on her socks, she called Bent.

“Morning, Vee.”