Page 2 of Mend My Soul (Shattered Hearts of Carolina Ghost Psychic Mystery Romance #2)

Chapter Two

________________

RAE LEE

What are you talking about? I think.

Saying it out loud would open another can of worms.

The haggard woman outside my window with a cleaning cloth gripped in her fist is the source of the ammonia smell. She knows I can see her because she swore to me before Anson got out of the car that she wouldn’t cause a problem.

I haven’t paid close attention to the images she keeps flashing at me. The order rotates, but it’s like she’s talking in circles and the projection won’t stop. A single-wide. Pinewood State. Ragweed. Someone sweeping away a hornet’s nest.

I wish she were as quiet as the cold man huddled by the building. Even if I can’t see him, he gives me the chills. The last person I sense comes and goes. They don’t belong here, and my best guess is they were a motorist who died on this road.

The woman is forty-ish. I have an awareness of her as a living person.

Her cheeks are full, and rings dig a groove in the fat finger on her left hand.

When people appear to me looking like this, it’s a sign her death was abrupt.

Her nondescript clothes prevent me from telling how long ago that was.

Whatever she wants to communicate is important to her.

But that’s almost always the case for anyone who sticks around after they’ve died—Angeline notwithstanding.

Anson’s former partner was killed in the line of duty. They’d started a romantic relationship before her death, but I don’t believe it’s the reason Angeline hasn’t crossed over. Her presence, though not meddlesome, is problematic for us.

It’s not an ideal strategy, but thinking about her knocks the other woman’s intrusive thoughts from my mind.

I’m not summoning her. Angeline has her usual haunts; Anson’s apartment, her mother Delores’s house, and the baseball field where her son Grant plays ball.

Even though she died a decorated detective, she won’t follow us on an investigation.

I use the slip of silence to continue to quiet my mind and figure out where I am.

Truthfully, I think human instinct is why I’m doing it.

Like if a kidnapper threw me into the back of a windowless van, I’d sift through everyplace I’ve driven, hoping to sort out what road I was on to increase the possibility I could tell the authorities where they could find me.

Anson and I got in the car about an hour ago. Despite the frequent tick-tick of the directional as Anson shifted between lanes, we took exactly one turn before he pulled the car into the gas station parking lot.

The sun was shining when we left home. Heat seeps through the windshield. I’m glad I rolled the window down or I’d suffocate.

Unlike the moldy cheese stench that the gas station Anson fills the car up at has on trash day, the scent is earthy with a pinch of spice.

Outside of the major cities, North Carolina is agricultural.

It smells like something is decomposing near where farmers raise hogs and chickens. We can’t be there.

I take a deep breath, trying to suss out if we’re west or south of Raleigh. The other option is east. But closer to the coast, the inlets reek of sulfur and algae. This air is too clean.

The woman shows me ragweed again. My nose tingles, and I sneeze.

Thanks for that, I want to say.

I pat around inside the center console for a tissue, finding a bumpy stack of fast food napkins. When I wipe my nose, I’m tempted to remove my mask. Am I surrounded by farm fields? Forest?

The longer I sit here, the more my experiment, dulling my sense of sight to see if it heightens my perception, annoys me.

At the onset, Anson was against blinding myself for any reason.

He’s a cop with his head on a swivel twenty-four seven.

So, I expected his reaction. I swore having my eyes covered was strictly for driving to a crime scene or meeting with another investigator.

He finally agreed doing it on the way prohibits me from jumping to conclusions and making assumptions about my environment before we get there.

However, Anson limited me to wearing the mask in his presence.

I went along with my boyfriend’s be-aware-of-your-surroundings speech because there were bound to be circumstances when he’d get out of the car.

Eventually, he’ll see the blackout mask has other benefits.

I haven’t quite gotten the nerve to suggest to my safety monitor that I wear the mask at home in bed… When we’re not asleep.

I sigh, bored, and wondering how much longer this pit stop will take.

Since I don’t know where we’re going, our conversations have been stilted.

The life we’re building together isn’t always this serious.

After this consultation, we’re actually on vacation.

Weirdly, though, Anson’s changed the subject whenever I’ve started talking about that.

He’d prefer I focus my energy on the meeting.

Another reason I’m ready to get there and get to work.

A woodpecker pecks, and I smile.

Forest.

The convenience store door swings open. Then the car door. I smell Anson’s cologne and hear the thunk of the metal travel mug into the cupholder, followed by the water bottle.

“Miss me?” The retractor for his seat belt zips, and he clicks it into place.

“Terribly.” I reach for the water bottle.

I’m not thirsty. I need something to fidget with, or else I’ll wring the skin off my hands soon.

Aside from being tight-lipped about who we’re meeting, I feel like Anson’s holding other cards close to his chest. We don’t keep secrets from one another.

Recognizing something is up is throwing me for a loop.

“How much further?”

“We’re almost there.”

Twenty minutes later, we turn off the main road.

I can feel the car sway as Anson attempts to avoid potholes.

Nevertheless, I bounce in my seat. The heat radiating through the windows dissipates.

I rub my arms, then fumble with the vent, flicking the air away from me.

When the car stops, I hear the crunch of earth underneath the tires.

“We’re here,” he tells me.

I lift the mask.

“Wait. Gimme a sense of what you think you know,” he instructs.

I sit back in the passenger seat, pulling together the clues I’ve collected along the way, venturing a guess

“The air smells like pine trees, and the last mile of road wasn’t well maintained. The car hasn’t slowed for traffic, so we can’t have gone as far as Charlotte—Wait, is that a boat?”

I hear an outboard motor and push up my mask.

We’re in an unpaved section of the parking lot for a boat ramp. There are empty boat trailers and a speedboat puttering in the clearing next to a concrete dock. The driver of the truck it’s launched from pulls the truck and trailer past us.

I turn to Anson. He’s got a lopsided grin on his face that says he’s proud of me. Although I relied on four of my five senses instead of any psychic abilities for what I got right. I could have blindfolded him, and he’d have come to the same conclusion.

Blindfolded. Hmm… I think, not for the first time, looking at my boyfriend.

His laugh lines mean he’s had a mostly good life.

The fine premature gray strands of hair mean his job as a police detective takes its toll.

He’s dressed in a collared shirt and khaki pants with a crisp crease that he ironed barefoot this morning, wearing tight boxer briefs, a St. Rita medal around his neck, and nothing else.

He also ironed my dress, earning bonus blow job points, because I’d rather scrub the floor with a toothbrush than iron.

I stuff my oversexed thoughts to the back of my mind. I can gawk at Anson at the hotel later on.

Getting out of the car, we’re met by a female agent.

Her auburn hair hangs over her shoulder in a braid.

Her ensemble is typical of law enforcement: a brownish-gray shirt and khaki pants with utility pockets.

She’s of average height, but bulky. Although I think the clothes detract from her true body type.

After a moment, I register the national parks patch embroidered on her sleeve.

“Anson Ames?” She reaches out to shake his hand.

“Agent Reed, nice to meet you. This is Rae Lee Chatham.”

“Rae Lee, call me Moira. I don’t know the correct protocol for this. Am I allowed to touch you?”

“Shaking hands won’t affect what I see and I promise I won’t read your mind.”

“Can you do that?” Moira grips my palm, laughing uncomfortably.

“Not at all... So, um, this is a pretty site. Are we going for a boat ride?”

“Unfortunately, no. Our victim was found nearby and ISB was hoping you could provide some insight?”

“I’ll try my best. Do you mind if I walk around a bit to get my bearings?”

“We’ll stay out of your way,” she agrees.

I’m drawn toward the boat launch. The speed boat I heard has moved downstream.

Water laps at the cement dock. I stand at the end.

My eyes scan the opposite side of the reservoir.

This is a busy place and I feel motion all around me; laughter and the lingering frustration of boaters angry that something has gone wrong with their boat during their day on the water.

The problem is, that’s the only negativity I sense. Any death is unaccompanied by trauma. When no particular scenario presents itself, I decide the residual energy is from fishermen whose families have scattered their ashes in the lake.

And that fills me with dread. Whomever Agent Moira Reed asked me to look for has moved on. I don’t get the faintest impression they were here. Not to mention, any normal person can deduce a large body of water likely means she’s investigating a drowning.

Unless the cops found the victim in the woods? But there’s really nowhere to hide a body near the parking lot. I’d also suspect Agent Reed would have more evidence if that were the case.

Then again, what I’ve gleaned about criminal cases comes from having a cop as a boyfriend.

Before we met, I had less than a handful of experiences working with detectives to solve cold cases.

In addition, I’d put to rest playing psychic medium for friends who wanted me to contact their loved ones who crossed over because it was affecting my health.

I sit, tucking my dress under my bottom, and dangling my feet off of the dock.

The water is a long way down. I picture myself with Layla.

My best friend and I are holding hands. We’re happy.

Joking around about jumping. She encourages me to take a leap.

When I do, I fall back into the water with my arms and legs stretched like a starfish.

I hit the water in a reverse belly flop.

I twist my shoulders, seeking a reprieve from the phantom sting that pushes me out of musing.

Invisible bugs skitter up my spine the way I get creeped out watching someone accidentally cutting off a finger in a gory movie.

Just because the deceased show me all manners of death doesn’t mean I enjoy it.

I straighten my back and adjust my sluggish hips. I’ve been stationary too long. Daydreaming isn’t an effective use of my time. It’s not why Agent Reed invited me here. If I don’t stand up and report back to her, she’ll think something is wrong.

Something is wrong.

Aside from the fact that I spent almost two hours blindfolded, it bothers me that there are no spirits lingering at this site.

Most law enforcement, even the ones who are cautiously optimistic when they contact Anson, are also skeptical of my abilities.

So going into this, I was worried that whoever we were meeting was already suspicious of me.

Except now I’m concerned about how not finding anything useful will affect Anson’s reputation.

I sigh deeply, like when I had pneumonia, and it was hard to breathe and get up to break the news that I uncovered zero clues to help solve the case.