The Darkest Frost, Volume 1 of a 2-part serial (EXCERPT)

CHAPTER 2

-12 Hours Earlier-

THE FROST ESTATE

DEARBORNE, MARYLAND

Denieve

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As a psychic detective, I've had some of the most bizarre, if not bugnut crazy telepathic episodes. Like the time I experienced a migraine and an orgasm while doing a reading on a serial killer.

Twenty-six-year-old Ellen Neal's hatred for men resulted in ten brutal murders, all of which followed the same sadistic pattern- - -except for the last one. That victim she actually slept with. But after the man dozed off, sweaty and sated, she bashed his brains in with a paperweight. Jacked him up so bad, the funeral director insisted on a closed casket.

I worked the case in an unofficial capacity- - -read: off-the-books-so none of my telepathic observations could be used as evidence, but I did point the cops in Neal's direction. Turned out my instincts were right. The woman was a straight-up nutbag.

With an angel's face and a cheerleader's smile, Neal was sweetness and light personified, but her emotions painted a much darker picture. Namely, the skull-numbing headache-orgasm I had the first time she viewed the coroner's grizzly photos. The pleasure-pain combo hit me the second she touched them. What a terror that was. I suffered in silence while she secretly revelled in the memory of the sex and the kill. No question, she was guilty as hell, but it took a hidden bloody toe print and two pubic hairs before the cops could indict her.

Neal is currently sitting on death row in Muncy, Pennsylvania.

Whenever I read people's emotions, auras come to me through one or more of the five senses, but I can't control the form they take. Some days, I see visions or smell odors. Other times I taste or feel something, and on rare occasions, I even hear music and voices. Then there's the bizarro variety, like what happened during the Ellen Neal circus. Overall, my accuracy stands at about 89 percent, a success rate I hoped would carry me through my latest case, the most challenging of my career.

The death and possible murder of Caryn Gilson.

"Danielle!" Angela Pierce gushed from Frost's doorway. "Wonderful to see you again."

Despite all my preparations, the fake name still sounded foreign. I stepped into character and feigned a smile. "Good morning, Ms. Pierce."

Tall, beautiful, and impeccably dressed, Braeden Frost's thirty-something personal assistant had a Grace Kellyish air about her. Not a coiffed hair lay out of place. Not a cream-colored thread dangled from her sleeveless cowl-neck dress.

As always, I gave Ms. Pierce a psychic once-over- - -what I called a Reading, and her results were the same as the last time. Truth and sincerity had no telepathic signature, so I didn't detect anything, save the tuberose, jasmine, and myrrh in her perfume. She'd only radiated positive vibes since I answered her ad six weeks ago. That's why I was reasonably certain she had nothing to do with Caryn's death.

Ms. Pierce gestured toward the three suitcases at my feet. "Is this everything?"

I didn't glance down. "I have a couple others, but I'll come back for them."

My surveillance equipment would keep until later- - -when I could sneak it in. For now, my luggage lent the proper illusion- - -that I'd be staying for the duration of our six-month contract.