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Surrounded by death, a man with a terrible gift reaches for life.
A horrific tragedy blasted open a door in young Michael O’Rourke’s mind—cursing him with the ability to talk with the Dead. Nearly two decades later, Michael has moved from victim to survivor, using his abilities to seek out those who would go unjudged.
With his gift, he talks to those who’ve died violently and seeks out their killers. Only once he’s found the murderer, can the victims be at rest. After his last case, the only thing he wants is peace and he hopes to find it in the small town of Mitchell, Indiana.
But something is horribly wrong—the dead are waiting for him there, as well.
Small town sheriff Daisy Crandall is frustrated. The murder investigation she’s leading is going nowhere, the few leads she’s had haven’t panned out. She needs a break—this case is personal and when a stranger arrives, turning up where he shouldn’t be, she’s suspicious. Finding out that he is more than what he appears to b, should shock her but doesn’t. The fact she’s highly attracted to him at the worst possible time is a hindrance.
Unfortunately, teaming up with Michael is the only way.
Now it’s a race against time before the killer destroys the life of his next victim…
This book has been previously published; but, has been expanded and revised.
Warning, this title contains the following: explicit sex, graphic language, violence Customer Ratings:
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Excerpt:
Too late. He was always too late. This was the story of his life. He came in after the horrors happened and tried to piece things back together again.
It was destroying him.
The tiny chiming of a bell over the door intruded on his brooding and he glanced up automatically before returning his attention back to the plate in front of him. It held no appeal for him, but he knew if he didn’t eat, he’d never rebuild the strength he had drained tracking down Watkins.
Energy crackled through the room as a cool breeze from the outdoors came gusting through the door just before it closed. Like static electricity, the energy danced down his skin, shocking him, sizzling under his flesh, bursting through his mind like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Slowly, he raised his eyes from the unappetizing food and found himself staring at a snug little backside covered in khaki as a woman boosted herself onto a stool at the café counter. Her hair was golden brown, caught in a thick braid that hung more than half way down her back. As he watched she shrugged out of the rather official looking jacket, Michael cursed the blood that was suddenly running hot through his veins.
This was a distraction that he didn’t want and didn’t need.
First the dark cloud that had taken hold of his mind and now all he could smell was the faint tropical fragrance that drifted from the woman’s hair and the soft vanilla of her skin.
And the purpose that filled her entire being. It was like she was walking around wrapped with neon, but only Mike could see it.
Anger.
Frustration.
Rage.
Bingo. The woman was all but a walking, talking cry for help and Mike just didn’t know if he could take any more on right now. Then he blew out a breath and muttered, “You can handle it. You always do.”
Rolling his eyes skyward, he thought silently, But it would be so nice to actually be able to have a relaxing vacation.
A soft, familiar voice echoed in his mind, “Then maybe you should try some remote cabin in Alaska. Might be a few less unsolved murders out in the middle of nowhere.”
Years of practice had taught him not to flinch, not to jump, not to even look directly at the man speaking to him. Nobody else would see him. He had been dead for twenty years. “How’s the afterlife, Lucas?” he asked dryly, arching a brow as he nonchalantly turned his gaze to stare at his brother.
“Ever the smart ass, Mikey.” A slow smile tugged up Lucas’ lips in a grin that haunted Michael’s sleep. “You know, you could move into one of those glacier caves. I bet not too many people have been murdered in one of those. You can get some peace there.”
Lucas’ face was forever young. Some movies painted ghosts as grisly images, but it had been Michael’s experience that a ghost was an echo of what the ghost remembered seeing in life. Lucas looked exactly as he had the last time he’d seen himself, standing in the bathroom, running his hands through his hair. Wavy brown hair, a little too long, blue eyes surrounded by spiky lashes that both of the brothers had inherited—and hated. Thin to the point of being bony, with big hands, big shoulders. Exactly as Michael had looked at that age. Mike had grown into his body—Lucas hadn’t been given the chance.
Forever young. Forever handsome.
“You’re becoming pretty damned moody, Mikey.”
A tiny smile lit his face. Nobody but Lucas had ever called him Mikey. And even though he had most likely passed the age where Mikey was an acceptable name, hearing it from Lucas was oddly comforting. Just like seeing him was comforting. But at the same time, Mike hated seeing him.
He interacted with ghosts on a regular basis and they only hung around the living for as long as they had. Once their business was finished, they passed on.
Lucas had been waiting for twenty years to finish his business and he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move on now, either.
“When are you going to move on, Luc?”
“When I make sure I keep a promise. Promise is a promise, Mike. I told you I’d make sure you were happy. That’s when I’ll move on.”
With a sigh, Michael shoved a hand through his hair. This was an old conversation, one they’d had a hundred times. “There is something wrong here.”
Lucas lifted one shoulder in a restless shrug. “I know. I felt it this morning. Young people. A lot of blood. Some old. Some fresh. But something is definitely not right in Smalltown America.”
Michael suspected the lady sitting on the stool in front of him had answers. He could see it in her weary, bitter eyes and the way she sat. Although she sat tall and straight with her shoulders pulled back, there was an invisible weight bearing down on her.
He didn’t need to see the shiny brass badge on her jacket to know what he was looking at.
Cop.
From under the fringe of his lashes, he sat back and studied her. It was there in the purposefulness of her walk, the way she held herself, in the tense frustration he felt rolling off of her. “Go ask her,” Lucas suggested.
“Stranger in town, asking if there’s something odd going on in her town. Oh, yes, excellent way to not attract attention.” Michael shot that idea down as he shoved the sandwich on his plate around.
“If you don’t eat that, you’re going to be sorry later.”
Michael curled up his lip and slowly lifted the sandwich, trying to tune his brother out as he bit into the pile of meat, cheese and bread. It had about as much flavor and appeal as a sawdust sandwich would, but he knew he needed it.
“That’s a good boy,” Lucas teased, reaching out to pat Michael’s head.
Michael felt the touch like a cool wind on his scalp. It didn’t bother him anymore when the dead touched him. But he still slid Lucas a look and silently said, “Fuck off, man.”
Lucas might be dead, but he was still Michael’s brother.
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