Spooky Business Read online

  “Sit,” the blond one barked, pushing a bristly Kane back down in the chair.

  They started securing him for proper transport. I stayed to remind him which of us was in control, and which one of us had to be restrained like a dangerous animal. From the color high in his cheeks and the resentment rolling off him like skunk fumes, he got the message. I didn’t let my guard down until they shuffled him out.

  The tiny room suddenly seemed cathedral grand without his looming presence and threatening energy. “Christ,” I muttered.

  Bee made a sound of displeasure. “Thomas Kane is not a man to be trifled with. He would’ve killed you, you know.”

  My legs felt like cooked spaghetti. I leaned against the wall heavily, letting out a long breath like a deflated balloon. “I know.”

  *

  I used my short break to hit the head and then made a beeline for the vending machines. By the time I tossed my trash and went back to the interview room, Kane was already seated again, the two COs standing behind him with matching bored expressions.

  I stood there with my arms folded, staring at him through the double-paned glass. Once again, I had to reestablish my dominance by making him wait. I wasn’t a man who enjoyed playing games, and the power struggle between us was abrasive as the tag in a cheap shirt.

  A door down the hall buzzed open, and the rhythmic click of hard shoes on the tile sounded as someone approached. I didn’t turn, mostly because I knew exactly who it was. Graycie had been stalking me since Kane requested the interview, excited as a kid with a suitcase full of Skittles. He’d left me three text messages with emojis before I even arrived at the prison—this from a man who thought a smile and a frown used too many muscles.

  He stopped beside me, and I turned slightly. He looked dapper and refreshed in a dove-gray suit and pink silk tie. His salt-and-pepper beard was neatly clipped, and he smelled good, like something woodsy.

  I looked just as fresh and crisp… four hours ago. Now I was a wrinkled mess, the sleeves of my custom-tailored shirt sloppily rolled to my elbows and my tie askew. I’d run my hands through my hair about a zillion times, and the sharp creases my pants sported earlier were but a distant memory.

  Graycie didn’t seem to mind. He gave me a once-over so thorough, I was tempted to request sexual harassment forms from HR. I narrowed my eyes at him, which he seemed to find amusing. “Something I can help you with?” I asked tartly.

  “Nope.” He smiled. “How’re things going in there?”

  “Splendid. We’re thinking about buying a timeshare together.”

  “You knew he’d be a tough nut to crack.”

  “Tough nut?” I snorted. “Is that what we’re coining that sociopath?”

  “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to talk to that particular sociopath?” He stabbed a finger at the glass where Kane stared impassively in our general direction. “This is the baseline of our work, Christiansen. We talk to people like Kane to understand what makes them tick. That knowledge helps us interpret and develop data to find the next serial killer, and the next.”

  He was preaching to the choir—I’d dedicated most of my career to that concept. I stretched until my neck popped and then dropped my arms with a sigh. “I know we were operating under the impression that he killed his wife, but he denies it.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “It’s hard to know what I believe right now.”

  “What about the copycat murders? Did he give you anything?”

  “Not really.”

  Graycie grunted. “I need you to meet with him a few more times.”

  I sighed because I’d known that was coming. “Despite my better judgment, that is the plan.”

  “Tell me something, and be honest with me here.” Graycie tilted his head slightly. “Do you ever miss any of this?”

  “Having a serial killer try my patience in the worst of ways? Then threaten to take off my head and put it on the table as a party favor?”

  “This.” He gestured to encompass both of us. “Working with the Bureau and people who respect your talents.”

  “Our last interaction was you firing my ass and telling me to get out of your office.”

  He folded his arms, his jaw set stubbornly. “That was not our last interaction, Christiansen. We’ve been interacting pleasantly for over a year.”

  “That’s certainly putting an interesting spin on our relationship.”

  “And I didn’t fire you. I gave you choices, and you made a decision.” He was quiet for a few beats. “How’re things with the PTU?”

  “Great.”

  “And your Detective? McNally? How is everything there?”

  He knew damn well that wasn’t Danny’s last name. He probably knew everything about Danny from his favorite type of cereal to what brand of underwear he wore. “Detective McKenna is just fine. And what’s with all the questions?”

  He shrugged. “I like to keep track of my assets.”

  “I’m not your asset, Grace,” I snapped. “The PTU is fine. Danny and I are fine, and that’s all you need to know.”

  “No need to get defensive. If you’re happy where you are, I’m happy for you.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a leather billfold. I knew exactly what it was and to whom it belonged. “Guess that means you wouldn’t have any interest in this.”

  I frowned down at the badge. “I already have a job.”

  “I know that. But it turns out I have some things at the FBI that could use… your special touch.”

  “I don’t know what that means, but it sounds pretty filthy,” I said primly. “Step off, Chester the Molester.”

  “FBI is in your blood, Christiansen. Tell me that I’m wrong.”

  In the interview room, one of the COs said something to Kane, and he said something back. From their expressions, the exchange wasn’t pleasant. The guard kicked the leg of the chair, and Kane jolted as it listed forward. The CO’s hand hovered above the nightstick in his belt.

  “Idiots,” I murmured. “I’d better get in there before they rile him up too much.”

  “Don’t forget this,” Graycie said as he held out the shield.

  Feeling a bit like a proverbial Eve reaching for that taboo apple, I took it from his hand… or tried to. He held on, smoothly readjusting his grip so that his fingers slightly overlapped mine.

  Between him and Kane, I’d had enough of playing power games to last me a lifetime. I gritted my teeth and tugged it from his fingers. Then I stuck the shield in my back pocket. It weighed heavier than the detective shield in my other back pocket—one ass cheek betraying the other.

  “This doesn’t mean yes,” I informed him.

  “I never thought it did.”

  I answered his predatory smile with a dark scowl. “And just so you know, it’s customary to offer someone refreshments before you make a deal for their soul.”

  His smile grew. “I’ll certainly keep that in mind.”

  Chapter 2

  I drove home in the dark hours of the morning, fueled on coffee and Dr Pepper. Thanks to a lack of traffic, I made the four-hour commute from BCI in half that, pulling in the garage slightly after seven.

  I kicked off my shoes at the door and made my way to the bedroom on silent feet. I peeked in long enough to see Danny sleeping peacefully, sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed. I’d initially planned to join him, but my tactics to stay alert had backfired. I felt awake enough to run a marathon—not that I ever would, of course, because that shit is crazy—and I was way too amped to just crawl into bed and sleep.

  Instead, I took a long, hot shower and got dressed in my version of casual: black slacks and a navy button-down with the sleeves pushed to the elbows. Then, I headed into the kitchen in my dress socks.

  I made a beeline for the Keurig and made quick work of popping in one of my favorite pods and hitting the brew button. After that I clicked on the drop-down TV under the cabinets, channel surfing until I found an early morning news show
. The talking heads on TV bantered with one another in a way that was way too animated, and I turned the volume down a bit. My attention to the news was spotty at best, but it was just one more soothing ritual that let me know I was home.

  I leaned against the kitchen island, chin in hand, as I waited for the coffee to finish brewing. I was already dreading my next trip down to BCI. Kane had drawn out our meeting as long as humanly possible, mostly because he’d been in no hurry to get back in his cage.

  My day didn’t quite end there. I’d gone with Graycie to a nearby eatery to brief him on my time with Kane. The dark atmosphere of the sushi restaurant Graycie had recommended was a little less work and uncomfortably closer to date, but when I’d narrowed my eyes at him, he’d held up his hands and promised, “All business.”

  To my surprise, he kept his word. Apparently, his inappropriate fixation with screwing me on the nearest flat surface took a back seat to bringing me back into the fold… right into the loving arms of the Bureau. The same Bureau that called me crazy, forced me into therapy, and then told me to take a long hike in a dense forest.

  I wasn’t holding a grudge or anything, but my memory was longer than Rapunzel’s hair.

  The news anchors finally stopped chattering about a new diet craze and moved on to the weather. I sipped—gulped, really—my coffee as I pressed the volume button on the remote.

  “Hurricane Alberto is headed South Florida’s way late tonight or early tomorrow. If you haven’t stocked up or prepared by now, you may have a hard time finding necessities.” The reporter looked appropriately concerned as a clip played of empty store shelves, then she brightened again. “But what about that viral video of those dancing puppies? Billy, over to you.”

  I snorted as I carted my mug to the sink. I’d already experienced the apocalypse on the way home when I stopped at a grocery store. It had been a bit surreal walking down the empty aisles, almost as though every canned good had been vaporized—even the gross ones no one ever wanted. Batteries: gone. Bottled water: gone. Anything that could even be remotely helpful in a hurricane: gone.

  I wasn’t all that concerned about the mass exodus of perishables. Danny had already ordered enough water and canned chicken to survive a nuclear holocaust; being ready for any eventuality was kind of his thing. I felt some sort of obligation to contribute to his Temple of Overpreparation, so I grabbed the two lone cans of SPAM on the shelf and ferried them home. Now yes, my contribution was a gelatinous square of meat—maybe, it was meat-ish anyway—that kept its shape long after it left the can, but I’d done my part.

  As though I’d willed him to appear, Danny came into the kitchen yawning, clad only in a pair of worn, blue-checked pajama bottoms. His jaw was dark with stubble, his dark hair mussed and sticking up in the back. Before I could warn him, he stumbled into a box sitting next to the doorway and cursed.

  I refrained from commenting on how adorable he was when he first woke up and occupied myself by pouring him a cup of juice. Danny was generally a morning person, almost disgustingly so, but juice was a must for optimal function. “Good morning to you, too.”

  He squinted at me, those pretty blue eyes a little confused. “You’re here.”

  “I am,” I agreed.

  “I thought you were going to stay overnight and hit the road by eight. Barring any traffic delays, you’d probably be here by noon.”

  Those had been my exact fucking words to him. Danny’s memory was a real pain in the ass sometimes. “Change of plans,” I said, passing him the glass. He took it with a murmur of thanks. “I left you a message.”

  “How long have you been here? I didn’t even hear you come in.”

  “Mmm….” I checked my watch. “An hour or so? I guess I’m getting better at not waking you up when I get home.”

  “That’ll be fantastic, if you go missing. I’ll just tell the cops that I slept through the first forty-eight. You know, because you’re considerate,” he said dryly. “And when are you going to finish unpacking those boxes?”

  I’d had a little more stuff than I initially thought. Between emptying my apartment and my storage unit in DC, things had gotten a little hairy. So, now my stuff was in boxes all around the house, but at least they were in the right rooms, as indicated by the three boxes in the kitchen marked—you guessed it—kitchen. That was progress.

  “Soon,” I promised. I wasn’t fazed by the look he gave me. He could seem intimidating with those big muscles and the tattoos and the barbell eyebrow piercing, but I knew the truth—he was a big softie inside. Hard muscles on the outside, marshmallow goo on the inside…at least where I was concerned.

  I pretended not to notice him watching me over his juice glass. He was never all that happy with me doing favors for Graycie or the FBI in general. I couldn’t promise I was going to stop.

  “How’d your meeting with Kane go?” he finally asked.

  “I’d rather not relive it.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “You remember that serial killer in the nineties, the one who left various pieces of hitchhikers in rest stops along I-95?”

  “Yeah,” he said slowly.

  “Well, I’d kill to be working with him instead.”

  He snorted. “I think you’re stuck with the psycho you chose.”

  “He chose me,” I said indignantly. “I also might have promised Graycie to meet with Kane again. We only have a limited amount of time to find those bodies.”

  He eyed me some more. “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Did he expect me to cop to the FBI badge buried in my messenger bag? Or that I’d promised Kane we’d look for his long-lost wife, who he may or may not have already killed? Good grief. Coming from me, that level of honesty wouldn’t be refreshing; it would be downright disturbing.

  Something out the kitchen window caught my eye, and I got closer, squinting at my parents’ place next door. Their porch was surprisingly large, considering the size of the house, and my father was out there in shorts and sandals, abusing the patio furniture. His long brown hair was captured in a messy ponytail that trailed down his back. Even though he had a large balding spot at his crown, he had no intention of cutting it. Ever.

  “And just what the hell is he doing?” Even as I asked the purely rhetorical question, he jammed a dusty umbrella in the center hole of a wrought iron table. “He’s supposed to be putting away loose items for the storm, not dragging them out. He might as well paint ready for takeoff on the damned thing.”

  “Your parents wanted me to come over for breakfast. Now that you’re back early, I’m sure they’ll be expecting you, too.” Danny sipped his juice, clearly unperturbed. “And stop pretending you’re not getting the group texts.”

  I sighed. My fraternal twin, Skylar, had started that thread, even though I’d warned her that nothing good came of showing your parents how to use technology. Yesterday’s gem of a conversation had been a twenty-minute discussion between her and our mother about calculating someone’s soul number.

  I was still wondering if I could get away with blocking them.

  My father tried to jam the umbrella in the hole again, and I smothered a laugh. My parents had quietly bought the plot of land next door, which just proved that a For Sale sign could be a dangerous thing. So could six episodes of Tiny House Nation, which was all it took for my mother to decide tiny living was for her. In short order, my parents had a tiny house constructed, and then my mother stashed it in her purse. They unpacked it right next door to Danny’s house.

  Our house.

  We’d been living together for three months, and I was still getting used to referring to the place as ours. Ours, I repeated to myself. Ours, ours, ours. One of these days, it would sink in. Danny liked to remind me that while the house was undoubtedly ours, the people next door—the ones whose weed greenhouse outsized their actual home—were mine and mine alone.

  We watched my father in silence as he struggled to get the umbrella open. At some
point, I opened the window a crack and yelled out that we’d do it for him. Predictably, he yelled back that he had it under control.

  “Like father, like son,” Danny murmured.

  I shot him a look. Yes, I’d reassured him many times that I had my paranormal abilities under control. And yes, that was usually right before things spiraled out of control, but he couldn’t hold that over my head forever.

  Besides, Dakota Daydream, my questionably qualified spiritual therapist, said I was making excellent progress. Then again, he’d also said I made him long for an untraceable weapon. One thing canceled out the other, though, didn’t it?

  “Don’t start,” I said mildly. “I’m seeing Dakota, aren’t I?”

  “Are you doing everything he says?”

  Sort of. I hadn’t practiced turning my ghost channels up and down, or started daily meditation. I scratched my head. Nor had I tried any of the cleansing rituals he’d suggested. “Well, mostly,” I said.

  Danny’s mouth quirked. “At least you’re honest.”

  “And cute.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He laughed at my scowl. “I’m going to shower and get dressed. Oh, and I told your mother we’d bring a serving dish. Could you find one and wash it up?”

  He didn’t wait for a response as he headed for the bathroom. I looked balefully at the three boxes full of my kitchenware. The scrawled kitchen on the side of the cardboard no longer seemed quite so helpful. I spent the next twenty minutes—valuable minutes of my life that I would never get back—searching for a platter.

  By the time I washed and dried the dish, Danny was back, smelling of his utilitarian soap and dressed in black jeans and a soft black Henley. He hadn’t bothered to shave, and the dark stubble on that square jaw only made me remember how good that rasp felt against my skin in… places. That got me to thinking about how we hadn’t greeted one another properly yet, especially after a day and a half absence. I wasted no time pushing him up against the refrigerator, where I mauled him for an appropriate amount of time.