He dropped his hand. “Do I gotta be dead, Max, before you trust me?”
She hissed in a breath. “Low blow, Detective.” It didn’t hurt. It really didn’t. He was right. She trusted Cameron with things she wouldn’t tell a living soul. Let alone Witt.
Witt shook his head. “Don’t wanna fight, okay. Let the case alone for now. We’ll figure out the phone sex angle later.”
“And you’ll somehow lead your detective friends in the right direction without involving me? How chivalrous.” Her tone was snide—she hated being left out—but there was something so damn sweet about the way he tried to protect her.
He smiled, one sexy dimple appearing. She’d been forgiven. “I resemble that remark.”
God, he did. Dudley Do-Right of the Royal Canadian Mounties. Damned if she wasn’t his little Nell. Perpetually out of his reach through no fault of his own.
She tugged on the knot of his red tie, a singularly intimate gesture. She wondered if he knew that or if, like most men, he was oblivious to a woman’s odd signals.
“What are you doing, Max?” Suspicion narrowed his eyes.
She eyed the little waif now talking with Harmon by the drive gate. Staking a claim, that’s what she was doing. Making sure little Miss Stick, Harmon, and the small crowd by the fence didn’t mistake their relationship. He’s mine, mine, mine, mine—
God, she was hungry, starving, dying for one of those Sara Lee’s Raspberry Cheesecake Bites.
There she was again. The dead woman. Wheedling her way into Max’s subconscious, giving her strange thoughts she’d never have on her own in a million years, and making her feel emotions that simply were not her own.
A chill scraped across Max’s scalp. She stepped back, stared at Witt. She was skirting the hairy edge of a relationship she really wasn’t ready to handle. And dreaming about food as if it was somehow better than sex.
She stared at the gaping door of the house. “No way. Not again. Not this time.”
Witt’s brows pulled together. “What?”
Didn’t he know? Couldn’t he tell? Wasn’t it obvious?
Max was possessed.
Again.
Chapter Three
The whole possession thing was happening again. Max knew it. Psychic emanations oozed from the house. A supernatural bond with a dead woman stole out to stake its claim on her.
“I have to get out of here.” Or go stark raving mad. “I’ll wait in the car. Didn’t you tell me that’s what I was supposed to do anyway?” she said, hoping compliance would sidetrack Witt.
She backed away from him toward the gate in the picket fence. His eyes tracked her as if she’d grown a second head. Once at the gate, she pushed through the knot of crime-scene gazers, pulled the door of the Miata open and flopped down in the seat. Thank God she’d put the top up before Witt arrived. She didn’t have time to deal with the damn thing now.
Starting the car, she rammed it into reverse and pulled three car lengths away from the cruiser. Parked once more, she turned the engine off, and looked up. The blue-haired lady’s eyes had followed her, and a hint of a smile crossed her lips. She plucked at the folds of her flower-print dress, the silver-blue petals matching the color of her hair. Max received the air waves between them as if she were a fortune teller reading tea leaves. Mrs. Blue’s life story seemed to be suddenly right there in Max’s head. The woman wore polyester for durability and cost, machine washable, lasted forever, and she lived in one of these small, modest homes with exceptionally neat lawns. She’d raised her child here, survived her husband’s death, and now watched Maury Povich religiously.
Still looking at Max, the woman gave a tentative wave before turning back to the spectacle. Max didn’t even begin to wonder how she knew all that about the woman, nor did she doubt her assessment was correct. This “sensing” had happened before. She knew things about people, the soul-deep stuff that a person kept hidden, sometimes even from themselves. Max somehow tapped into the knowledge even without trying.
Strange psychic things like that had started when Cameron was killed two years ago, the incidents increasing exponentially over the last few weeks. As if Max were racing toward ... something. She hadn’t a clue as to what.
Harmon had the yellow crime-scene tape out. A tan sedan, a twin of Witt’s, pulled in. Another black-and-white arrived with two officers. They pushed the crowd back with easy authority.