Bound by Blood (The Garner Witch Series) (4 page)

“What was what?” I said, feigning ignorance.

“Was there something going on in there between the two of you?”

“No. But something’s up with him.”

“Besides an erection?” He arched a brow.

“Morrison, be serious,” I scolded. “I get the feeling he’s hiding something.

“I agree,” he said “You go talk to his assistant and I’ll talk to the head of security. We’ll meet back here.”

“All right.”

According to Mr. Donovan’s assistant, Stacey, he had nothing scheduled the night of April 28
. So, on the night of at least one of the murders, he was at home alone with no one to corroborate the alibi.

Why was I disappointed?

Finally, we had a suspect, but for some reason I wanted him to be innocent. What the hell was I thinking? The man was obviously hiding something.

I sat and waited for Morrison to return. It was about twenty minutes later when I saw him approaching.

“I take it you found something,” I inferred from the boastful smile he was flashing.

“Yeah. I spoke to security. Turns out Nathan Donovan lives in the penthouse on the twentieth floor. To access it, you need a key to the elevator, and there’s a security log to account for all his comings and goings.”

“So, did you get the log?”

“No, the information’s been archived. I asked security to pull the log for Monday night to confirm the time he arrived home. Also, I asked for the log for April 28th and February 28th, the nights Leslie Harper and Sherri Marcone were murdered. They should have it by Friday for us.” He walked to the elevator and pushed the button. “Let’s head to the field office. Monica De Paulo is coming in for an interview.”

“She’s the friend who found Morganna last night? How close were they?”

“They’ve been best friends since college. If anyone would know what was going on with Morganna, it’ll be her.”

***

Driving home that evening, my mind felt like it was on autopilot. I made all the right turns, stopped at all stop signs—I hoped—and made it home in the fifteen minutes the ride should have taken. But I couldn’t remember any of it.

My mind kept returning to the questioning of Monica De Paulo. For the most part, she gave the same answers as the others. No, Morganna wasn’t seeing anyone. No, she hadn’t had any enemies. No, she didn’t have plans to go out Monday night. Apparently, Morganna Tate was a workaholic with almost no social life—another thing the two of us had in common. What I kept replaying in my mind was her answers to the questions about why Morganna was frightened.

“Miss De Paulo, why exactly did Morganna want to hire a body guard?” I remembered asking the question with my pen ready to jot down her answer.

“Someone was stalking her.” Her breath hitched, voice rough from crying.

“How can you be sure? There doesn’t seem to be any evidence to support that assumption.”

“Morganna knew.” She sniffled and dabbed the Kleenex under eyes.

“How did she know? Did she get phone calls...threats?”

“Nothing like that. She just knew.”

I continued to press for an answer. “I don’t understand, Monica. How
exactly
did Morganna know she was being stalked?”

She remained silent, but I could feel her emotions: A desperate need to keep her friend’s confidence, but also the need to help find her murderer and bring him to justice. She was tormented by the conflicting desires.

“Monica, if you know anything you should tell me—even the smallest, most insignificant details can help.”

“It’s just...you won’t believe me anyway.” She stared at me intently.

“Try me.”

She must have seen something in my expression, because after a minute of silence she finally admitted what she was hiding.

“Morganna was psychic.” She paused, waiting for my reaction. I remained silent, but heard Morrison shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I know you think it sounds crazy, but it’s true,” she implored me to believe her.

“She told you she was psychic?” The question sounded doubtful, but I had never been willing to share that information about myself with anyone. I had a hard time believing Morganna would have confided in her.

“Sort of. When we were in college something happened to convince me.”

“What was that?”

“I worked as a clerk in a convenience store. One night I was scheduled to work, but Morganna showed up asking me to go out partying with her. I said no, but she kept begging me. She wasn’t a party person and the whole thing was out of character for her. I knew there had to be a reason, so I hounded her until she told me. She finally admitted that she had a nightmare the night before.”

“A nightmare?” I repeated skeptically.

“I know, I brushed it off too. But she insisted she had a bad feeling, and that I couldn’t go to work that night. She was so desperate. I didn’t really believe her, but I agreed to call in sick to placate her. The next morning, I found out the person who covered my shift was robbed at gunpoint and killed.”

I sucked in a surprised breath. That was quite a coincidence.

“I confronted her that day and she admitted she’d been having dreams like that since she was a teenager. So, you see, when Morganna told me she had bad feeling, I knew to listen.”

I couldn’t speak. Blood thundered in my ears and my breathing increased. Was it possible I had even more in common with the victims than I thought? I realized I should have said something, but I just sat there staring at her.

I heard Morrison’s voice break in as he told Monica we had enough information and he had dismissed her. As soon as she left, he turned to me. “Well... she’s nuts.”

After a few more hours of questioning people who knew Morganna, Morrison decided to call it a day. “Listen, Agent Reece, any chance we can pick this up tomorrow? It was a late night last night and a long day today.”

“Sure thing. We can start fresh in the morning,” I said with false cheer.

“Speaking of starting fresh... I want to apologize for last night at the bar. My behavior was inappropriate.” He tucked his head like he was embarrassed. “It’s just I saw you at the bar alone, and you fit the profile of the victims. I didn’t know you were an agent and I was just trying to look out for you.” It was a heartfelt apology and I sensed the sincerity of his words. “We’re going to be partners, so what do you say we start fresh tomorrow?”

Graciously, I nodded, accepting his apology. “Thanks for that, Agent Morrison. I think that’s a great idea.” I smiled. “I’m sorry too—for punching you, I mean. Sometimes my temper gets away from me.”

“Those were some impressive moves last night, Reece. I heard you were into martial arts. Care to spar with me sometime?” he asked, waggling his brows playfully.

“I think I can handle that, as long as you’re sure that when you lose it won’t do too much damage to your ego.”

He laughed.

Although we had a bit of a rocky start, I thought Morrison and I were going to be friends.

Chapter 4

Sambuca was sexy, plain and simple. A live band and a dance floor were the first things I noticed upon entering the restaurant. The sultry, rhythmic beating of the bass guitar filled the air. It was laced with the smooth, lush sounds of the sax. Tonight was R&B night. The room was dimly lit and lent itself perfectly to the sensual ambiance. Candles flickered on every surface, casting shadows that seemed to dance in perfect harmony with the melodic beats. Laughter and conversation floated quietly around the room. The perfect date spot.

If only I wasn’t having dinner with my father.

Rather than the relaxing evening I’d planned, my father had called, springing the news he was in Denver for the night. Then, in an opportune coincidence, he happened to take me to the restaurant that Nathan Donovan had claimed as an alibi. Morrison and I were supposed to confirm his alibi in the morning, but I decided to do it after dinner. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.

In more ways than one, my father’s invitation was well-timed. I had a few questions for him. I’d been thinking a lot about Morganna. Her friend said that she inherited her gifts from her mother, and I wanted to know if the same held true for me. Since my mother died when I was born, my father was the only person who could answer that question, but this wasn’t something to discuss over the phone.

The waiter brought our beverages and took our orders before leaving us to our conversation.

“This place is…different” he commented, taking in the romantic atmosphere with a twinge of discomfort.

An amused snort escaped before I could contain it. “Yeah. Where did
you
hear about it?” 

“The concierge at my hotel recommended the place. He said the food was excellent.”

“Ah,” I muttered, noncommittally, wondering if that was enough small talk.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what are you doing here, Dad? It’s only been a week since I left Chicago.” The accusatory tone was barely discernible.

He shrugged and sipped his water, avoiding my gaze as he fiddled with his napkin. “I just wanted to see your new place, honey. Can’t a father take an interest in his daughter’s new home?”

And I may have believed that if I hadn’t sensed the falsity of the statement. He was worried about me, as usual. I felt the anxiety oozing from every one of his pores. My eyes narrowed. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not afraid of anything.” He ran his fingers through his hair, which was longer than usual.

As I watched the nervous gesture, I was reminded again how I must have inherited my features from my mother’s side. I held absolutely no resemblance to my father. He had straight caramel brown hair as opposed to my wavy dark brunette, and his eyes were brown to my blue. He was a good-looking man—his appearance still youthful despite his fifty-six years—but, lately, he was showing his age more with the worry lines creasing around his eyes.

A long stretch of silence passed as we stared at each other with pensive expressions. Finally, I gathered the nerve to ask my questions.

“Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been thinking about something I want to talk to you about.” I paused to take a fortifying breath. “For the first time in my life, I’m going to be completely honest with you. And I hope that you’ll give me the same courtesy in return.”

That spiked his interest. “What do you mean ‘for the first time in your life’?” he asked with wariness.

I held his gaze as I spoke. “What I mean is that I’ve been hiding something from you since I was a teenager. But
you’ve
been hiding something from me for my whole life.” I made the statement as a matter of fact; no question in my tone.

He swallowed convulsively and I felt his anxiety spike. “What—”

“No. Just listen. I
know
you’ve been hiding something because I can sense it, just like I can feel your nervousness now. And I know you’ve always worried about me. You worry more than what’s considered normal parental concern, which is why I’ve put up with your overprotective behavior for so many years.” I leaned in and whispered, “I’m psychic, Dad. Well, empathic, to be precise. I can feel people’s emotions as if they were my own, and sometimes their physical pain too.” His brows shot into his forehead as his eyes widened. I rambled on before I had the chance to back down. “So, you understand how I
know
you’re worried. Now, do you want to tell me what’s got you so concerned?”

He looked completely pole axed by my admission. “What do you…” Finally, he released a resigned sigh, almost as though he wasn’t really surprised at all. “When did it start?” The question was posed with a tone of resignation, almost like he’d been expecting something like this
.

“When I was sixteen, I realized my senses were way too attuned to other people’s emotions. Then, when I was seventeen, the ability developed further. Do you remember that time you took me to the hospital because I was having bad chest pains?”

“Yes. That was strange. That was the weekend I had my heart attack.”

I arched my brow silently, willing him to make the connection. A surprised gasp escaped his lips when he finally understood.

“That’s right. I realized that night that every time you left the room, the pain would disappear. Then when you had a heart attack, I realized what was happening—I was channeling your pain the same way I did emotions.”

“I’d been having chest pain all day, but I’d convinced myself it was heart burn and would go away, so I just ignored it,” he muttered, apparently replaying the incident and considering it from this new perspective.

The waiter made an appearance with our dinner.  “Can I get you anything else?” He looked at my father waiting for a response, but he just sat there staring at his food.

“No, thanks. We’re fine.” I answered for both of us and waited for him to leave.

“I took you to the hospital because
you
were in pain,” he said after the waiter left, as if our conversation hadn’t been interrupted. “I wouldn’t have gone if it was just for me. The doctors said I had a massive coronary, and the only reason I survived was because I was in the hospital when it happened.” We both sat silently for a stretch before he looked up, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “You saved my life.” He grasped my hand, squeezing it gently, the gesture saying so much more than words could have.

“I love you, Dad.” My voice broke. I was choked up by the depth of the emotions he was experiencing.

“I love you, too, honey. And I’m really glad you told me.” He stared at me for a few moments before clearing his throat. “Why don’t you eat?” He picked up his fork with a smile and popped a piece of steak into his mouth. “Mmmmm…this is really good.”

He was changing the subject. But he had another thing coming if he thought this was the end of our discussion.

I took a moment to savor the pasta I ordered, and then blurted my question around the next mouthful. “Was my mother psychic?”

He barely managed to suppress his shock. “Where is this coming from?” he asked, evasively.

“I recently came across someone else who was psychic, and her ability was inherited by her mother. It got me to thinking—you never talk about my mother, and I want to know if she was like me.”