Seven points of agony.
Seven spatters of crimson.
What ifIwasn’tmissing something?
What if...
“What the hell is going on here?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin as the doors to the study burst open, and a man stormed in. He looked quite a bit like Paul, but with green eyes instead of gray, and much less chiseled features.
“Christopher,” Paul began, affirming that he knew this man. I didn’t have to be a psychic to figure out this was one of his siblings.
“Why are you in here? And who the hell is this woman?”
Speaks with authority,demanding.
Could just be angry,
but he seems too comfortable in his condescension.
He’s used to talking to Paul like this.
Hair: stereotypical business cut.
Suit: designer, but in charcoal gray with skinny tie and a perfectly creased pocket square.Like he just stepped out of the 2010s.
The Mad-Men wannabe era was wild.The hipster one was weirder.
I dunno, a mustache tattoo on myfinger would be kinda funny…
All of that ran through my mind in a split second, and I knew without a doubt I was looking at Paul’s older brother.
And he wasn’t making that great of an impression.
“She’s a psychic,” Paul answered. I was impressed he could keep his voice so calm and level, almost like his older brother hadn’t just barged in and started yelling at him. However, I couldn’t help but notice more bricks descending, slamming into place with an audible thunk only I could hear.
“A psychic? Are you fucking kidding me?!”
“No, why would I joke around about that?”
As the man’s face began to change color, I took the opportunity to study him. His emotional signature was similar to his brothers’ and the alpha’s, but it was different enough for me to know he hadn’t been in the room when everything went down. Emotional signatures were kind of weird. They weren’t quite as distinct as fingerprints, but still unique to individuals. Icould see the tiniest wisps of his jealousy, his insecurity, and his desire for approval in the far corners of the room, but they were so faint that there was no way they had been exuded at the same time as the graphic deluge of negative emotions.
Just an asshole. Not a murderer.
“What the hell is wrong with you? The police are handling this! Why are you bringing some charlatan into our home, and letting her come into this room?”
Ooh, charlatan. That’s a good word.
“I needed to make sure—” Paul began.
Wow, I wished I could stay as unruffled as he was. I wasn’t the one being yelled at, but I still wanted to whack him over the head with a frying pan.
“Make sure of what? Is this about you thinking that someone is after the rest of us?”
All right, as much as I didn’t want to get involved in family drama, this conversation was unproductive. Now that I had vital information, I would see this investigation through to the end—or at least as far as I could.
“Before you dismiss me,” I said, squaring my shoulders, “you might want to hear what I have to say.”