Page 9 of Ghost
Without another word, I pushed back from him, putting as much distance between the two of us as possible.
Chapter Four
Bianca
Business
“You’re late,” a man in a three-piece suit chastised Damen as he and I approached a quaint two-story home. He was young—probably not much older than Damen—and everything about him screamed intensity. From his bright red hair, to his striking green eyes. Everything about him was sharp and angular, including his face. And even the manner he walked was serious business.
It was early evening, and I was still with Damen. This wasn’t how I had planned on spending my evening, but when Damen offered me food, I couldn’t resist.
Although, technically, he told me we would go to the crime scene he’d abandoned earlier. And then we would be free to get anything I wanted for dinner.
The problem was, I wasn’t sure what I wanted. All food was my favorite. Unfortunately, the man had already discovered my weakness. I would have to be careful.
Besides, it seemed that it could be interesting to tag along with Damen. I couldn’t deny I had wondered what a forensic psychologist might do all day. Although, I wasn’t sure I was allowed to be there. Damen had warned me ahead of time the location might be bloody. And if anyone asked, I was supposed to be his assistant.
But then again, Damen was a showy guy. So he was probably being dramatic. Otherwise, why would he even have allowed me to come with him?
However, when we arrived and I noted the number of police on the scene, I began to rethink my theory.
“Sorry,” Damen responded to the man, not sounding very sorry at all. Nor was he intimidated by the man’s tone. Instead, he continued to leisurely lead me toward the scene. “I’ve had an unavoidable hold up. Personal business. What is going on?”
“Mr. Abernathy, you should have called me!” The man’s eyes flickered toward me for a moment—almost as if he was sizing me up. But I didn’t have time to become self-conscious before he had already moved on. “That’s why I’m here.”
I was almost offended, but at the same time was thankful he didn’t seem to care. I wondered why though. Was I not interesting enough to ask about? Or perhaps Damen always brought girls with him to crime scenes.
He continued to ignore me as he held up the caution tape and ushered us into the closed-off patio. After we entered, he trailed along behind us for a moment, before Damen paused and shot him an expectant look.
The man began speaking again without further prompting.
“The deceased’s name was Caleb Weaver. You might need to call Dr. Stephens. It appears to be a suicide. There’s been nothing out of the ordinary on the scene,” he said, referencing a memo pad. “A family friend found him only a few hours after his death. They were supposed to meet for lunch. She had a key to the house, and when he didn’t answer the phone, she let herself in. There is a loft inside—he was hanging from the railings. She tried to cut him down, but it was too late.”
Damen frowned. “She moved the body?”
“She has CPR experience,” he replied. “And he’s already been relocated to the morgue at this point.” He glanced at me again, snapping his memo pad closed and turning to Damen with a sigh. “So, alright then. Who is this?”
Damen grinned slightly—foreboding—before he reached into his jacket and pulled out his glasses. “Norman, meet Bianca Brosnan. Bianca, this is Norman Peterson,” he stated distractedly as he cleaned the lenses.
“Bianca is my assistant,” he told Norman.
Norman gasped, almost dropping his memo pad in dismay, and levelled a look of panic in Damen’s direction. “But I’m your assistant!”
Oh dear.
I chewed my lip, watching Damen nervously. Why would he joke around with this poor man? Clearly, Norman had anxiety issues. And I had only come along for the free food. I never wanted to be the cause of someone losing their job.
“Now I have two assistants.” Damen sounded bored. He opened his mouth to say something else, but an officer at the other end of the white-washed patio called for him. Without another word, Damen meandered off—leaving me alone with an extremely disgruntled man.
Norman wasted no time defending his claim. He stepped to my side, glancing down at me with narrowed eyes. “You.”
I fought back a shiver at the loathing in his voice and craned my neck to look at him. While not as tall as Damen, Norman had at least a head on me in height. I swallowed, but my mouth was dry. Even so, I was still able to croak out a pathetic sounding, “What?” in response.
“I know what you want.” Norman spoke placidly, a plain expression on his face. For all intents and purposes, it appeared we were coworkers patiently waiting for our boss to rejoin us. For the outsider, there was not an ounce of animosity.
But reality was different. I couldn’t figure out what his problem was, or what I had done to deserve such hatred. What did he mean, ‘What I wanted’? I raised an eyebrow, completely lost.
“Myjob,” Norman continued, reading the confusion in my expression. He clenched his fist against his chest passionately. And his gaze drifted into the distance as he monologued. “Well, you cannot have it, you vixen. I’ve worked hard to get where I am today, and I refuse to lose to a starry-eyed, brunette munchkin!”
