A Deep and Dark December(12)

She paused and turned to look at him, a questioning frown buckling her brows.

“Chain of evidence,” he replied, holding out a pair of gloves for her. “Put these on before you ah… undress.”

Taking the gloves, she nodded and continued on her way. She left the door partially open, as he’d asked. This was the first time he’d spent any time with her. All the years he’d known her—or more accurately, known of her—there had always been people around. They’d never been in a room together—alone. He’d never truly noticed her. He was noticing her now and that new awareness did strange things to his ability to keep things strictly business.

He changed gloves, grabbed a few more evidence bags and approached the door. “Hand me your coat first.”

“Am I going to get any of these clothes back?”

“Do you want them back?”

She opened the door and handed him her coat and shoes. “No, I suppose not.”

He took them from her one at a time and bagged them. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little pale.”

“I j-just saw myself in the mirror.”

“Damn. I’m sorry. I should’ve covered it or something.”

She pulled the door so she was hidden again. “Too late.”

He heard the movement of fabric and then she poked her hand out of the gap in the doorway, offering her blouse. He put it in a bag, trying not to imagine what color her bra would be. Then her bra was thrust through the opening. Purple. And warm from her body. Did her panties match?

Next came her skirt and he found himself getting twitchy, his clothes chafing. Her hand appeared with a wadded up ball of fabric. He couldn’t bring himself to take them from her and nudged her arm with the opening of the bag. She dropped them inside. Light blue cotton. He was so fixated, trying to imagine them on her that it took him a moment to realize she was standing on the other side of the door completely naked.





Graham sat at his desk, trying to suppress the images his brain kept tossing up of Erin in the shower. He updated his notes from the crime scene. Erin’s head tipped back, her fingers sliding through her hair, water skimming her bare skin. He checked in with Pax. Erin bent over, her soapy hands gliding down her legs. He flipped the radio on to drown out the sound of the shower. Erin soaping her breasts, her hand slipping lower— A knock on his door brought his head up. Cerie stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed. She wore some kind of flowing dress with long sleeves that hung like wings from her arms. He should’ve heard her coming with all the bells and charms hanging from her neck and wrists. She’d tied her graying dark hair into a long braid that hung over one shoulder. Graham saw Erin in the softened lines and creases of Cerie’s face. If she were anything like her aunt, Erin would age well, growing gracefully into her later years.

“Your thoughts are so vivid I feel the need to check myself for an erection.”

“Excuse me?”

She strolled in and looked around. No doubt wondering where Erin was. Graham had always thought of her as eccentric, but harmless. Or was that just semantics for insane?

“I prefer eccentric over insane.”

“I never said—”

“And no, Erin can’t read thoughts like I do. Her talents lie elsewhere.” Cerie smoothed her skirt and sat without being invited. “It’s a good thing for you since you broadcast yours like an air raid siren. Thank you for the compliment by the way. We’ve been blessed with Great Grandma December’s genes.”

He sat back in his chair. If not crazy then…what? He’d heard the rumors about the Decembers. Cerie seemed to be the only one who traded on them, offering her services as a medium in exchange for money. Donald, Erin’s father, kept mostly to himself, but there was talk about him too that naturally spilled over onto Erin. Were they psychics or just…odd?

“Why bother having conversations with people when you can pluck the thoughts straight from their heads?” he asked.

“Because that would be terribly one sided and I enjoy talking so very much.”

His lips twitched. He’d always liked Cerie, despite the whispers of her being a witch. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Actually there is. Something’s happened.”

He made a motion for her to continue. He couldn’t wait to see what she’d come up with. Ghosts maybe, or ghouls.

“Besides the murder/suicide. The poor dears.” She closed her eyes as though she were praying.

“Cerie? Your point?”

She opened her eyes and sat up straighter. “I think it’s the storm. It seems to be affecting our abilities.”

“Our abilities?”

“I suspect it might have something to do with the storm on top of the full moon and mercury being in retrograde.”

“You don’t seem to be having any…issues.”

“Not at the moment, no. But earlier I was doing a reading for Bessie Farnsworth’s daughter Beatrice. You’d remember her. She’s about your age. Blond. She’s expecting… Beatrice, not Bessie you understand—”

“Of course.”

“Anywho, there I was, the Tarot deck all laid out, then… blink!”

“Blink.”

“Blink! Nothin’. Nada. Zilch. My mind went as blank as Bessie’s head.”