Deja Who (Insighter #1)(45)

And his beloved big brother was Albert DeSalvo, his beloved big brother was the Boston Strangler.

So here he was, life number two, Detective Preston, who has convinced himself he is an avenger, here he was atoning for a past life by investigating murders in this life and it wasn’t just a job, not to Detective Preston, and Leah knew these things about him and didn’t care.

Leah watched Detective Preston’s lips move and seriously considered hitting him, bludgeoning him, with his past life, hitting him over and over again until he would shut up shut up shut up about her, about her mother, about the dark moon of Leah’s childhood.

But she didn’t do that to him. And she wasn’t quite sure why. Archer, maybe? But maybe not. Whatever the reason, Detective Preston, né Aaron DeSalvo, was still talking.

Oh, God, let him soon stop talking.

“This is total speculation, but she maybe thought you were the next stop,” the Boston Strangler’s brother continued, “so she threw herself at him or her. The killer must have panicked or maybe she made more noise than he planned . . . he had to leave before he finished her. He probably thought it wouldn’t take long, he’d bludgeoned her pretty thorough—ah—” Preston cut himself off, remembering this was a civilian next of kin. He was, of course, used to dealing with Insighters in the course of his work. He had just forgotten, for a moment. Insighters experienced loss, sure. It was hard to think of them as victims, though. “She must have found her cell phone and . . .” He shrugged.

Leah heard a roaring in her ears

(how odd, the ocean? how odd, what is that?)

as the implication sank in. “She tried to warn me,” she managed in a voice that cracked and shook, a voice that made Archer’s eyes go wide with alarm, a voice that made him seize her arm. “While she was dying. She tried to warn me. And I wouldn’t take the call.”

And then the world went away for a while.





THIRTY-ONE


“Stop that,” she said, batting away the hand tormenting her. “Stop that right now.” She was not quite sure what had happened, but whatever had happened, she simply refused to stand for it. Whatever it was.

She opened her eyes and saw that for some reason Archer had taken her to the piano room, the last place she had seen Nellie alive. Her mother had been murdered, of course, in the photo room. The room where Nellie had hired Archer to follow Leah. The room Leah hated more than any other room in any other building in the world. Fitting, yes. And horrible. Yes.

“I don’t think you should . . . ah, hell,” he sighed as she pushed his hand away and sat up. She had been resting on the low bench opposite the piano no one could play. She wondered who would dust it now. And she wondered why she was thinking about such a silly thing, when she had no idea how she had gotten to the piano room. “You were kind of out of it for a minute.”

“I did not swoon,” she said sharply.

“I’m pretty positive I didn’t say swoon,” he replied, his expression mild. His eyes, though. His eyes. They were anything but mild. For a cold moment she wondered if he was angry with her, then realized he was angry . . . but not at her.

“I didn’t faint, either.”

“Didn’t say faint, either.”

“Because I have never done such a thing in my life unless I was acting and I have no plans to start. Certainly not today of all days.”

“You bet. I’m right there with you.”

“And frankly, she had a lot of nerve getting murdered last night.” Leah shut her mouth so hard her teeth clacked together. Archer would be vanishing from her life soon enough without seeing the truly nasty side of her personality; no need to bludgeon him

(like how the killer bludgeoned your mother and you stabbed him moments after your first meeting, how much of your nasty side did you think you’d successfully hidden from the poor man?)

with more of her awfulness.

“She sure did. You thought you were free—”

“Yes.”

“—you loved that you were free—”

“Yes!” She nodded so hard her neck hurt. He understood. It was incredible; unbelievable.

“—and she had to go and fuck all that up.”

She stared at him, at the blue and the green of his eyes, eyes narrowed in concentration but not—was it true?—judgment. “Yes. It’s awful, I know.”

“It’s also true. Sounds like on top of everything else, your mom’s timing was terrible. All the time, not just last night.”

A hysterical giggle burst out of her before she could lock it back, and she slapped her hands over her mouth. But then, to her amazement, Archer slipped warm fingers around her wrists and gently brought them down from her face.

“You can laugh,” he told her, as if he were the Insighter and she the fretful client, afraid and angry and not knowing why why why she was feeling so strange. “You can cry. You’re entitled. Who cares? The cops have seen worse. I’ve seen worse. Remind me to tell you about my dad sometime.”

When would you have seen worse, you gorgeous idiot?

“No.” She cleared her throat and said it again. “No. Later. I’ll do that later. Right now I want to speak to Aaron.”

“Who?”

“Detective Preston.”