Shattered Echo E-Book

Alex Westmore

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: An Echo Branson Investigation
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 567

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

For fourteen years, she lived as an unwanted Jane Doe.

But when her empathic powers suddenly and violently kick in, she becomes a supernatural empath who is as much a risk to herself as to others. Fleeing both her old name and the new nightmare her life has become, Echo Branson seeks a mentor deep in the Louisiana Bayou who can help her control her newfound abilities.

Re-emerging four years later into a world where she must hide her supernatural talents, Echo begins a career as an investigative reporter and immerses herself in a story that will rock the city of San Francisco. Fearing persecution—and worse— because of her paranormal abilities, she quickly learns to keep everyone at arm’s length. She must protect, at all costs, her true self and the family she has come to love.

Can someone so different find safety and friends, let alone love, in a society that denies her very existence?

Leseprobe

SHATTERED ECHO

An Echo Branson Investigation: Book 1

Alex Westmore

Published by Inspired Quill: December 2018

Edition 1.5

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher has no control over, and is not responsible for, any third-party websites or their contents.

Content Warning: This book contains themes of mental health and drug abuse.

Shattered Echo © 2018 by Alex Westmore

Contact the author through their website: www.alexwestmore.net

Chief Editor: Sara-Jayne Slack

Cover Design: Deranged Doctor Design

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-908600-79-0

eBook ISBN: 978-1-908600-80-6

EPUB Edition

Inspired Quill Publishing, UK

Business Reg. No. 7592847

www.inspired-quill.com

This one is for Kari, my own personal Echo, who has helped me navigate the treacherous emotional waters of life.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

More From This Author

CHAPTER 1

Ibecame what I am today at age fourteen, and it nearly drove me insane.

They say your teenage years are an insane time anyway, but mine were the real deal. Imagine coming into a paranormal power no one believes in and you didn’t even know you possessed. Imagine being semi-normal one minute and supernatural the next. Imagine what would happen to your world if, suddenly, you knew what everyone around you was feeling.

That pivotal moment happened one chilly November afternoon of my freshman year in high school. High school had started out great for me: I’d been in a really nice foster home with two other non-foster kids for over a year and finally felt like I was getting a fair shake. The parents were cool, the kids didn’t treat me like a stepchild, and life was good.

My best friend, Danica, and I were cutting through Mrs. Jorgensen’s creek on our way home. It wasn’t our usual route, but it was cold and we had things to do before the pep rally. Danica was a cheerleader and well-liked by everyone. We both attended a private school in Oakland, where most of the kids came from upper-middle-class white families. Our lack of social status was what brought us together. Danica didn’t care that I was a kid with less than nothing because as a girl of mixed heritage, she found it hard enough to find her place. She was convinced that she’d never fully be accepted in either community whether she was one of the haves or not. If the black kids didn’t like her, she just flipped them the bird. If the white kids didn’t like her, she would just flip them two birds. That was the beauty of Danica. She didn’t give a damn if you liked her or not.

Unfortunately, on this particular afternoon, someone liked her a bit too much.

That someone had followed us to the creek as we walked and chatted on our way home from school. I’d recently been feeling strange so I ignored the pinpricks on the back of my neck as we neared the hole some kids had cut into the cyclone fence.

As we neared the fence, those pinpricks changed into something I had never experienced. Like a blast of hot air on every nerve in my body, something warned me the person following us wasn’t just using the shortcut; whoever it was intended to hurt one of us. I didn’t know how, but I knew it as surely as if it had already happened.

Stopping just before the opening, I whirled around to face the cause of the tingling sensation: Todd Abrams, a linebacker on our football team.

“Hey,” he said, leering at Danica. He never once looked my way. I was used to being invisible.

Blinking several times, I swallowed back a small pocket of bile. The emotional blast radiated all the way to my fingertips and toes. It was almost as if I were Todd. I knew exactly what he wanted, and how he intended on getting his needs met. If I hadn’t been so afraid of Todd, I would’ve been scared to death of what was happening to me. My heart raced, my palms were sweaty, my breathing became shallow, and I knew… I knew we were in trouble.

“Come on, Dani. We’re going to be late,” I said, never taking my eyes from Todd. My hands were shaking as I reached out to push Danica through the opening before he could get any closer. I sensed his intentions through every pore in my body, as if my soul kept jumping from my body to his. When my hand reached out to touch Danica, I suddenly felt her emotions as well. She was merely irritated by his interruption. She didn’t know what he really wanted.

But I did.

“Beat it, Todd. I already told you I’m not interested.” She was completely unaware of the danger; completely unaware Todd had come to get something he couldn’t have.

“Jane,” Todd said softly, looking over at me for the first time. He had shark eyes on either side of a putty nose. “Why don’t you scoot along and let me walk Danica home?”

Yes, my real name – the name bestowed upon me at birth – is Jane. Jane Doe. I was born one of many Jane Does that year and actually remained one until my eighteenth birthday when I changed it to something more fitting; something more in line with who I turned out to be.

Something which was taking me over at that very moment.

Trying to ignore the weird feelings crawling beneath my skin like a bad drug, I inhaled deeply. Was I going crazy? Was there something wrong with me? Could they tell? Danica, bless her heart, was staring at Todd as if he was nuts. Danica didn’t appreciate anybody telling her what to do or assuming they knew what she wanted. If she had wanted him to walk her home, she would have asked him to. Apparently, she had already told him what she didn’t want.

Todd’s lust, anger, masculine arousal and something else I couldn’t put my finger on felt palatable and tangible to me. I thought I was going to faint from the tornado-like sensations whirling through my mind, disorienting me. It took my breath away, and I had to fight to stay on my feet.

When I finally pushed the emotions away, I managed to say under my breath, “Danica. Please. Go.” This time, I shoved her with all my might, which wasn’t easy. Danica was close to six feet tall; a good six inches taller than me.

Todd took a step toward the hole in the fence and I knew it was now or never. I knew it as if he’d whispered it in my ear; he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Swinging my heavy backpack at him, I hit him square on the side of the head, knocking him away from the opening and onto the ground. Then, with one final push, I shoved Danica completely through the hole before flinging myself on top of Todd.

“Run!” Glaring at Todd, who was lying on the ground holding his bloody head, I think I lost my mind. When my bag first hit him, half my books flew out, so I grabbed the nearest, heaviest one and continued my assault. I couldn’t see where Danica went, but I felt her fear as I bashed Todd’s head again and again with my five-pound math book. His lust transformed instantly to anger and rage. He wanted to kill me. He probably would have.

So I kept hitting him. And hitting him.

I don’t know how long I smashed his forehead, but it was long enough for blood splatters to end up on my clothes. I probably would have kept hitting him until I crushed his head into a pancake, but Danica returned with Mr. Morgan, who pulled me off Todd.

“Jane!” Danica cried. I was still swinging my math book as Mr. Morgan dragged me off, and it took every ounce of strength Mr. Morgan had to keep me from going back.

Clearly, I had snapped.

Something had happened to me; something big and weird and scary. I was like a wild animal completely out of control. Mr. Morgan wouldn’t take his arms from around me, even when I’d finally calmed down, which was wise. I kept glancing at the unmoving Todd, wondering if I’d killed him. I didn’t think that was such a bad thing.

When the paramedics arrived for Todd, they came right behind the police. I was nearly incoherent by that time. Not because of what I’d done to Todd, but because my brain was frying from all the images and emotions I was getting from Danica, Mr. Morgan, the police, the paramedics, and even the bystanders who had wandered over from the park. I was a shore on which every emotion washed upon, and I just knew I was losing my mind.

Apparently, the police were pretty sure of it as well, and the next ambulance came for me. I remember being strapped down and given a shot of something. It finally calmed the whirlpool of emotions sucking me under.

“Be cool, Jane. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

As my eyes got heavy, the emotional noises of the crowd began to dissipate, leaving me with a question repeating through my mind like a skipping record:

Was I going crazy?

CHAPTER 2

Eight years later, I was asking myself the same question. It wasn’t like me to give someone a second chance to bury yet another dagger between my shoulder blades while I wasn’t looking. So what was I doing here? Curiosity maybe? Wasn’t the road to Hell paved with the bodies of dead cats, or was I mixing my metaphors? I grinned to myself at the image. Okay, so I was a little curious.

A week previously, my boss, Wes Bentley, as snooty as his name suggests, fired me from my lowly peon position as a stringer for the Police Beat section of the San Francisco Chronicle. I know, I know, how hard could it be to report on the numerous criminal activities in a place like the City by the Bay? Well, I wasn’t fired for incompetency. I was fired for suggesting a well-known CEO was lying to our top investigative reporter during an interview. Lying through his ten-thousand-dollar DaVinci veneers.

Okay, so maybe I should have waited before blurting it out right in front of this prominent citizen, but I just couldn’t help it. I had a foster parent once who told me my biggest problem was I lacked stoplights between by brain and my mouth. She was right about me not having stoplights, but wrong about that being my biggest problem. My greatest problem was also my biggest gift: the double-edged sword I wielded daily. When someone’s lies are so huge and so powerful that they virtually knock me over, I have a tendency of contracting foot-in-mouth disease almost immediately. I can’t help it.

I’m an empath.

I was born with the unique ability to “read” the emotions of those around me. Everyone thinks they want the truth, but that’s until they get it. Then, all bets are off. It’s not a fun place to be when someone says they love you when you know they really don’t.

Like my ability to write and my fear of heights, being empathic is an innate component of my personality; as much a part of my genetic make-up as any other gene, only it kicked in when I least expected, but most needed it to. It has gotten me both into and out of trouble, and I knew the moment Mr. Bentley walked into the office which it would be that time.

Oh, I don’t make a habit of reading the emotional state of others; first off, it’s exhausting. Secondly, I have enough problems with my own emotions, thank you very much. I tend to use it only as a last resort, or whenever I think it justified. At that moment, in my ex-boss’ office, it felt justified.

I knew Mr. Bentley didn’t want to fire me that dark day, but his star reporter, Carter Ellsworth, had demanded my head on a rusty platter. Apparently, I had humiliated Carter in front of this lying, scheming, embezzling CEO, and that was the one thing that Carter Ellsworth could not abide: being embarrassed.

It wasn’t my fault, really. I’d just returned from the police station and was walking by my favorite fountain at the front of our building. I have a thing for running water because it blocks out extraneous emotions.

Anyway, I was looking at the fountain, not realizing Carter was conducting his interview on the other side of it. I suppose the sound of the water also distorted any potentially damaging soundbites should the liar be illegally taped. It was a smart move on Carter’s part, but he hadn’t counted on me wandering by and pointing the finger like some tattling five-year-old.

As I started by them, I was slammed with a huge wave of deceit, dishonesty, and dissembling. Normally, I have mental shields up to protect me from inadvertent readings. Like I said, dealing with everyone else’s emotions is an exhausting endeavor. You can only imagine what happens to empaths who are incapable of filtering out all the emotions that come at them every hour of every day. Unless a person is unconscious, emotions ooze from them like sweat from their pores; there’s no smell, but they certainly have a physicality that only empaths can feel.

On that day, I felt them like a baseball bat to the back of my legs. The CEO’s emotional darkness hit me with such force that I couldn’t stop myself from muttering, “What a crock of shit,” as I strolled by. It jumped right out of my potty mouth and landed on a pink slip with my name on it. It didn’t matter that I was right, because as an empath, I was in the closet. I couldn’t say, “Here’s why I know he’s a lying piece of crap.” A world that can’t fully handle homosexuals or biracial marriages sure as hell isn’t ready for the likes of me.

Anyway, Carter got what he wanted, and I was let go.

So why did I go back?

Carter Ellsworth was the kind of guy who would ask to see the manager at a restaurant and demand the waiter be fired for some minor transgression, and he was pretty damn quick to pull the trigger and shoot my burgeoning journalism career right out of the sky. I knew plenty of people who despised him, and not one person who believed he had any redeeming qualities other than that damn Pulitzer. Hell, he probably slept with it.

When Wes walked in, I did a quick read and decided against raising my shields. Raising and lowering psychic energy forces is a little like the regular Joe putting his hands over his ears to keep from hearing someone. The only thing missing was the “Lalalalala.”

“Thank you so much for coming, Echo. I wasn’t sure… well, never mind. It was good of you to come.” Wes Bentley stood in front of me and extended his well-manicured hand. Wes always wore that tanning booth glow; a little too much George Hamilton meets Bob Barker. I shook his hand and took note of his new Christian Dior suit and thousand-dollar hand-painted tie. Wes was one of the best-dressed men in the city and commanded attention wherever he went. At that moment, however, all pretense of command had been replaced by something I had never seen or felt from Wes in the seven months I’d been at the paper: contriteness. Yes, the man who cut me loose with the weak explanation that “if Carter wants you gone, you’re gone,” was standing there with his hat in his hand.

Now wasn’t this an interesting turn of events?

Carter Ellsworth wielded power because he’d won a Pulitzer for work he did during the Iraq War that pretty much gave him carte blanche to destroy the nobodies of the world. Like me. Pulitzer winners are a rare breed, and the majority of them, from what I gather, prefer to keep their fame and fortune on the East Coast, in places like New York. For whatever reason, Carter preferred foggy San Francisco; probably because the frequent mist hid his ugly demeanor.

Wes moved to the other side of his desk. What is it with people who feel the need to conduct business with an enormous desk between them and others? I made a mental note that that topic would make an interesting article someday. You know, take a look at fifty successful men and women and examine the size of their desks compared to the size of their ego. It would be an interesting little psycho-sociological survey.

“Well, Ms. Branson, I appreciate your time, so let me get down to brass tacks. Have you found another job yet?”

Oh, how I wanted to lie; to say, yeah, the New Yorker picked me up and offered me my own column and I’m moving there tomorrow. But the sad truth was, I couldn’t even get an interview with any of the smaller papers in the area and was working part time at Luigi’s, the bakery directly below my tiny apartment. Poor Luigi took pity on me when I told him I’d been canned, so he offered to help me out until I got a real job. Luigi was an angel walking among mortals, and everyone in the neighborhood and surrounding vicinity knew and adored him.

“I’m still looking for something in my field, yes.” I read a sense of relief from him. He wanted something from me. This was getting more interesting every second.

“I see.” West folded his overly tanned hands on the desk and leaned forward. “I’m going to be straight up with you, Branson. Tomorrow, you’re going to be reading Carter’s retraction of the Glasco’s embezzlement story.” He eyed me carefully as if trying to read me. Wes could look all he wanted, he would never know how I was feeling. Looking into his light blue eyes, I understood that he was trolling; feeling me out before laying the rest of his cards out on the table. There really was no need to since I was pretty sure I could see what was coming. A retraction for the editor-in-chief of a big newspaper is a little bit like getting caught with your hand in the cookie jar. It means that you didn’t fully do your job. Whenever a story suffers a retraction, everybody looks bad, and worse… amateurish. Well, the only amateur who had been fired over this story was me. Apparently, the truth had come out and now both Carter and Wes were eating crow.

I wondered what crow tasted like and if you served it with white wine.

“So, he was lying.” I knew it was a fact, but Wes had cut me off so quickly there had been no time to prove it; someone else had obviously done the job for me. I would have bet my last dollar that Jennifer Ridge, one of the best fact-checkers on the staff, was the one who found out the truth about the lying CEO.

“Near as I can tell, the man has no idea what the truth looks like.” Wes shook his head sadly. He hated retractions. He hated anything that made him look bad.

“Jennifer?”

Wes nodded. “It took her longer than Carter wanted, so he pressured her to sign off on his story. You know how Carter can be.”

I nodded. Jennifer was so good at her job that if an editor was unsure of the fact, they would write AJ in the margin; an editorial mark which had been created to simply mean ‘Ask Jennifer’. “Actually, Wes, all I know of Carter Ellsworth is that he’s an ass who struts around like the only rooster in the hen house.”

Wes tried to hide his grin. The grin he could hide, the emotions behind it, not a chance. As a reporter, Wes Bentley held the truth in the highest regard. At this moment, he appreciated mine. And why shouldn’t he? I had nothing to lose by being honest and he was so used to having someone’s lips attached to his ass that my honesty must have been refreshing.

“Well, ahem, yes, Carter does have a tendency to take himself a little too seriously.”

“Or something.”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, Branson, but I am a man who owns his mistakes. It’s not easy, mind you, but you don’t get to be in a position of power without taking responsibility for both the good decisions and the bad. Under the circumstances, I was wrong to fire you. I assumed Carter’s story had checked out and you had not only been unprofessional, but had made him look bad. Wrong on both counts. I would like to right those wrongs.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I would like to offer you your job back.”

The beauty of my gift is that emotional subtleties peek around the obvious, and I get a clearer picture of what’s going on with the person I’m reading. Wes was offering me my job back, hoping I would accept it without playing hardball.

Unfortunately for him, I did not grow up in a warm and loving environment with a soft, cushy life. I grew up moving from one home to another in the ghettos of Oakland, California. You don’t last there as a white kid if you can’t hit a fastball, and I was one hell of a hardball player. I knew I’d been unjustly fired, but the problem with my power is that it’s impossible to explain without uncovering exactly what I am. I wasn’t about to unveil that part of me to anyone other than my closest friends. So no, I wasn’t going to make this easy on him. “I appreciate your offer, Wes, but the police beat isn’t really for me. I came here with the idea of being a journalist. I have the drive, the talent, and the instincts for it. I think I would rather wait until a real offer comes along.” I rose and extended my hand. “But thank you. I do appreciate knowing that I was right about Glasco.” One thing I’d learned from a dozen or so foster brothers was the importance of a good curveball, and I had just fired one right past Wes Bentley.

Wes quickly rose and scooted around the enormous desk. “Well then, consider yourself offered a real position here. I like your style, Echo. You don’t miss a beat and you don’t mince your words. All of those are essential ingredients for being a top-notch reporter.”

The swing and a miss sound you heard was my bat whiffing at the curveball Wes just threw past me. I was so stunned, I barely knew what to say. “Reporter?”

Wes nodded. “Liz Pensky is going to the Post, so I need a new IR. The job is yours if you want a shot at it.”

Now that was a job offer… and one that I wasn’t expecting. I could tell by the look in his eyes he enjoyed the surprise. I blinked several times and thought carefully about my response. I knew that, given the chance, I could be a good investigative reporter; a really good one. I wanted to use my expensive Mills College education for something other than running around collecting short pieces for the Police Beat. This was my chance; my big chance. The question was did I want to take a job from a guy who fired me at the whim of the Golden Boy reporter?

Hell yes I did.

“What about Carter? Won’t he have something to say about this?” I didn’t care that my question rankled Wes. Don’t throw a carrot in front of me if it’s dirty or rotten, ’cause I’ll throw it right back.

“I run this paper and I make the decisions around here. I gave him what he wanted when I thought he was right. Obviously, he wasn’t. Do you want the job or not?”

“I accept.” I reached out and shook his hand. “When do I start?”

“How does tomorrow morning sound?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Excellent. Then stop by HR before I saddle you with a pro. You’ll be working with someone until you get the hang of it.”

Nodding, I opened the door to his office. “I appreciate the opportunity, Wes. I swear, you won’t regret it.”

Wes stepped so close to me I could smell the coffee he’d had for breakfast. “I just have one question before you go. How did you know?”

“That Glasco was lying?”

“Yes. Carter said that you sounded so cocksure of yourself. How could you have been so sure?”

Grinning, I stood on tiptoe and whispered, “Like you said, I have great instincts.”

Wes pulled away and eyed me once again. “That’s it? No source?”

Smiling even wider, I started out the door. “That’s it. Well, and maybe just a teeny bit of voodoo magic.”

*

When I got out of Ladybug, my red 1965 VW Bug, Luigi was waiting at the front of the bakery with his arms akimbo.

“I can tell by the look on your face…” Luigi Tarabini was wildly gesticulating as I walked through the door.

“Now don’t get your panties in a wad, Lou.”

Luigi threw his head back and laughed. He’d come from Italy to the United States with his parents when he was a young boy; not that anyone could tell by his accent that he’d been here for over fifty years. Growing up in Little Italy will do that to you, I suppose.

“So… what happen’?”

“He offered me a job.”

Luigi’s pretend mad face softened. “A good one or a bad one?”

“A great one. A real one. He wants to train me as an Investigative Reporter.” I walked to Luigi and hugged him. “Thank you for letting me work here… again. I owe you.”

“Not another wor’. You know you can always work here.”

“And you can always be counted on. How come you’re still single?”

“Always turning the tables on Luigi, eh? You go on now an’ leave an ol’ man to make a living.”

I smiled warmly into his brown eyes and lightly brushed some flour of his very full, very Italian mustache. “You sure you don’t need my help down here?”

“I got some day-olds you can take, and maybe you can help me with the dishes later.”

“Is the dishwasher out again? I’m going to give that plumber a piece of my mind.” Luigi had a heart of gold and didn’t deserve to get the screwgie from disreputable repairmen. I made a mental note to revisit my plan to dig up the sewer dwellers who made their living by taking advantage of good, hard-working folks like Luigi.

“It’s not working so good, no.”

“Will you let me make the call this time? I’m sure our consumer experts at the paper can recommend a reliable plumber who can get the job done right the first time.”

“You worry too much.”

“And you get ripped off too often. I’m going upstairs to get my things ready for tomorrow, then I’m coming down here to help you. Capiche?”

Luigi rolled his eyes at me. “Two years and still no accent!” Throwing his flour-covered hands in the air, he left me to tend to Mrs. Malone, or, as we called her in secret, The Widow. Mrs. Malone was the poster girl for octogenarian flirting. I thought it was really cute. Luigi felt otherwise.

When I finished up with Mrs. Malone, I grabbed the day-olds and took a hard left to the stairway leading up to my apartment, situated over the shop.

Luigi’s Bakery had been in the same place for sixty years. His father, Luigi Sr., opened it shortly after landing in San Francisco, when Luigi was about eight. I managed to get the apartment when Luigi’s mother passed away and he inherited her house on Nob Hill. He rented it to me for a song because he didn’t need the money and because I do errands for him. I also cover whenever he needs a break to go to the bank or the store. Anyone who thinks running a bakery sounds easy is a fool. It’s a physically demanding labor of love. Since I moved in two years ago, shortly after my graduation from Mills, Luigi and I had looked after each other. Oh, and my Italian accent? It’s quite good, really, but I love pushing his buttons.

Opening my front door, I was greeted, as I always am, by my Siamese cat, Tripod.

“Hey Cutie,” I said, kneeling down to scritch his ears. Yes, that’s scritch. You scratch an itch or a dog’s back, but if you attempt to apply that maneuver to a cat, you’ll find its claws embedded in your hand. Cats prefer scritching, and if you own one, you know exactly what I mean.

I rose and checked my messages. There was one from Danica, still my best friend, and two from telemarketers. As I erased the messages, Tripod rubbed up against my legs as best he could. I had found him on the bakery doorsteps, cold, wet, and dehydrated one foggy morning. Luigi said I could keep him if I had him checked out by a vet. So, I bundled him up and took him to Dr. Elaine for a full battery of tests, which revealed a rare cancer present in his left front leg.

Two years later, Tripod is cancer free and manages quite nicely with three legs. As a result of keeping him alive, he’s been the best pet in the world.

I picked up my phone and called Danica’s office. Her secretary put me right through, as she always does.

“Hey there unemployed chick. How’s the job-hunting going? Any bites?”

“I bagged one; a really good one, too.”

“Excellent! Do tell.”

So I did, much to Danica’s delight. Danica and I had been best friends since the eighth grade and had shared all of the ups and downs, trials and tribulations that college had to offer. After five years together at Mills, we both decided the Bay Area was where we’d make our fortunes. Unfortunately for me, Danica was the only one who’d made any.

After graduating with a degree in computer science, she’d created a program that instantly alerted a company whenever someone was trying to break through a firewall or other security system. Unlike other programs, hers alerted via audio as well as video, before slamming a wall around all files and locating the thief. The program was aptly named The Echo, after me, but not because I was her best friend; she’d gotten the idea back in high school when I finally learned how to shield myself from the onslaught of emotions from people near me. The Echo was patented, Danica made a bundle, and now she was the sole owner and CEO of Savvy Software, an up-and-coming company beginning to be noticed by the other big players in the space. Silicon Valley was keeping a close eye on them.

“I can’t believe old man Bentley admitted to making a mistake,” Danica said, crunching something in my ear.

“Carrot?”

“Bingo.”

“Diet?” Danica had tried every diet on record, not because she needed to, but because her Geek Squad of computer programmers were working on a dietary software program even the biggest yo-yo dieter could get results with.

“Not this time. Baby’s got back and looks like she’s gonna keep it. So, when do you go to work, Clark?”

I grinned. Danica had been calling me Clark Kent since I was the editor of the Mills newspaper. She had always called my gift my superpower. What a geek. She was one of the very few people who knew about me, and the only natural who knew. My supernatural friends and I prefer the term paranormal; it’s less arrogant.

“Tomorrow morning. They’ll apprentice me with a seasoned veteran until I learn the ropes. I am totally excited.”

“It’s what you’ve always wanted, Clark, though it’s beyond me what you get out of digging around in people’s dirty laundry. Quite frankly, I’ve never really understood the pull.”

“You just don’t have any appreciation for the press.”

Danica made a few derisive noises. “If I want the truth, the real truth, I sure as hell won’t get it from the news. Anyway, let’s not go there. Congratulations on your ladder climbing. It’s about time your superpowers gave you a leg up on the competition.”

“Hey, the last time I used my ability I got fired.”

“You got fired because Carter Ellsworth is a dick. Uh oh, my red lights are blinking. I better scoot along. A boss’s work is never done. The Boys are all excited about our first role-playing game and they keep bombarding me with questions. You know how they are. I want them to focus on the diet program, and all they can talk about is some dumb hack and slash.”

The Boys were a trio of Berkeley graduates who had been rejected by a number of top firms because they wanted to be hired as a package deal; unheard-of in the over-saturated computer nerd market of Silicon Valley. After being turned away by just about every major software company, they arrived on Danica’s doorstep. She took one look at their résumés and hired all three on the spot. In a way, they were to Danica what Tripod was to me; grateful for a chance, and they rewarded Savvy Software with some of the best programs on the market, making Danica even richer.

Now, the three of them shared an enormous office where they spent far more than the requisite 40 hours developing programs to put Savvy Software on a bigger technological map. Their office, nicknamed The Batcave, was a technological and electronic marvel filled with all the latest gadgets and geek-ware.

“Then you better get moving. You can’t leave those boys alone for a second.”

“Isn’t that the truth? Let’s have dinner after your big day so you can tell me what it’s like to finally be on the A team.”

“How about Aliotto’s?”

“You’re on. Damn, now Heidi is buzzing me. Gotta go. See you tomorrow, six-ish.”

After hanging up, I opened a can of cat food and fed Tripod before picking out my outfit and shoes for my big day. Tripod picked out the slick number for me. He has impeccable taste in clothes. I knew when he liked something just like I knew that that CEO was lying. Not all empaths can read animals, and I can’t read all of them, but I can and have always been able to read Tripod. That’s why I couldn’t let the vet put him down. His will to survive was just too strong. He wanted to live and here he was; living high on the hog, eating canned tuna. But he lived for catnip. My cat was addicted, but it was the only thing that perked him up after he lost his leg. Animals like Tripod appreciate the second chance to live. I think we all need second chances, and sometimes even thirds and fourths.

After my fourth foster home, I was pretty aware of the importance of second chances. In a foster home, second chances are as rare as blue diamonds. As a foster kid you are, by nature, incredibly expendable, so if you blow it, if you make any irreconcilable mistakes, you’ll find yourself right back in the care of social services.

By the time middle school started, I’d been in nine different homes. It wasn’t that I was a bad kid; I just wasn’t going to be anyone’s Cinderella. If you’re lucky enough to have missed out on the foster care system, count your blessings. In California, a foster child can bring in $1200 a month. Add four foster kids to a house and that brings you an income of almost $5,000 a month, or $57,000 a year. For many, not all mind you, but for many, being a foster parent was a job; a high-paying, stay-at-home job. That meant we children were little more than dollar signs who cooked, cleaned, washed cars, did yard work, you know… basic Cinderella chores.

Well, I was nobody’s indentured servant, no siree, and that attitude got me kicked out of more than one foster home. When I wasn’t at a foster home, I was being educated in the game of Life by Britt Bevelaqua, senior orphan at the children’s home. Senior orphan was Britt’s self-described nom de plume. She was three years older and lightyears wiser than me, and was my first idol. I thought she totally rocked. Britt smoked, she wanted a tattoo, and, most importantly, she refused to be pushed around by anyone. For whatever reason, Britt took me under her wing and educated me on the ins and outs of the Californian childcare system. I learned that we were worth money; that that money was seldom used toward our care, and that without love and kindness, there was no need to accept our Cinderella status. So, like my idol, I was in and out of homes for being “disrespectful, irresponsible, incorrigible, blah, blah, blah.”

The second to last time that I saw Britt, she had slipped me two $20 bills and told me to use them only when I needed to get out for good. At the time, I was just 13 and preparing for what would hopefully be my final foster home. Britt was 16 and preparing for her freedom. She was through being part of such a flawed system. For Britt it was time to run.

And she did.

I lay there every night for two weeks, wishing I had asked her to come back for me. But Britt knew I wasn’t ready to run, and she wasn’t going to drag around excess baggage.

What Britt didn’t know, what she couldn’t have known was just how soon I would be following in her footsteps. In less than a year I would find myself coming face-to-face with the onset of my gift.

And I wasn’t the least bit prepared for where it would take me.

CHAPTER 3

When I got to work my first real day of being a reporter, I waited outside Wes Bentley’s office with my eyes closed, meditating. Sometimes stress interferes with our ability to properly maintain both the shield and our general health and wellbeing, and meditation was one way to reduce that stress.

I was feeling pretty good when Wes called me in, but the moment I walked into his office and saw who was sitting in the other chair, I felt my shield rattle a little.

“Echo, have you ever been formerly introduced to Carter Ellsworth?”

Carter turned to meet me, his face dropping the moment he heard my name. “But… I thought you—”

“I did fire her,” Wes said, grinning like a wolf, as if this was his own personal joke. “Before I realized that she was the only one who understood that your man was a liar. I don’t fire people who have good instincts, Carter, and so I’ve hired her back. Now, if you have a problem with that—”

Tired of being invisible, I extended my hand to Carter. “No, we haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Echo Branson.”

Carter turned from my outstretched hand to Wes. “Is this a joke?”

I retracted my hand and sighed. What an asshole.

“Don’t be rude, Carter,” Wes said. “When a lady extends her hand, show some respect and shake it. I will not have Neanderthals in my office.”

Carter turned to me and extended his hand. I wondered if Neanderthal behavior applied to women as well. I decided not to test it and shook his hand. His disdain filled the room, and I felt it even with my shield up.

“Good,” Wes said. “Now, let’s get down to business.” Wes moved to the other side of the desk and motioned for me to sit down, so I did.

“Carter, you know how much retractions chap my hide. We’ve been through all of this. But Echo, here, shows promise and I’m putting you in charge of showing her the tricks of the trade.” Wes held his hand up to stop Carter from saying something he’d regret. “It’s been my experience in thirty plus years of journalism that all good reporters, at some point, need a reminder of the basics… you know… go back to the roots of what makes a reporter stand out from the others. I am giving you the opportunity to teach someone what you know as well as remind you about the principles of good reporting. This assignment serves a dual purpose for both of you.” Wes turned to me. “Echo, my gut tells me you have what it takes to be a great reporter. Not a good reporter, not a famous reporter, but a great one. Good reporters are a dime a dozen. Everyone who can dot an i or press the spell check button thinks they can write, but it takes someone really special to do what Carter does. Because I am a man of some worth and integrity, I’m going to make up for firing you by offering you the chance to learn from the best in the business.” Leaning back in his five-thousand-dollar leather chair, Wes laced his hands behind his head. “Do either of you have any questions?”

With the anger fairly oozing out of Carter, it was pretty clear how he felt about this whole thing. It felt unjustly punitive to him. Had I been in his position, I might have felt that way too, but I wasn’t. Wes wasn’t kidding around. He honestly believed I had something special and he wanted me trained by the best reporter he had. Who was I to look a gift horse and his jackass in the mouth?

“I really appreciate the opportunity, Wes, and I’ll do everything in my power to make you proud.”

A slight grin twitched at the corners of Wes’ mouth. “Excellent. Then unless either of you have any questions, I suggest you get started right away.”

I rose and thanked him for his time and waited for Carter. I didn’t have to wait long. When Wes Bentley issued a directive, you moved your butt. Carter’s was moving so quickly, I practically had to run to keep up.

Without saying a word, he grabbed his car keys and headed for the elevator. I wasn’t about to let him treat me like some homeless dog, and I was about to say as much when he stopped at the elevator door and turned on me.

“Look, I know you probably think this whole thing was quite a coup, but—”

“You don’t know jack. Don’t presume to know what I think about anything. We can either continue spinning out about something that’s over, or we can move beyond it.”

Carter’s blue eyes burned into mine. “Beginner’s luck isn’t something to crow about, Branson.” He shook his head. If Carter wasn’t so enamored with himself, he’d be good looking. Wavy black hair, deeply set blue eyes, and a cleft chin, he looked the perfect role for a news anchor. He was slightly over six feet tall, but carried himself like he was much taller. One thing I can say about Carter: he was an impeccable dresser. His navy-blue mock turtleneck contrasted with his eyes, and his black blazer had to have been tailored to fit his body so perfectly.

“Luck? If that was beginner’s luck, what do you call your move? Advanced Mistake?” I held his gaze. I could feel his anger simmering. One point for me. “So, what’s on the docket for today?”

“Docket?”

“Never mind. Look, you don’t have to like me to train me, and I don’t have to like you to learn from you. We’re both professionals here, aren’t we?”

Carter laughed derisively. “No, I’m a professional, Branson. You’re—”

“Careful, Carter,” I said, unsmiling. “Don’t lower yourself into the gutter. If this is that hard for you, then why don’t you just march back in there and explain it to Wes.”

“I might just do that.”

I motioned to the door.

Carter glared at me. “You think I want to drag a rookie, and that’s overstating the situation, around with me because some asshole lied and we printed it? It happens all the time; only Wes seems to think it’s some egregious error that never happens. Well, it does. So, don’t think you’re going to help me, Branson. I don’t know how long old man Bentley is going to ride his white charger, but until he comes to his senses and throws you back into the little pond you crawled out of, stay out of my way.”

Little pond? Ouch. I turned and grabbed his arm before he could get away. “All I want is a chance.”

“And all I want is a place on the French Riviera. Grow up, Branson. Real life doesn’t work the way you think it does.”

Just then, Wes poked his head outside. My guess was that his secretary told him what was going on and he decided to check it out for himself. “Still here? Get a move on, Carter, and be sure you show Branson something she can use. Every day, I want her to be able to tell me one thing she learned from you. Got it?”

Carter shook his head in disgust. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Carter, don’t make me regret giving you a second chance as well. Understand?”

Carter fairly glowered over at me. “Fine. I’ll be at 1215 Lamarr on Russian Hill. You can follow in your own car.” Then he turned to me. “You do have a car, right?”

I didn’t reply. This was going to be a lot harder than I thought.

It took less than twenty minutes to reach the beautiful lavender Victorian with white trim. The house was palatial by Victorian standards, and someone had dropped a pretty penny fixing it up. That’s one thing about San Francisco homes; no one can beat our Victorians. No one.

When I got there, I found Carter leaning against his silver Lexus, punching something into his phone while continuing his conversation via his headphones. He didn’t bother to look up when I approached. I waited, good little puppy that I was, until he finished his conversation, and then I asked him what it was we were here to dig up.

“Okay, here’s the gig,” Carter said, pocketing his phone. “We’re getting an exclusive here, so please just sit still and be quiet. Don’t act like you’re a reporter, don’t even act like you’re interested. Just. Sit. Still. What’s the number one rule?”

I shook my head. “I don’t—”

“Rule number one: stay out of my way. Think you can handle that?”

I glared at him. “Gee, let me think. I don’t really know. It’s so tough.” I started up the stairs.

“I’m not screwing around here, Branson! Can’t you just watch and learn?”

“I could. Who knows? Are you coming?”

He pushed past me on his way to the door. Loathing would be too polite a term for what he was feeling for me at that moment. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe, but I happen to think you’re pretty good at what you do.”

He whirled around. “Pretty good? A Pulitzer only ranks as pretty good in your book?”

“I’ll admit it’s impressive, but what have you done lately? You can’t ride that pony forever, Carter. Haven’t you heard that you’re only as good as your last book?”

“Interesting you mention that. I’m writing my memoirs.”

Of course he was. “Memoirs? How old are you, anyway?”

“Thirty-seven.”

I shook my head. “People under fifty should wait to write their memoirs.”

“Why is that?”

“You haven’t really lived life by your mid-thirties. I mean, I know you’ve had some life experiences and stuff, but come on.”

Carter got to the top of the stairs and shook his head. “Are you always so Goddamned opinionated?”

I nodded. “Always.”

“Figures.” Reaching for the doorbell, Carter sighed. “Silence is golden, remember?”

“So is the truth. Try finding it while we’re in there.”

When we entered the house, I tried not to stare at the gorgeous antiques filling the entranceway. The hallway floor was a light marble with gold veins. Even the paintings on the wall were antiques, or at least, great reproductions of them. My guess was the former. Whoever owned this place could afford the real thing.

“Mrs. Galloway will see you now,” the maid said.

Maid? Who had maids complete with old-style maid uniform in San Francisco? It made me nauseous. I disliked this woman immediately. “Mrs. Galloway? Of—”

Carter shot me a look. “Be quiet. Don’t make me send you to the car.”

“You wouldn’t.” But I knew he would.

When we entered the enormous sitting area, Mrs. Galloway sat straight-backed in a red and green Queen Anne chair. She had a petite teacup and saucer in her lap with the teabag string hanging over the side. I estimated her age to be close to sixty. She wore her hair like Grace Kelly and was wearing a Donna Karan teal pants suit. Not that I know my fashion very well, but DK is Danica’s designer of choice.

We were following up on the story that Mr. Galloway had gone missing. He’d vanished a week previously, leaving behind his wife and daughter, his very lucrative financier business, and everything in between. The cops had found his car at the Oakland airport, and didn’t suspect foul play because Mrs. Galloway had mentioned her husband had recently suffered a bout of depression. We’d run one or two articles about his disappearance, but without foul play, the story faded by day three. Carter obviously felt there was more to the disappearance than the cops believed, or we wouldn’t be here.

“Mrs. Galloway, it’s so nice to meet you at last.” Carter’s charm entered the room before he did, and I could see why he was so good at getting people to open up. His smile, his demeanor, and everything else about him warmed up the room. Well, everything except Mrs. Galloway. The only warmth emanating from that old woman was sitting in her lap.

“Mr. Ellsworth,” she said, extending a left hand that sported the sister to the Hope Diamond. How she could even move that hand was beyond me. “Please, do have a seat.” Her eyes locked onto mine and I immediately read a wariness directed at me. I wondered if it was because I was a female or because I didn’t have Carter’s credentials. I figured it was a little of both. I’m an empath, not a telepath.

“I didn’t realize you would be bringing your assistant.”

“My…? Oh, yes well, it’s an important story. I want to make sure I get it right.”

Mrs. Galloway looked dubious as she motioned for me to take a seat. Innocent people don’t tend to be suspicious, but Mrs. Galloway was filled with it.

Sitting down, I watched Carter work his magic. He was smooth, relaxed, and very patient with her. I was most impressed with his listening skills. He was a master fisherman; letting the line out slowly, effectively keeping her talking. His questions were delivered slowly and deliberately, allowing Mrs. Galloway plenty of time to answer. I had to mentally congratulate him. He was very good.

There was only one problem with this interview.

She was lying.

I wasn’t trying to read her. I mean, I didn’t go into the interview with any agenda other than to watch a pro at work. Carter is a Grade-A jerk, but I can separate my personal feelings from my professional duty. My duty was to learn from one of the best. Unfortunately, my abilities often supersede my desires to do the right thing and kick in at the most bizarre moments.

Like now.

Suddenly, without warning, Mrs. Galloway reached over and touched my arm. I was so busy trying to scribble my notes down that I didn’t see her reach for me.

Some emotions strike chords louder than others and in my empathic world, dishonesty was one such note. Different empaths have different abilities. Not all of us can read animals. Most of us feel positive emotions more than negative ones. Some of us have additional abilities that complement our empathic skills, or a smattering of other psychic abilities as well, but for those of us still sane, we are aware that the strength of our shields determines the longevity of our sanity. My lowest shield had just been corrupted, and that meant one thing: I sensed every emotion in the room whether I wanted to or not.

I winced at the power of her deceit. I didn’t want it, I hadn’t tried to read it, and now, I just wanted it to go away.

What was I supposed to do now? Raise my hand and point to Mrs. Galloway and shout out liar, liar, pants on fire? I had already screwed Carter once with my “opinion”. How in the hell was I going to tell him yet another big story was slipping sideways on him?

Clearly, I wasn’t.

Suddenly, all of the notes I’d taken had a different ring to them. Everything was becoming much clearer to me. We were here because Mrs. Galloway had called Carter to offer him an exclusive. Mrs. Galloway acted like she didn’t know where her husband was, but the emotional read filtering through my system said otherwise. Why would she call us here only to lie to us? What could she possibly have to gain from this charade? And perhaps the better question was; what in the hell could I possibly do to get Carter to see that, for some reason, Mrs. Galloway was manipulating him? Of course, I couldn’t prove any of this. Not yet. Not now. I would have to start the game pretty quickly before Carter started writing yet another story written on a foundation of lies.

But what could I do? If I didn’t say something and this was another print and retraction, my career would sputter and stammer before it ever got a chance to sprout wings and fly. I would go down with him. If I did say something, Carter would demand proof. I would have to do some real investigative digging before I opened my mouth and sealed my fate. And while I relished the idea of doing that, I didn’t look forward to telling Carter my suspicions. This time, I showed some restraint. I merely looked up at Mrs. Galloway and forced a grin. Yeah, she was lying, all right, and she was a pretty smooth liar at that. For whatever reason, she had constructed an elaborate story focusing on Mr. Galloway’s depression. She’d intimated quite a few times she never really knew what was going on in his life; she just knew he was popping Zoloft like candy.

“I can’t believe it,” Carter said as he stepped over a newspaper lying on the sidewalk.

“Can’t believe what?”

“That you actually kept your mouth shut the entire time. I’ll give you a point or two for that.”

“So what did you think?”

“About your self-restraint?”

“About her story. What did you think of her?”

Carter fingered the cleft of his chin as he leaned against his Lexus. “Something didn’t ring true, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

I nearly leapt up and down. “Really?”

“Yeah. Too pat. She was awfully calm for a woman whose husband was missing. It felt like she didn’t care one way or the other if he showed up. She also seemed to lean a little too hard on the antidepressant issue; like she wanted to make sure we got it.”

I nodded. This was a moment where I had to play my cards right. “You think she might know where her husband is?”

Carter inhaled slowly. “She knows something.”

“What makes you think she’s not on the up and up? What were you looking for?”

Carter grinned; his first genuinely warm moment with me. “I’ve interviewed a lot of people in my life, Branson. You learn to watch for subtle nuances; eyes shifting or closing, body language that just doesn’t jive with the words. You even start paying attention to breathing patterns. I’m a very astute people reader. Unfortunately, that’s not something I can teach you. You either have it or you don’t. If you do, then you learn to hone it like a chef’s knife until you’re really, really sharp.”

“Wow. So she gave you all kinds of nonverbal cues.”

Carter had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he had just performed some sort of hypnotism on Mrs. Galloway. I had to hand it to him; he was playing his mentor card with a great deal of vigor. “Nonverbal cues as well as verbal. Her voice had a flat quality to it; almost as if the whole thing bored her.”

Okay, so Carter wasn’t a complete noodle. I was a little impressed by his observational skills because he’d been right about Mrs. Galloway’s voice. She did sound bored, or uncaring of the fact that her husband was missing. She went on for a bit too long about his depression, and mentioned he never used the Oakland airport because he hated having to cross the bridge. She also said he seldom withdrew more than $200 at a time. All of this was mentioned without inflection. The woman was an iceberg.

“So, where do we go from here?”

Carter pulled his cell from his pocket and started typing on the screen. “How are your computer skills?”

I thought about the Boys. “Pretty good.”

“Let’s see what you can dig up that hasn’t already been dug up about Mr. Galloway; find something we don’t already know. Dig hard, deep, and fast. We need to find him before the body surfaces.”

“Body? You think he’s dead?”

Carter looked at me. “Don’t you?”

I didn’t. Mrs. Galloway not only knew where her husband was, she knew what had happened to him. “I definitely think she knows something, if not a whole lot more than something.”

“And how do you know this, Branson?” He folded his arms across his chest in a prove it to me attitude.

What could I say? The same way I knew the first time? “She mentioned a couple of things I thought odd.”

“Such as?”

“The dog. There were three pictures of Glen and the dog, but there was no dog.”

“So?”

“Carter, there was no dog. Not anymore.” I watched him watch me. He wasn’t getting it.

“Branson, what on earth are you talking about?”

“When we walked by the front of the house, I noticed two matching dog dishes on top of the trash can in the side yard.” That was only part of the truth. When we entered the Galloway home, I’d sensed only two bundles of emotional energy: Mrs. Galloway’s and the maid’s. There were no other creatures in that house.

“Good eye, Branson. What else did you notice?”

I flipped my pad open. “Twice, she referred to her husband’s mental state as being somewhat shaky. She also said – let me find it here – oh, here it is. She said that if he were going away, he would surely have taken his meds.”

“And?”

“She was leading us. It felt incredibly rehearsed and manipulative.” I shrugged. “It just felt really insincere.”

“She was trying to lead the entire time. When you get an exclusive that goes like that one just did, you have to ask why. Why would she practically beg for an interview and then try to guide it in the direction