“Why are you here, Malcolm?”
He brushed past Cass to the living room, the length of her yoga mat, then stopped. There was nothing else to do here…but he couldn’t seem to make himself leave.
“What you told me…about my sister, Lauren,” he said. “That’s something only a few people would know about.”
“Freaked you out, huh?” she asked.
He nodded.
She stepped closer, her eyes glued to his. They were bright green like a fairy’s, he noted.
“You’re wrong, you know,” she said suddenly. “I didn’t kill your sister. Or the woman in the stairwell.” She paused and her eyes became unfocused. “Lauren wants you to know that you’re being stubborn. She says your stubbornness is always your undoing.”
Something inside his head snapped and he leaped forward, reaching for her. She had to stop talking. But he also needed to know.
“Tell me how you’re doing this. Tell me…”
Dear Reader,
If you’ve ever seen John Edward’s show Crossing Over, then you know he can be frighteningly accurate. He’s a medium who claims to communicate with the dead, and passes their messages along to loved ones.
When he was tested by scientists they found his “hit” rate—the number of times he accurately stated something about a person he’d never met before—so high they concluded he had to be telepathic. Because, of course, being a medium was beyond the realm of science.
I loved the idea of scientists having to accept something outside the norm to explain something even further outside the norm. And so my heroine for this story, Cass, was born. Thinking about what it would mean to hear voices from the dead made me wonder…what if some of those voices weren’t so friendly? The next thing I knew I had the idea for her story. Cass may be small, she may be a loner, but her bravery comes from a very big heart.
Hope you enjoy this story. I adore hearing from readers. You can e-mail me via my Web site at www.stephaniedoyle.net.
Stephanie Doyle
Possessed
Stephanie Doyle
STEPHANIE DOYLE
has been writing for ten years and very much enjoys contributing to the Silhouette Bombshell line, where she can explore the depth of a heroine’s skill and strength. And while she doesn’t have psychic ability herself, she’s pretty sure her two cats do, because they always know when she’s in the mood for ice cream and will circle the refrigerator until she gives in to her craving. You can visit Stephanie’s Web site at www.stephaniedoyle.net.
For my editor, Wanda,
because you get it, even when I don’t write it. Thanks.
Contents
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 1
The hiss of steam hitting milk inside a pitcher echoed. The smell of strong coffee permeated the air. Beyond the bar where Cassandra Allen worked creating espresso concoctions, she surveyed the coffeehouse. Overstuffed chairs. Coffee tables littered with books and magazines. A few straggler customers taking in that last bit of caffeine, hoping that it wouldn’t keep them up all night or maybe hoping that it would.
A tingle on the back of her neck told her it was coming. But from who? One of the customers? She turned to her colleague, who was wiping down the pastry counter in preparation for closing. The sensation grew stronger.
In her mind another familiar sight took shape. A square, white room. Empty except for her. She stood in the center, looking at a lone closed door.
The door opened and a rush of energy blew at her, causing her body to jolt. Cass smothered a gasp. A woman stood on the other side of the threshold. Her features were blurred by the hazy fog that enveloped her, but Cass could sense she was older, plump, and her hair was the color of faded brick. The woman’s voice was faint when she spoke, but her words were clear.
She has to talk to him. He’s so upset. She’s so angry. I can’t go until I know they’re okay.
The door closed suddenly, and, just as quickly as it had formed, the image of the white room was gone.
Her mind clear, Cass cursed as the hot froth foamed over the top of the pitcher and down her hand. Shutting off the steam, she set the heated milk aside and rinsed her hand under a stream of cold water in the sink. It helped to take the sting out of the burn, but the remnant pain of contact still lingered.
The song of a cell phone muffled by a large purse broke through the sound of running water.
Cass sighed, shut off the tap and did what she had to do. “That’s going to be your dad.”
Her fellow barista, Susie, continued to wipe down the counter and ignored the chirping phone under the counter. Her hair was a bright red, probably enhanced by chemicals, but the resemblance was there.
Cass shrugged at the nonresponse. She took the settled milk and poured it over two shots of black espresso into a massive mug, making sure to keep it light on the foam per the customer’s request, then called out, “Large latte, light foam.”
She placed the mug on the counter for the customer, who was on his second drink, to come and collect it. With a silent nod he took his order and returned to his table with his book.
“You’re going to have to talk to him eventually,” Cass said after the ringing stopped.
Susie stared at the purse under the cash register and scrunched her face in denial as she continued to wipe the now perfectly clean counter in front of her. “You don’t know who that was.”
“Call it a hunch,” Cass said.
Susie paused in her task and looked at Cass with a mix of skepticism, suspicion and maybe a hint of fear.
“You are so freakin’ weird,” she accused.
Cass shrugged. It wasn’t like Susie was wrong.
The girl let out a huff. “It doesn’t matter if it was him. I don’t want to talk to him.”
“It’s not about what you want. It’s about what your mother wants,” Cass said calmly.
Although the contact had been brief, the message had been plain. Cass was able to fill in the rest from what Susie had told her.
There had been an accident. Four months ago. Her dad was driving. Her mom didn’t make it, but he did. It was no one’s fault. Just a slick road and fate. Susie was having a hard time coping with the loss. What girl who had lost her mother wouldn’t? But