Page 2 of Shattering Dawn

“Jerk,” Irene murmured.

“Jerk,” Amelia echoed in low tones. She raised her voice. “It’s all good, Irene. Don’t worry.”

“Okay.” Irene yawned and went back inside.

Amelia darted into her apartment, closed and locked the balcony door, turned on the lights, and took a few deep breaths. Now came the hard part. She wasn’t finished. She had to go downstairs into the gardens to get the other photos.

When her nerves steadied, she went to the table next to the front door of the apartment, picked up the Taser and the key fob, steeled herself, and opened the door.

She went quickly along the open-air walkway that ran the length of the second floor and rushed down the stairs to the courtyard. The panic monster crouched at the edges of her awareness, threatening to pounce. In an effort to hold the anxiety at bay she chanted the signature sign-off of the podcast she and her friends, Pallas and Talia, produced.We’re in this together until we get answers.

Unfortunately there was noweinvolved tonight. She was on her own.

Cold sweat was trickling between her breasts and dampening the front of her T-shirt by the time she reached the courtyard path. She went into her other vision and reminded herself to focus on what she had come out here to see.Do not get distracted by the fog, she told herself.

Technically speaking, there was no fog. She had finally come to understand that what she was viewing was an ankle-deep river of luminous paranormal radiation flowing the length of the garden path. The mist was the result of the many layers of energy prints that had been laid down over time by people who had walked along the sidewalk.

In the past few months she had struggled to adapt to her strange new talent, but the learning curve was steep, not to mention unnerving. The one thing she had concluded was that the splashes of energy laid down by individuals were as unique as their fingerprints.

She had also figured out that the energy in the prints faded with time as others walked the same path and left their own tracks.

Fortunately the stalker’s footprints were only minutes old. They seethed with strange, erratic currents that sent icy frissons across her senses. Her intuition was screaming at her again but she did not know if it was reacting to the stalker’s prints or the claustrophobia generated by the night. She managed to focus through the viewfinder and snap off a couple of shots.

That was it; all she could handle. Taser in one hand, camera in the other, she fled back toward the stairs. She was breathing hard and trembling by the time she was safely inside her apartment.

Stupid, stupid phobia. This was getting ridiculous.

She slammed home the three locks on the door; set the camera, key fob, and Taser on the small hall table; and went around the corner into the kitchen. She opened a cupboard, took down the bottle of pricey cognac that Irene had given her for her birthday, and poured a healthy shot into a water glass.

She carried the glass around the end of the wide island that divided the kitchen from the living room and began to pace, sipping methodically, until she had her nerves back under control.

When she was satisfied that she was no longer a complete wreck she set the unfinished cognac aside. She had work to do. She went back around the corner into the front hall, picked up the camera, and kept going. She passed the laundry room and continued on to the walk-in closet she had converted into a darkroom.

In the morning she would take the stalker problem to the one private investigation agency in the San Diego area that might treat her case with the seriousness it required. She had found only minimal information about the firm online. The website consisted of a single page.

Sweetwater Investigations.

Private clients only. No corporate or business accounts.

Fees negotiable. Call for appointment.

The number had dumped her into voicemail, where she had been instructed to leave her name, a brief explanation of her problem, and her contact information. The lack of a proper receptionist had been worrisome but half an hour later a man identifying himself as Gideon Sweetwater had returned her call. He had asked her a few cursory questions about the case and then provided her with the address of his office. The appointment was for nine o’clock in the morning.

She’d had two takeaways from the brief conversation. The first was that she liked Sweetwater’s voice. She liked it a lot. It was dark and compelling and it sent unfamiliar but very pleasant little thrills across her senses.

The second impression was that she was pretty sure he had made the decision to take her case before he returned her call.

Chapter Two

Gideon Sweetwater lookedup from the photos scattered across his desk. “What do you expect me to do with these pictures, Ms. Rivers?”

“As I told you on the phone, I have a stalker,” Amelia said. “I want you to identify the individual in those photos.”

“You said you are a professional photographer.”

“That’s right.”

“No offense, but these images are not helpful. All I can see is a lot of foggy glare around the figure in the hoodie, and the spots on the sidewalk look like splashes of phosphorescent paint.”