Chapter Six

Amelia brought the car to a stop in her assigned parking space, collected her tote, and slipped out from behind the wheel. She did not know if she had made the right move by hiring Gideon Sweetwater, but at least she had acted. She no longer felt quite so trapped. Progress. Maybe.

She tried to look on the bright side. No, Gideon was not the PI she had expected to encounter when she made the appointment, but maybe that was a good thing. True, he either didn’t believe in the paranormal or was in denial about his own talent, whatever that was, but he appeared to be serious about trying to identify the stalker. That was what mattered most right now.

She headed for the security gate that serviced her wing of the apartment complex, readying her key chain fob.

“Amelia, you’re back. Want to get coffee?”

Amelia looked up and saw Irene Morgan leaning over the railing of the second-floor walkway. She raised a hand in greeting and told herself that now was as good a time as any. She needed to have a serious talk with her friend. She did not want to take the risk of ruining their relationship but she had put off the conversation long enough. If she didn’t speak up and something bad happened she would never forgive herself.

“Sure,” she said.

“I’ll be right down.”

···

They walked across the street to Harry’s Soon To Be Famous Coffeehouse The late-fall day was mild and sunny, so they opted for an outdoor table shaded by a large umbrella. It would be easier to say what she had to say outside rather than inside, Amelia thought. Less chance of being overheard. She ordered her usual Americano. Irene went for a cappuccino.

Irene looked effortlessly glamorous, as usual, in Katharine Hepburn trousers, a white silk shirt, and designer sunglasses. An ambitious, up-and-coming marketing firm consultant, she spent a lot of time meeting with high-profile clients. She had explained to Amelia on several occasions that she planned to open her own business sometime in the next couple of years. Amelia did not doubt that she would be successful. Irene was a driven woman. A classic overachiever. It was a species Amelia was very familiar with, having grown up in a family of overachievers.

The bond between the two of them had been established quickly because they were both in the process of trying to reinvent their badly shattered lives. Irene had been raised with money—a lot of it. And it had all vanished overnight a few years ago when her father, a high-flying hedge fund manager, had been arrested for fraud. He had taken his own life while awaiting trial.

“He always thought he was the smartest one in the room,” Irene had explained one night over a second glass of wine. “And he was. Right up until he wasn’t.”

Her mother having died years earlier, Irene had found herself alone in the world and broke. But she’d had a plan, a strategy, and she was in the process of executing it. Unlike, say, me , Amelia thought.

She was barely scraping by as a photographer. She knew she was competent but she also knew that unless she found the right niche she was never going to make a comfortable living with a camera. There just wasn’t enough money in real estate shoots, pet portraits, and CEO headshots.

She valued her friendship with Irene so she had taken care not to destroy it by claiming a psychic talent. Few things could screw up a relationship of any kind faster than telling a normal, intelligent person that you took the paranormal thing seriously. As far as Irene was concerned, the Lost Night Files podcast was entertainment . Fiction. A side hustle that Amelia and the others were producing with the hope of hitting it big in the potentially lucrative podcast world.

Irene sipped some of her cappuccino and lowered the cup. “Any luck attracting a new sponsor?”

Irene was all about the podcast’s efforts to increase revenues.

“No, unfortunately,” Amelia said, sliding easily into her of-course-I-don’t-take-the-possibility-of-murder-by-psychic-means-seriously persona. “Lots of competition out there. We’re trying to up our game with better production values.”

That much was true. Phoebe Hatch, the new producer, was very big on production values.

Irene shook her head. “You and your friends need to get more aggressive with your marketing strategy. Like I tell my clients, you can have cutting-edge tech and a brilliant concept, but if you want to make money you’ve got to generate sales, and that requires—”

“Marketing. I know. But I’ve told you a million times we can’t afford a lot of high-end advertising.”

“You need to think of marketing as an investment.”

“Trust me, we know that,” Amelia said. “None of us has quit our day jobs. Speaking of which, I need to hustle up some more corporate headshots and real estate work. The problem is that these days anyone with a cell phone and a photo-enhancing program thinks they can do good photography. And they are right.”

“Not true,” Irene said. “You, my friend, are an artist. You always manage to capture something unique and individual about your subjects—human, pet, or real estate. Just look what you did with your portraits of Daisy and Dahlia.”

“I hate to tell you this, Irene, but your goldfish look like a million other goldfish. I could have wandered into any pet store in town and photographed two other goldfish for that portrait. You would never have known the difference.”

“I disagree. You brought out Daisy’s glamourous side and Dahlia’s shy nature.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, I’m teasing you. My point is, like everything else in life, success in marketing is ninety percent attitude. You need to develop some in order to sell yourself and the podcast.”

“Thanks, I appreciate the support and advice.” Amelia drank some coffee to give herself time to come up with a nonthreatening way to ease into what promised to be a difficult conversation. When she was ready she lowered the cup. “So, got another date lined up with Mr. Amazing-In-Bed?”

Irene smiled a very feline smile. “Falcon? Yes, as a matter of fact. Tomorrow night. He insists on wasting time with cocktails and dinner at some new trattoria he’s discovered but after that we’re going to check in to a hotel for the main course.”

Amelia cleared her throat. “Think things might be getting serious for the two of you?”

“Never in a million years. Falcon has a lot going for him in the bedroom but, trust me, aside from the sex we don’t have a thing in common. Sooner or later he’ll move on or I will.”

“How much do you know about him, Irene?”

Irene frowned more in surprise than concern. “Why all the questions about Falcon? Do you have a problem with me dating him?”

Amelia struggled to find a way to explain what she thought she had seen in the splashes of hot energy on the sidewalk at the foot of the stairs three nights earlier. She had been up late, as usual, working in her darkroom, when she heard Falcon leave Irene’s apartment.

She had glimpsed his tough-looking SUV in the parking lot a few times when he had arrived to pick up Irene or drop her off, but thanks to the vehicle’s heavily tinted windows she had not gotten a look at his face or his aura. To the best of her knowledge he had never visited Irene in her apartment—until three nights ago.

She had waited until Falcon was pulling out of the parking lot before she gathered her nerve, left her apartment, and hurried down the stairs. The disturbing energy that seethed in his still-hot prints sent her intuition into the red zone.

“You always call him Falcon,” she said. “I assume he’s got a first name?”

“Yes, of course he does. He prefers to be called Falcon, and I think it suits him. What’s your problem with him?”

Amelia took a deep breath. “He just looks sort of…dangerous. That’s all.”

Irene was in the process of swallowing some more of her cappuccino. Her eyes widened, and she sputtered with laughter and set the cup down very quickly. She grabbed one of the little napkins and blotted her subtly plumped lips.

“Sorry,” she said. “But that is just hilarious. Wait until I tell Falcon. No, on second thought, I’d better not. He might get pissed.”

Amelia felt the heat rush to her face. “I know this is none of my business. I’ve never even met the man. But something about him worries me.”

Irene chuckled. “Probably the leather jacket and the mirrored sunglasses and the boots.”

“Is that what he wears?”

“Yep, and what’s more, he makes the outfit look good.” Irene glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot and leaned forward. She lowered her voice. “I appreciate your concern, but you can relax. You were right about one thing—Falcon is dangerous. Frankly, it’s one of his best features. All that leather and muscle is sexy as hell.”

“Okay, I get that,” Amelia said. Falcon didn’t sound like her type, but she wasn’t the one dating him. “What did you mean when you said I was right about him being dangerous?”

“Falcon is an undercover cop. Vice.”

“Oh.” Startled, Amelia sat back in her chair and absorbed that information. “Oh, I see.”

“He looks dangerous because he works in a dangerous world,” Irene continued. “His job and his life depend on him being able to blend in to that world. And now that I’ve told you the truth you have to promise me you will not breathe a word of what I just said to anyone. He would not be happy to find out that I blabbed.”

“I understand.” Amelia paused and then leaned forward again. “If he’s undercover, why did he tell you the truth about himself?”

“Turns out even undercover cops need to talk to someone once in a while. I gather that, while the job is an adrenaline rush, it’s also a very lonely life.”