Tuesday's Child, page 1
Monday’s child is fair of face;
Tuesday’s child is full of grace.
Wednesday’s child is full of woe;
Thursday’s child has far to go.
Friday’s child is loving and giving;
Saturday’s child works hard for his living.
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
—Old English nursery rhyme poem, first recorded in 1838
Books in This Series:
Tuesday’s Child
Hide ’n Go Seek
Maddy’s Floor
Garden of Sorrow
Knock Knock…
Rare Find
Eyes to the Soul
Now You See Her
Shattered
Into the Abyss
Seeds of Malice
Eye of the Falcon
Itsy-Bitsy Spider
Unmasked
Deep Beneath
From the Ashes
Stroke of Death
Ice Maiden
Snap, Crackle…
What If…
Talking Bones
String of Tears
Inked Forever
Psychic Visions Books 1–3
Psychic Visions Books 4–6
Psychic Visions Books 7–9
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
About This Book
Complimentary Download
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
About Hide ’n Go Seek
Sneak Peek from Hide ’n Go Seek
About Simon Says…
Author’s Note
Complimentary Download
About the Author
Copyright Page
About This Book
The visions could destroy her. But they might help him catch a killer…
Shunned and ridiculed all her life for something she can’t control, Samantha Blair hides her psychic abilities. She lives on the fringes of society – until drawn out. Against her will, she taps into a killer’s victims. Each woman’s murder, blow-by-blow, ravages her mind until their death finally releases her. Sam goes to the authorities, but will the rugged, no-nonsense detective in charge of tracking down the killer want anything to do with her?
Detective Brandt Sutherland only trusts hard evidence. Yet Sam’s visions offer clues he needs. Desperately. He learns they come at a terrible price though. And the more he discovers about her abilities, the more worried he gets. Her visions threaten the killer.
Danger and desire collide. And now Brandt must play a deadly game he dare not lose. If he does, Sam won’t have a vision of the next murder. She’ll be the victim…
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KILL OR BE KILLED
Part of an elite SEAL team, Mason takes on the dangerous jobs no one else wants to do – or can do. When he’s on a mission, he’s focused and dedicated. When he’s not, he plays as hard as he fights.
Until he meets a woman he can’t have but can’t forget. Software developer, Tesla lost her brother in combat and has no intention of getting close to someone else in the military. Determined to save other US soldiers from a similar fate, she’s created a program that could save lives. But other countries know about the program, and they won’t stop until they get it – and get her.
Time is running out … For her … For him … For them …
DOWNLOAD free military romance? Just tell me where to send it!
Chapter 1
March 18 at 2:35 a.m.
Samantha Blair struggled against phantom restraints. No, not again.
This wasn’t her room or her bed, and it sure as hell wasn’t her body. Tears welled and trickled slowly from eyes not her own. Then the pain started. Still she couldn’t move. She could only endure. Terror clawed at her soul, while dying nerves screamed.
The attack became a frenzy of stabs and slices, snatching away all thought. Her body jerked and arched in a macabre dance. Black spots blurred her vision, and still the slaughter continued.
Sam screamed. The terror was hers, but the cracked, broken voice was not.
Confusion reigned, as her mind grappled with reality. What was going on?
Understanding crashed in on her. With it came despair and horror.
She’d become a visitor in someone else’s nightmare. Locked inside a horrifying energy warp, she’d linked to this poor woman, whose life dripped away from multiple gashes.
Another psychic vision.
The knife slashed down, impaling the woman’s abdomen, splitting her wide from rib cage to pelvis. Her agonized scream echoed on forever in Sam’s mind. She cringed.
The other woman slipped into unconsciousness. Sam wasn’t offered the same gift. Now the pain was Sam’s alone. The stab wounds and broken bones became Sam’s to experience, even though they weren’t hers.
The woman’s head cocked to one side, her cheek resting on the blood-soaked bedding. From the new vantage point, Sam’s horrified gaze locked on a bloody knife, held high by a man dressed in black from the top of his head down. Only his eyes showed, glowing with feverish delight. She shuddered. Please, dear God, let it end soon.
The attacker’s fury died suddenly. A fine tremor shook his arm, as fatigue set in. “Shit.” He removed his glove and scratched the exposed skin.
In the waning moonlight, from the corner of her eye, Sam caught the metallic glint of a ring on his finger. It mattered. She knew it did. She struggled to imprint the image before the opportunity was lost. Her eyes drifted closed. In the darkness of her mind, the wait for Death was endless.
Sam’s soul wept. Oh, God, she hated this. Why? Why was she here? She couldn’t help the woman. She couldn’t even help herself.
Sam welcomed the next blow—so light, only a minor flinch undulated through the dreadfully damaged body of this woman. Maybe the poor woman had passed on. Sam’s tortured spirit stirred deep within the rolling waves of blackness, struggling for freedom from this nightmare.
With one last surge of energy, the woman opened her eyes and locked on to the killer’s gaze staring back from within the mask. In ever-slowing heartbeats, her—and Sam’s—circle of vision narrowed, until the two soulless orbs blended into one small band, before it blinked out altogether. The silence, when it came, was absolute.
Gratefully Sam relaxed into the woman’s death.
Twenty minutes later, Sam bolted upright in her own bed. Survival instincts screamed at her to run. White agony dropped her in place.
“Ooooh,” she cried out. Fearing more pain, she slid her hands over her belly. Her fingers slipped along the raw edges of a deep slash. Searing pain made her gasp and twist away. Hot tears poured. Warm sticky fluid coated her fingers. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God,” she chanted.
Staring in confusion around her, fear, panic, and finally recognition seeped into her dazed mind. Early morning rays highlighted the water stains on the ceiling, shining through the slapdash coat of whitewash on there, and Sam’s banged-up suitcases, open on the floor. An empty room—an empty life. A remnant of a foster-care childhood.
She was home.
Memories swamped her, flooding her senses with yet more hurt. Sam broke down. Like an animal, she tried to curl into a tiny ball, only to scream again as pain jackknifed through her. Torn edges of muscle tissue and flesh rubbed against each other, and broken ribs creaked with her slightest movement. Blood slipped over her torn breasts to soak the sheets below.
The smell. Wet wool fought with the unique and unforgettable smell of fresh blood.
Sam caught her breath and froze, her face hot, tight with agony. “Shit, shit, and shit!” She swore under her breath, like a mantra.
Tremors wracked her tiny frame, keeping the pain alive, as she morphed through realities. Transition time. What a joke. That always brought images of New Age mumbo jumbo to mind. Nothing light and airy could describe this. Each blow leveled at the victim had manifested in Sam’s own body. This was hard-core healing time for Sam—time when bones knitted, sliced ligaments and muscle tissue grew back together, and skin stitched itself closed.
Sam understood her injuries had something to do with her imperfect control, paired with her inability to accept her gifts. Apparently, if she could surmount the latter, the first would diminish. She didn’t quite understand how or why. Or what to do about it. Her body somehow always healed; the physical and mental scars always remained. She was a mess.
The physical process usually took anywhere from ten to twenty minutes—depending on the injuries. The mental confusion, disconnectedness, sense of isolation took longer to disappear. She paid a high price for moving too soon. Shuddering, Sam reached for the frayed edges of her control. It wouldn’t be much longer. She hoped.
Nothing could stop the hot tears, leaking from her closed eyelids.
This session had been bad. Apart from the broken ribs, there were so many stab wounds. She’d never experienced one death so physically damaging. Nervously she wondered at the extent of her blood loss. If she didn’t learn how to disconnect, these visions could be the end of her—literally.
Just like that poor woman.
Sam hated that these episodes were changing, growing, developing. So powerful and so ugly, they made her sick to her soul.
Several minutes later, Sam raised her head to survey the bed. The pain was manageable, although she wouldn’t move her limbs yet. Blood had soaked the top of the many Thrift Store blankets piled high on the bed. Her hollowed belly had become a vessel for the cooling puddle of blood. Shit. The stuff was everywhere.
The metallic taste clung to her lips and teeth. She rolled the disgusting spit around the inside of her mouth, waiting. She wanted to run away—from the memories, the visions, her life. But knowing that pain simmered beneath the surface, waiting to rip her apart, stopped her. Weary, ageless patience added to the bleakness in her heart.
Ten more minutes passed. Now she should be good to go. Lifting her head, she spat the bloody gob onto the waiting wad of tissue and noted the time.
Transition had taken fifteen minutes this morning.
She was improving.
Oh, God. Sam broke into sobs again. When would this end? Other psychics found things or heard things. Many of them saw events before they happened. She saw violence—not only saw it but experienced it too.
Occasional shudders racked her frame from the coldness that seemed destined to live in her veins. The odd straggling sniffle escaped. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been warm. Dropping the top blood-soaked blanket to the floor, Sam tugged the motley collection of covers tighter around her skinny frame. Warmth was a comfort that belonged to others.
She wasn’t so lucky.
She walked with one foot on the dark side—whether she liked it or not. And that was the problem. She’d been running for a long time. Then she’d landed at this cabin and had been hiding ever since. That was no answer either.
Her resolve firmed. Enough was enough. It was time to gain control of her gift. Time to do something, even if just reading more books on psychics, maybe finding one she could talk to. This monster had to be stopped.
Plus, Christ, she was tired of waking up dead.
Chapter 2
June 16 at 10:23 a.m.
Two months later, the police station, a huge stonework building, towered above Sam, blending into the gray skies above. Or maybe she just felt small. Insignificant. She couldn’t imagine choosing to spend time in this depressing place. It only needed gargoyles hanging from the dormers to complete the picture of doom.
The entire idea of what these people did defeated her. She understood the necessity, yet, given her insider knowledge, this whole human-viciousness thing was too much. She wouldn’t be here now, except another woman had been murdered.
Given her past interactions with the police, even that wouldn’t have been enough to make her sign up for more. The last cop she’d dealt with had been one badass bastard.
No. The ring had brought her here.
This morning’s killer had worn a similar ring to the one Sam had seen a couple months ago in another vision. She’d caught only a brief glimpse of it then, with the memory surviving transition to burn an indelible mark on her heart. Even the mask and gloves had looked similar. The biggest nail in this guy’s coffin had been the energy. Like DNA, the energy for each individual was unique, a personalized signature so to speak. Both killers had the same energy, the same variations in wavelengths and ripples. Even the same vibration. But that was hardly police evidence.
Knowing that some asshole had killed again filled her heart with sorrow and slowed her steps. Several fat raindrops splattered her face—the joys of living along coastal Oregon.
The weather didn’t bother her; the crowds and noise did. And the smell. Exhaust, sweat, and perfumes mixed to become something only a city dweller could love. No, the outlying community of Parksville suited her perfectly. The trip into Portland was only twenty minutes on a good day.
Strangers with umbrellas shouldered past her. Would any of them believe her if she told them about the murders she’d witnessed, experienced? She’d faced distrust and skepticism with every foster family. As a precocious six-year-old, she’d told her foster mother’s coworker to look after her son better. She’d been punished at the time. But, when the boy had drowned in his backyard pool, Sam had really suffered. She’d been dumped back into the system, and the label “odd” had been added to her file. Her gift scared people.
Today she had no choice. She had to come here. She couldn’t stand by and let this guy kill again. Still it was a long shot to ask the police to believe her, when she couldn’t supply a time frame, a name, or even the location of victim or killer. She just didn’t know.
She squared her shoulders. Hitched up her faded jeans. No more. Disbelief or not, she had to do this. She ran up the last few steps.
The interior of the station felt no less imposing. Twenty-foot-tall ceilings lined with dark wood created a doomsday atmosphere. Great. She lined up and waited. When her turn arrived, she stepped to the counter.
The officer glanced at her. “Can I help you, miss?”
Wiping her damp palms on the front of her jeans, she took a deep breath and muttered, “Yes.” She paused, eyeing him carefully. How could she tell the good cops from the bad ones?
The older-looking officer, his expression encouraging and steadfast, helped calm her nerves. Except her ability to judge people had never been good. Sam hesitated a moment longer, before the words blurted out on their own accord. “I need to talk to someone about a murder.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Two murders.” Even she recognized the apology in her voice.
His eyes widened.
Okay, she sounded like she had one screw loose. Still there wasn’t any delicate way to approach this. She dropped her gaze to her tattered sneakers, almost hidden beneath her overly long pants.
“What murders, miss?” His voice, so kind and gentle, contrasted with the sharpness of his gaze.
Shifting, she glanced around. She didn’t want to talk about this out in the open. The line of people started several feet behind her. Still… she leaned closer. “Please, I need to speak with someone in private.”
She twisted the ribbing of her forest-green sweater around her fingers—a response to the intensity of his gaze. Catching herself, she stilled, as if locked in space and time. Not so her stomach, which roiled in defiance. This had to happen now, or she’d never force herself back again.
When he nodded, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Go take a seat. I’ll contact someone.”
Sam spun away and stumbled into the next person in the line behind her. Flushing with embarrassment, she apologized and retreated to a chair against the far wall. She closed her eyes and rubbed her face, as she calmed her breathing. She’d made it this far. The rest… Well… she could only hope it would be just as easy.
It wasn’t.
“Okay. Let’s go over this one more time.” The no-nonsense officer sat across from her in the small office. His crew cut had just enough silver at the tips to make him distinguished-looking, accenting what she suspected would be a black-and-white attitude.
He scratched on the notepad for a moment and frowned. He tossed his pen and opened a drawer to search for another one. “Two women have been murdered? You just don’t know who?” He glanced from his notes to her, in inquiry.
She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
“Right,” he continued, staring at her. “You don’t know by whom? You say one man killed both women, but you don’t know that for sure? And you don’t know where these women could be. Is that correct?”
Sam nodded again. Her fingers clenched together on her lap.
“Therefore, these women, if they existed and if they were murdered, could have lived anywhere in the world—right?” He quirked an eyebrow at her.
“Right, but…”
“Just answer the question. Could these women and their supposed killer be, for example, in England?”
