Homicide Detective, Nick Brody sat behind his desk. What to a casual observer must appear to be a desk, however, not an inch of it could be seen under the mountain of files that lay atop of it. To the unobserved eye it looked like an elaborate illusion of file after file suspended in mid air. To have described it as cluttered would not have done it justice, the file folders were stacked one on top of each other and were so high that they were dangerously close to toppling over. It was only by some super human feat or by some miracle that he knew where every case file, rap sheet, and report was, and could pluck it out of the stacks with the precision of a Jenga player. If an officer came in looking for a file and Nick couldn't immediately locate it. It was because it had never crossed his desk or didn't exist. His office made neat freaks queasy. To him it was organized chaos in comparison to his car. If you couldn't stand clutter he would be the last person you would car pool with. There had been a few occasions when colleagues and coworkers had opted for the bus instead.

The rookie barged in as usual without knocking to sit and chat through his much deserved and well earned 15 minute break from the front desk. It was a testament to his eagerness to be the best cop he could be that he wasn't worn to a frazzle by the constant crazies and weirdoes that frequented the precinct. He was always ready to regale him with the latest story of the newest psycho that had stumbled through their front doors.

On any other day he would be ready with a quip or a snide remark to fill in the blanks of the very infrequent pauses, but today he had a lot on his mind. His birthday was coming up this weekend and he knew very well what that meant─ the annual call from his mother.

At that moment his phone rang, call him psychic, he knew who was on the other end, and the caller ID confirmed it. He briefly considered not answering it, but he knew she would just hound him until he did. He reached for the phone not bothering to ask for some privacy. He would use the rookie as an excuse to abbreviate the conversation. He needed a buffer to the Southern belle affected attitude she always adopted when she thought there was a slight chance she was not going to get her way. His hard ass father had always capitulated to her very obvious manipulations, but he was determined not to cater to her. Anyone would agree that the cards were stacked in her favor and she knew it; she had been born the daughter of a rich oil magnet, later to become a beauty queen and devoted wife of the next president of the United States, if his father had anything to say about. Well he hoped he wasn't counting on his vote, because it would be a cold day in hell before that happened. Was it any wonder she was used to getting her own way? But not with him, her annual appeal had fallen on deaf ears, and had done so for the whole of his adult life. He would rather have a root canal without any Novocain than spend a painful evening with the self-centered over indulged people that had the audacity to call themselves his parents.

He brought the receiver to his ear with a sigh, and said, "Hello Mother," as he gestured to the rookie to sit back down.

5 minutes later he hung up the phone having only said four words. They were as follows and not always in that order NO, and YOU KNOW WHY.

To his relief he did not have to say another thing, as he suspected his mother monopolized the conversation. He had to admit she was good. She had used all the right phrases: You're breaking my heart, I won't live forever you know, and his personal favorite can't you just let by-gones be by-gones? None of it made him suddenly want to forgive and forget. She brandished her tears like nuclear weapons. They seemed to always hang on the periphery. She stockpiled them like a cold war country .Often the threat of release had been enough to get what she wanted from him and his brother.

With the thought of his brother, he knew the call was dangerously close to escalating to something very ugly, ironically he thought, now was the time to play his rookie card.

"Mother, I have someone in my office we are discussing police business. Thanks for the call; I'll talk to you later."

He heard one dry sob before he gently hung up. His mother was a pro. She could put a Catholic mother to shame. After her calls he always felt like he should have packed a bags, because his mother had sent him on one hell of a royal guilt trip.

The rookie looked like he didn't want to exacerbate the tense situation, but Nick could tell he was dying to say something so he gestured for him to go ahead.

"Nick, why don't you just say yes? Your mother explained to me the other day when you put her off for the tenth time that she only asks for once a year. Why not just grin and bear it? I mean what could it hurt to have dinner with them?"

"Look Bobby, I apologize for making you deal with her, but what you don't understand is that one quiet family dinner would lead to a dinner party with all their closest friends and financial contributors, and then I would be expected to show up at every fund raising event this side of Texas; until finally, it would be naturally presumed that I would make my dutiful appearance at strategic locations along the campaign trail, coincidentally, coinciding with the constituents that are very family orientated, or just want to take a bite out of crime." Nick made an ah shucks arm gesture to add emphasis to his last statement.

"My parents don't care if they decimated worlds to get what they want. I'll be damned if I give them that power over me again." He was now as serious as a heart attack.

Bobby looked a little dejected. Hell, he knew he idolized him, and in the rookie's eyes he had come down a little in his estimation, but his idealism was bordering on dangerous. He needed a healthy dose of reality every once and awhile. And you couldn't get any more real than his dysfunctional little tribe.

"Let's drop the subject you only have five minutes left on your break. So what's the deal; any crazies come in this morning?

Bobby seemed to brighten, "Yeah, in fact she's still here, and she's a real looker too. Claims she has the power to see dead people like that movie by that Shyamalan guy. You know with the kid with the big eyes. I think Bruce Willis was in it.

"So what's the deal? Is she a schizoid or an attention seeker?" He knew Bobby loved it when he asked what he thought, and he knew he had to teach the rookie how to evaluate people and situations, before his naiveté got him killed.

"Well, I don't know," he said with a shrug, "she seems a little too polished and put together to be off her meds and she didn't look at all happy to be here. I've seen the attention seekers they seem to want to tell everyone their story and it gets bigger and bigger every time, besides they tend to only come out with the big cases ─the one that are in the news. I'm stumped. What do you think?"

"A good cop relies as much on instinct as he does on cold hard facts. What are your instincts telling you?"

"I can't see any reason for her to lie and I don't think she's crazy."

Nick rolled his arm in a circular gesture telling him to think it through; keep talking it out.

"I looked her up and aside from a stupid mistake when she was a little younger than me, she doesn't have a history with us. So I guess it can't hurt to hear her out.

Nick raised his eyebrow incredulously.

Making the rookie rush on, "I mean you do hear about psychics solving missing person cases, maybe she really does see dead people, and if she does then I think she could be a valuable tool to the homicide department seeing that 100% of the cases you deal with involve," he hesitated before he said this not knowing how far he could go, but he seemed to reach a decision that he was perhaps already in too deep, "well... dead people," he blanched.

Tell you what. I'll meet with her, ask a few questions, and let you know what I think after the day shift. I just want you to know that sometimes your instincts can be wrong. Lean on them, but don't rely solely on them."

"Sure Nick. I'll get her." The rookie hurried out of the office.

The rookie wasted no time in ushering an attractive woman in behind him. He was right she was well put together. A little too well put together. Her clothes were immaculately kept with no signs of neglect; her glowing face showed no sign of torment, and her eyes shone with a brilliance that was normally not seen in people suffering from a psychosis. There was no way she was a schizo off her meds. They tended to come into the precinct looking like something the cat had dragged in, and if they weren't violent they were paranoid. When she sat down she did it with grace and poise. She didn't fidget or shy away from him. Hell every strand of hair on her head looked like it had be rammed into place and ordered to stay there. Something wasn't right about her though, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

No, she was not crazy, but that didn't mean she wasn't dangerous. He had studied criminology and psychology and he knew that guilt could be a very powerful thing. You didn't need to read Shakespeare or Poe to know that it could get under your skin. Maybe she had killed someone and

had come up with the idea of pretending to be a psychic to cover her tracks; maybe her conscience was getting the better of her.

He'd listen all right and let her dig her own grave...

Twenty minutes later Nick sat across from the woman in his office in slacked jaw disbelief. He didn't know where to begin. In order to examine her closer he had come around the desk to perch on its edge. He'd had to shove the large stack over gently and when it had wobbled and then dangle precariously over the other side she had looked mortified.

Now he released a deep frustrated sigh as he said, "Look lady, do you expect me to believe that a swamp thing has been visiting you in your room every night for the last 20 nights? Let me get this straight; you know she's dead, but you can't tell me: her name, what she looks like, or how she died, or more importantly where she's buried. That's assuming she's in the ground."

Miranda nodded her head in agreement.

"Let's just say that if I suspended my disbelief for a moment and all my reasoning faculties. How do you even know she is a homicide victim? She could've jumped in a ravine, for all you know."

Nick flinched when the wacko shot up from the chair like she had been hit with a cattle prod. She stood with her back ramp rod straight and her head held high, and said with a voice as cold as an Arctic breeze, "I think we are through her Mr. Brody. I've satisfied my responsibility. If you need anything else from me the front desk sergeant has my number."

"Thanks for your time."

Nick bit out, "Speaking of time, thanks for wasting mine. and as if to punctuate his point, he growled, "Lady may I make a suggestion? The next time a dead woman comes to your room at night: try to get a name, address, and exact means and time of death, maybe it will save us both some trouble."

With that being said, the prissy little miss stalked out of the office with as much dignity as she could muster slamming his door behind her. He'd give her this, he thought; she sure as hell knew how to hide her crazy. He whistled under his breath as the door reverberated on the frame. 

Thanks for reading. Please vote, comment, share, or add this book to your library. You won't be disappointed you have. It's a non stop thrill ride guaranteed to keep you awake at night. Cheers my lovelies. 

Deborah