He was just as bronzed up top as he was below, and she would guess his ancestry Egyptian. His eyes, though … they were the lightest green, emeralds plucked from a collector’s greatest treasure. Long black lashes framed those jewels, almost feminine in their prettiness.
Not the only thing pretty about him, she thought then. His lips were lush and pink, the kind her best friend and roommate Lana would “kill to have … all over me.”
And, okay, enough of that. Harper wasn’t here for a date, wasn’t sure she’d ever date again. The past few weeks, she could not tolerate even the thought of being touched. Maybe because every time she closed her eyes she felt phantom hands whisking over her, heard the laugh of a madman who enjoyed inflicting pain, and smelled the coppery tang of blood deep in her nostrils.
She could have written off the sensations as an overactive imagination, except … sometimes she fell asleep in one room and woke up in another. Sometimes she would be in her kitchen, or in her studio room painting, or anywhere, really, and would blink and find herself standing in a neighborhood she didn’t recognize.
The blackouts freaked her out, filled her with soul-shuddering panic, and each time she realized she was someplace new, her mind would paint her surroundings with blood, fill her ears with screams … such pain-drenched screams.
The only explanation that fit was that she’d witnessed a murder, but had suppressed the details. Suppressed until she painted, that is, the blurred images of horrors no one should ever have to bear taking shape and emerging unbidden. Either that, or crazy had razed the edges of her brain and she needed to be locked away for her own safety.
“Honey, I asked you a question and you need to answer it.”
The harshness of Levi’s voice jerked her out of her mind. Guess he was done calling her by her name and even the old-lady “ma’am,” and was now resorting to endearments that sounded more like curses.
“No,” she said, just to pick at him. “Not ‘honey.’ I told you. I’m Harper.”
One black brow arched into his hairline, and for a moment he appeared amused with her rather than accusatory. “Is that a first or last name?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah.”
She popped her jaw, finding strength in the familiarity of an irritation she’d never been able to shake. Her mother had named her after a fairy-tale princess and had expected Harper to mimic her namesake. Years of training in manners and deportment, followed by years of competing in a pageant circuit she’d despised, had nearly drained the fighting spirit out of her. Nearly. “Well, I’m not telling you the rest of my name.” He’d laugh; he’d tease her.
He shrugged those beautifully wide shoulders. “Easy enough to find out. A few calls, and boom.” He paused, clearly waiting for her to jump in.
“I will never willingly volunteer it, so you’ll just have to make those calls.”
A gleam of challenge entered those green, green eyes. “So be it.” He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned closer to her, the scents of minty toothpaste and pungent gun oil intensifying. Scents she really, really liked, if the flutter of her pulse points was any indication. “Let’s backtrack a bit. Tell me again what you think you’re painting.”
This was the third time he’d demanded that information, and she’d watched enough cop shows to know he was testing her, looking for any mistakes between her first and subsequent telling. If he found them, he could write her off as a liar.
“Shouldn’t you be taking notes?” she said, stalling.
“No.”
“You’ll forget—”
“I never forget.”
“Anything?”
“Not anything like this.”
How intriguing. “Really, because that’s—”
“Talk,” he barked.
His intensity gave her the strength to obey. “Okay.” She closed her eyes and forced the painting to the front of her mind. “There’s a cold metal slab, stainless steel, I think, and it’s splattered with dried b-blood. There are shackles at the top and bottom, holding a woman’s wrists and ankles, and those are also splattered. There are holes on the slab and floor … drains, I think, and they’re splattered, as well. There’s a man. He’s clutching a knife over the woman’s abdomen.” Every word caused her heart rate to quicken and little beads of sweat to dot her skin. Sweat, yet her blood had thickened with ice.
“Describe the man.”
“I can’t.” Her lashes fluttered open as a shudder rocked her. Nausea rolled through her stomach, a common occurrence these days. “I haven’t yet painted his face.” Wasn’t sure she wanted to see it. Even the thought of him made her want to hide under her covers and cry.
“What have you painted of him?”
“His lower body. His arms. Some of his chest.”
“And he’s wearing …?”
Good question. She’d been so focused on what was happening in the picture that she hadn’t paid any attention to the little details her mind had somehow caught. “A white button-up shirt and dark slacks.”
“Possibly a businessman, then. Gloves?”
“No.”
“Is he pale, tan, black, what?”
“Tan, though not as tan as you.”
“Okay, now describe the woman.”
“I can’t,” she repeated, a mere whisper. She flattened a hand over her stomach, hoping to ward off even a little of the sickness. “Not her face, I mean. She’s naked, and her skin is pale.”
“Does she have any birthmarks or scars?”
Harper licked her lips, pictured the female and shook her head. “If she does, I haven’t added them yet.”
His gaze sharpened on her, more intense than before and kind of, well, terrifying. This was not a guy to anger, or taunt, or even to play with. He would retaliate, no question. “How much of her have you painted?”
“All but the head.”
“Is she a brunette, blonde or redhead?”
“How would I—”
His pointed gaze explained for him.
“Oh. Uh, I don’t actually know. The bottom half of her is blocked by the man’s torso.”
“Is she alive or dead in the painting?”
“Dead, I think.” And probably happy to have escaped the pain.
Silence once again permeated the room, thick and oppressive, reminding her of exactly why she hadn’t wanted to come here. She’d known he would doubt her—as she sometimes doubted herself—or suspect her of playing a part in the murder.
Lana believed the woman was indeed real and Harper had stumbled upon the scene. As an employee of the Oklahoma City branch of After Moonrise, a company specializing in grisly murders and the spirits those murders sometimes left behind, she ought to know. But her belief stemmed not from the painting, but from the fact that there were two weeks neither Harper nor Lana could account for. Harper could have been trapped with the man and his victim, and somehow, miraculously, have managed to escape.
Her friend had showed the painting to her coworkers, but they hadn’t taken the case. Lana had even begged—which, in her case,