Ben looked confused. "So you're a psychic who doesn't believe in psychics?"
"I . . . I honestly don't know." It was the truth, at least. "Feel free to kick me out of here, you know, whenever you like."
Why was she sharing this information with him? She wasn't exactly sure, although sometimes it was better to admit one's weaknesses right away so there'd be no room for later misunderstandings. It might have also had a lot to do with Detective Hanson bringing out the schoolgirl babble inside of her. Once her mouth started spilling words, it was hard to stop the flood.
He studied her for at least thirty seconds before his frown turned into the first smile she'd seen on his face--and wow, he had one hell of a great smile. "I think you might be the only skeptical psychic I've ever met."
He scanned her then, from her long auburn ponytail draped over her right shoulder to her green peasant-style silk shirt to the tan leather ankle boots she'd bought only yesterday to go with the dark jeans she wore.
Whatever she'd said--well, the truth--was enough to make handsome Detective Hanson look at her a little differently. A good differently. She leaned against the kitchen counter and tried to look as alluring as humanly possible, but her elbow slipped so she straightened up. She was more than a little uncomfortable being in the house of a serial killer--although, by the looks of it, a very neat and organized one--but she pretended not to be as she felt Detective Hanson's gaze take her in.
"Huh. Interesting," he finally proclaimed.
She couldn't tell if he meant that in a good or bad way. "I'm sorry if you think I'm wasting your time."
He grinned. "Actually, I already thought this trip here today was a waste of time to begin with. You had nothing to do with it. But I appreciate you being honest with me."
"Honesty is a virtue, Detective Hanson."
"Please . . . call me Ben." He glanced at the clock on the wall that read almost five and then turned his attention back to Eden. "So do you need to be anywhere after this or would you like to grab some dinner?"
Remain calm, Eden, she commanded herself as a flush of pleasure heated her cheeks. Detective Handsome was asking her out. And he wanted her to call him Ben.
Her empty stomach growled its enthusiastic approval. "That sounds like--" Then she froze as the strangest feeling came over her. A chill that made the hair stand up on her arms. "Shit."
Ben frowned. "What?"
She brought a hand to her head as a strange, fuzzy image flickered through her mind. Damn it, not now.
She was the "skeptical psychic," as Ben had just described her. But there it was--a feeling crawling down her spine that she couldn't ignore if she'd wanted to. She'd had the feeling many times before in her life, since she was a little girl, but it came and went and was never anything she could channel or control. An awareness that didn't rely on any of her usual five senses.
Suddenly the coat closet just beyond the kitchenette was all she could concentrate on. Something was in there--possibly a clue to help find the maniac the police were looking for.
"What exactly did this creep do?" she asked quietly.
His expression turned grim. "What he did was kill one woman a week by posing as a pizza delivery guy. Eight weeks and eight deaths. Then suddenly he stopped three weeks ago--no more murders since then. It's strange because usually serial killers begin to escalate once they've established a pattern. We don't know when he'll start again, but it's only a matter of time."
A chill went down her spine. If she could do something, anything, then it would be worth it. She pushed away from the counter and walked directly toward the coat closet.
"I know what I said earlier about not really believing in my abilities," she began, "but I'm getting this weird vibe right now."
"Weird vibe?" The cool, cynical edge was back.
The impulse was too strong to ignore. "This will only take a second. It's probably nothing."
Hell, with her track record, maybe it was the guy's dog.
Eden wrapped her fingers around the handle. The hinges creaked as she slowly opened the door.
She blinked and stared with disbelief at what she saw.
She'd been right. There was a clue inside. A big clue.
A clue that was about six feet tall, 250 pounds, and held a large knife.
For a long, frozen second she stared, unable to move or speak with only one thought flitting through her head--
What were the damn odds that the very serial killer they were looking for would be in the house? Hiding in the freaking closet?