Page 130 of The Diamond in the Rough

So he needed cash, and yesterday.

He fingered the hilt of his knife. It’d get him cash. Pull it on some rich ass. He’d give up the cash. No harm, no foul.

I pushed farther,closer to more recent thoughts rather than the stronger ones that had been repeated over and over. For months. Maybe years.

Damn and shit and fuck.

He was supposed to hand over the money. Just hand it over. Nice and easy.

But he didn’t.

And he needed it. More than that ass.

He’d panicked. Struck out.

It’d felt like butter. No. Not butter. Dough. Not like meat, tough and sinewy. Soft. Too soft to be a person.

And then it was hot and slick and sticky all at once.

And then the ass fell. And didn’t move.

He panicked.

I assumedthat was when he dropped the knife, because there were no other thoughts on it. Not even the dying man’s.

I looked up at Detective Maza, his dark eyes watchful, his tan skin oddly pale underneath. Ward said he’d recently recovered from the same Arcanavirus outbreak that had also made Seth Mays sick, as well as several other members of the RPD and crime scene teams. At least everyone had recovered, even if some of them had left their jobs as a result of what had happened. Including Seth, who Ward kept trying to find work for. He’d been essentially pushed out of his job for being a shifter.

I wondered if Maza had also acquired a new ability, not that it was any of my business.

“An addict,” I told him, and he nodded with a sigh. “He didn’t even take the money because he panicked.” I grimaced. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he even thought about what was happening until after he’d done it.”

“Not worth much,” Maza replied with a tired sigh. “Any chance you can help with an ID?”

I shook my head. “It doesn’t work that way.”

Maza grunted. “Hart said as much,” he replied. “But I was hoping to get something.”

“He did think about someone named Skim,” I said.

Maza sat up. “Skim?” he repeated.

I nodded.

“Well, now, that does cut down our options quite a bit,” he offered me a weak smile. “Knocks us down from pretty much any junkie in the city to a group of about a dozen, which is something I can actually work with.” He stood, then held out a hand for me to shake. I took it and gripped his hand. “Seriously, thanks,” he said.

“Of course,” came my reply. “Happy to help.”

After he left, I sat at the desk and thought about what had just happened.

I’d touched a knife, gotten thoughts from it, controlled how long and from when they came, and then was able to easily slide out of the memories to provide information to Detective Maza.

A few months ago, that would have been so far beyond my capacity that I wouldn’t have believed it would be possible with years of practice, much less—I did some quick math in my head—almost exactly fourteen weeks. Just over three months.

I was proud of that.

Proud of myself.

That was a new sensation. I’d been glad to complete things before, pleased with good grades, but none of them had ever really felt like anaccomplishment. This did.