Page 73 of Kill Me Again: Psychics

“Some warning would’ve been nice,” I hissed.

We moved through the rooms downstairs together. Nothing seemed amiss. No signs of a struggle. Just the usual clutter of a lived-in house. Unwashed dishes in the sink. Cushions in disarray.

That left two choices: leave or go upstairs.

Lake led the way this time, grimacing as the first stair creaked. I avoided the place he’d stepped, managing to stay silent. In a less pressured situation, I would’ve been smug about that.

A door stood open at the top. Still no lights. I’d hoped one might be on at the back of the house. Lake paused in the doorway and swept the room with his phone. The light caught just enough to show that someone lay on the bed.

“Jamie?” I called softly.

No answer.

I guided Lake’s arm back toward the bed. He swore quietly as the light fell across it. Jamie lay there, head lolling at an awkward angle.

Not sleeping.

The room told the rest of the story: a lamp knocked over, a chest of drawers overturned, one curtain almost torn from its rail. No blood, but the discarded pillow beside Jamie told its own suffocating truth.

How long after the call had it happened?

Immediately? Or could we have stopped it if we’d gotten here faster?

Lake backed away. I let him, stepping aside as he passed. “Now we call the police,” he said.

“Wait.”

I covered my hand with my sleeve before flipping the light switch. The bright light made everything worse. Nineteen years might have passed since Jamie and I had been an item, but that didn’t erase the memory of what we’d once been to each other.

And now he was dead. Because of me. I was certain that this was a message. You’re next sprang to mind.

“Wait for what?” Lake asked, confused. “He’s dead.”

“He saw him,” I said, thoughts racing. “He knows who did this. Or at least what he looks like.”

Lake ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in tufts. “He’s dead, Baxter,” he said gently, as if he thought me, of all people, struggled with the concept. “There’s no coming back from that. I know you did, but that’s the exception, not the rule. Most people don’t.” He stopped abruptly, realizing he was rambling.

My eyes stayed on Jamie as I wrestled with the moral dilemma of what was right versus what I needed. “Maybe in your world,” I said. “Mine’s different.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Necromancers.” I already had my phone out. “And I know three.” The phone rang and rang, Calisto not picking up before it went to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message, calling Asher instead. He picked up on the third ring, sounding as alert as ever. Like he’d been sitting waiting for my call rather than sleeping. “I need to talk to Calisto,” I said. “It’s an emergency. Can you wake him for me?”

Asher didn’t argue. A murmured exchange followed before Calisto came on the line. “Baxter?” Sleep still clung to his voice.

“I need your help,” I said. “I kind of have a situation.” I launched into as brief an explanation of the last couple of weeks as I could without leaving anything crucial out: the graveyard; the reunion with Jamie; the calls; the man outside my window; and then finally what we’d just discovered. “Do I need to spell out what I’m asking of you?”

“No,” Calisto said, followed by silence.

“You could lose your license,” Asher, always the practical one, warned in the background.

I waited, aware of Lake shaking his head. Calisto could go either way. There’d been a time when I could have asked him for anything and he wouldn’t have hesitated. That was before. Before he’d met Asher. Before I’d cut him out of my life for months.

“Text me the address,” Calisto said at last.

Relief slammed into me. “Thank you.”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” he cautioned. “You of all people know how this works. It’s not guaranteed. Especially now that I don’t have you in the inbetween. Lost people stay lost now.”