Always Look Twice. Sheri WhiteFeather

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      Following her lead, he removed his sport coat. But he hung it in the closet. Neat and tidy, she thought. Even when he was drunk.

      She glanced at the bed, then sat in one of the straight-back chairs. “Feel free to apologize anytime.”

      West grabbed the chair with her jacket, turned it around and straddled it. His face was shadowed in harsh lines and angles, making him look sensually surreal. “How’d you get that scar?”

      “That’s my apology?”

      “I’m sorry for being an ass. Now, how’d you get that scar?”

      She touched her own throat, using the tip of her finger like a blade. “None of your business, and your apology sucked.”

      He shrugged. “I think I already know. I just haven’t figured out the details yet.”

      “So what?” She met his gaze, looking into those unnerving eyes.

      “I’ll bet you got that raspy voice from whatever caused your scar. Women with husky voices fascinate me.”

      “Too bad I prefer men who can hold their liquor.”

      “But I can.” He laughed a little. “Most of the time.”

      She laughed, too. He had an odd brand of charm.

      A moment later they both turned solemn. The misbehaving lamp flickered once again, making her wonder about the Slasher, about how strong his powers were.

      “My ability isn’t error proof,” she said. “Sometimes I make mistakes.”

      “I didn’t think you were perfect. But you were right about my ex-wife. She couldn’t handle my job.”

      Olivia wondered if he would be telling her this if he was sober. “Did she cheat? Did she leave you for someone else?”

      He nodded. “It was the worst experience of my life. The most hurtful, I guess. I liked being married. I liked having a woman to come home to.” He studied her scar again. “We were together for six years.”

      “But did you love her, Agent West? Was she as important as your career?”

      He pondered the question. He was still straddling the jacket-draped chair, still looking surreal. “I loved her, but my job is my life. It’s who I am.” He pushed his hair away from his forehead. “Does that make me a bastard?”

      No, she thought. It just made him that much more appealing. Olivia’s work was her priority, too. “How old are you?” she asked, realizing the simple things about him eluded her.

      “Guess,” he said. “Figure it out.”

      “Thirty-six.”

      “Nope. I’m thirty-five, and you’re a lousy psychic.”

      That made her laugh. In spite of her imperfections, she knew she was good. He knew it, too. “Where are you from?”

      He removed his wallet and tossed his ID on the table. “I live in Virginia.”

      “Of course you do. The National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime is located there.” She took a good look at his license, wondering if he’d meant to reveal his home address, to let it sink into her memory. “That’s where you work, where criminal profiling is done. I was asking where you were from. Originally.”

      “I was born and raised in Oklahoma.” He tapped the rail of her chair with his boot. “And for the record, we call it criminal investigative analysis now. Profiling is an outdated term for what we do.”

      “Fine. Have you analyzed the Slasher?” she asked, knowing the LAPD was trying to get a handle on the killer, too.

      “Yes. But I’m going to return to the NCAVC on Monday to consult with my colleagues about it.”

      “You’re a team player.”

      “We all are. We’re supposed to be.”

      She glanced at his boots. They were the only scuffed part of him. “Do you trust me, West?” Or was he fooling her with his ID?

      He blew out a rough breath, wafting the smell of alcohol in her direction. “I don’t trust very many people. Seeing the cruelty humans are capable of makes me distance myself from them. But even so, I wouldn’t want to do this alone. Looking at grisly pictures day in and day out gets to a man. Or a woman,” he added.

      “I should go.” She still hadn’t decided if she trusted him, either. “You need to sleep it off.”

      “I suppose you’re right.” He came to his feet. “Are you going to pour me into bed?”

      She shook her head, gathering her belongings. “I’m sure you can do that by yourself.”

      He made a troubled face. “I’m not staying here when I get back from Virginia. This room gets too cold at night.”

      Her heartbeat pummeled her chest. “You’ve felt the ghost?”

      “I don’t know. Maybe.”

      “Too much death,” she said.

      “Yeah.” He almost touched her scar. Almost, but not quite. His hand lingered, then fell away. “Be careful, Olivia.”

      “You, too.” It seemed like a strange thing to say to a man who’d been analyzing killers for years, who knew what made them tick.

      But as she left him standing at the door, battling a state of inebriation, she got the stomach-clenching sensation that Special Agent West was going to die.

      Not tonight. But sometime during this investigation.

      And she was going to be there when it happened.

      The moment Olivia entered the loft, Samantha hissed at her. The living room was dark, but she could see a vague outline of the cat, a small black shape, a glint of green eyes.

      She moved farther into the room, then stopped dead in her tracks. She could see another shadowy image in the corner.

      Still, lifeless. Slumped over in a chair.

      “Allie!” She screamed her sister’s name and nearly tripped on the hissing cat when she attempted to turn on the light.

      Finally she reached the lamp and illuminated the room. A bundle of blankets lay in the chair.

      No body.

      No blood.

      No Allie.

      Olivia tore through the loft like a maniac, going from room to room. Suddenly the place seemed like a maze, with its high ceilings and eclectic furniture. She brushed by a tall, leafy fern, felt it tickle her skin, felt goose bumps attack her arm.

      Nothing. No one.

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