Haunted Hearts Read online

  Ari sat in surprise for a long moment, then let out a breath. The chair where the man had been sitting vibrated with his energy. It rose and wobbled in the air, a mesmerizing metallic blue. With difficulty, she blinked it away.

  Aggravation and uncertainty roiled in her gut.

  Being mad was something she understood all too well. It was a state often caused by men who objectified her, treated her like an airhead, or thought they could order her around. When she refused to build up their fragile masculine egos, they usually blew a gasket. Like this Devlin guy.

  But somehow, he was different.

  She could almost still see the blue energy, could feel its odd magnetism. Though the man was gone, the echo of his voice hung in the air.

  And she wouldn’t mind if he walked back in. What did that mean?

  Ari stared out of the window, breathing carefully. It took another few minutes to slow her pulse and refocus on the task at hand.

  * * * *

  Nick slammed his car door and sat fuming. The nerve of that woman! He wanted to yank her by that black ponytail and… He scowled. What did he want to do? His exasperation morphed as he suddenly imagined pulling Dr. Ari Fairchild by the ponytail, feeling her body against his, sliding his hands under that tight black sweater she wore and squeezing those soft, round breasts… The image was powerful and uninvited but hard to let go of. She was gorgeous and strong. No nonsense. Different. He’d bet she’d come like a freight train if she ever let go of the controls.

  It had been way too long since he’d been with a woman like that. Actually, he’d never been with a woman like that. His typical dates were baby reporters, young women starting out at the station—Reporter Barbies, Rocky called them—or journalists who thought sleeping with him would be exciting. They were nice but vapid.

  Ari Fairchild was about as far from that category as a woman could be.

  “Shit.” He rolled down the car window and wished he hadn’t given up smoking. This would be a perfect time to suck some tar and nicotine into his lungs. Doing something destructive was tempting. Maybe he should drown his sorrows in a greasy burger as a late lunch, but he had no appetite.

  His phone rang and he grimaced. Marty Charles, station manager. Knowing he couldn’t ignore it, he hit Answer.

  “Good work pissing off the head-shrinker, Devlin.” As usual, Marty didn’t waste time with niceties.

  Nick stared unseeing out of the windshield. “Wasn’t my fault, Marty. She—”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck what she did or didn’t do.” His boss was angry. “I got a call from the department head, who was fit to be tied. Said you had a tantrum and walked out of the lady’s office.” A spitting noise was audible. Marty must be chewing on cigars again. “Fix it. Today.” He hung up.

  Nick stared at his phone, resisting the impulse to throw it out of the window.

  Ten minutes later, he was home. He spent a half-hour in the apartment gym, pummeling a punching bag until sweat rolled down his back and his arms throbbed. Back upstairs at his place, he toweled off, cracked open a beer and sat at his computer. He stared at Ari’s picture on the departmental website and wondered idly what her motives were for doing what she did. It was weird. Why would a beautiful, intelligent woman spend her career studying something everyone knew was bogus? Even if there were psychic phenomena—which was a big if—how could they be studied, really? He’d watched enough junk TV to know it was easy to exploit that kind of thing for ratings, but that was not what Ari Fairchild did. She was dead serious.

  Which, again, seemed strange. Not that he was any kind of expert on people, but she had seemed at least coherent and stable, not a raving lunatic or one of those gullible, innocent types. Just the opposite.

  The alcohol seeped into his blood, softening his frustration. He groaned as he picked up his phone and dialed her number. He hated making nice, even with someone whose mouth he couldn’t get out of his mind. Luckily, he had to leave a message, which was a relief. Short apology, promise to be respectful of her wishes, please call him back, yada yada.

  There. That was done. He showered and donned fresh clothes, ordered a pizza and settled on the couch for some reruns of CSI.

  His phone rang. Her.

  He inhaled and steadied himself. “Nick Devlin. Dr. Fairchild?”

  “Yes.” She paused. “I got your message. It sounds like…” She stopped, then started again. “It sounds like neither of us is being let off the hook.”

  Why did he feel a shade of regret for causing her trouble? “I’m sorry.”

  “I am, too. About the situation, I mean. It’s not what I would choose, but then again, that’s true of many things.”

  He grunted. “You said it.” He waited.

  “I’m interviewing the subjects tomorrow at their home. A first pass is all, to get the basic facts in order to plan my investigation. You can be there, but I need authority when it comes to when the camera is on and when it’s off. My graduate assistant will be making sure my instructions are honored.” Her voice was steely.

  He nodded. “My camera guy’s trustworthy. To tell you the truth, he’s kind of easily spooked. He won’t mind if we send him out of the room at any point.”

  She softened a bit. “We have a plan, then, Mr. Devlin. I’ll text you the address and time.”

  “Roger that. But…” There was something nagging at him. They hadn’t ever said a proper hello, and it felt awkward. “Call me Nick.” It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

  “If you prefer.” She didn’t reciprocate the offer of a first-name-basis relationship, but that was okay for now.

  “Good. See you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Three

  The house at 1414 Starling Pond Drive was on the edge of the older section of the city, before the mid-century suburbs took over. Tall, stately oak trees lined the street. Fourteen-fourteen was a large bungalow-style, built in the nineteen-twenties or thirties. It was surrounded by similar homes, all well-maintained, many decorated with the festive Halloween paraphernalia that indicated the presence of children. Shiny orange pumpkins and cinnamon brooms stood on front porches, strawbales and scarecrows sat in front yards, cottony cobwebs adorned the trees.

  Ari pulled up to the curb and took a moment to absorb the house from the outside. Nothing was obvious, and her shoulders relaxed. Those occasions when she felt—no, imagined—that a dark energy existed around something were those she found most difficult. It was a challenge with every investigation. She had to remind herself repeatedly, even now, that her imagination was hyperactive. As a child, her parents had had to tell her. Now she had to tell herself to blink and focus and press her fingernails into her palms in order to clear her head. It was tiring.

  The air was tinged with the chill of fall and she pulled her jacket around herself. She’d opted for casual dress today, her habit whenever interviewing subjects—denim jacket, skinny jeans and mid-calf boots, fitted white cotton shirt with a wide scoop neck and long sleeves, simple hoop earrings and wristwatch.

  A small battered Toyota pulled up behind her, and her graduate assistant, Samir Kapoor, hopped out, carrying a duffel bag of equipment. She met the young man and they walked up to the front porch. A giant papier-mâché spider, painted pink, sat on a swinging rocker, grinning at them.

  “Charming.” Samir smirked. “I’m guessing… Let’s see… Two girls. Ages between three and twelve. Or boy, only child, gay as hell, age anywhere between two and fifteen.”

  Ari laughed. “You’re close. Girls.”

  Samir shrugged. “I can dream, right? It would be fun to meet a mini me today. Everything I owned I painted pink until last year.”

  Ari rang the doorbell. “Oh, did you give that up? I hadn’t noticed.” She glanced at his pink tennis shoes. “And we’re not meeting the kids at all. Only interviewing the parents. That was part of the deal.”

  “Shame.” Samir cocked a hip and regarded her. “You have a weird thing about kids, don’t you?”

  She st
raightened as someone behind the closed door struggled with the lock. “Not talking about that.”

  She ignored Samir’s derisive snort as the front door opened. A young woman dressed in mom jeans and flats opened the screen door.

  “Hi. I’m Lindy Garcia. Come on in.”

  Ari nodded. “I’m Dr. Fairchild. Please call me Ari. This is Samir, my assistant.” She paused as a black Jeep and a silver pick-up rolled to the curb behind Samir’s Toyota. “And there’s the reporter and his camera guy.” Of course he drove a black Jeep. She had decided to ignore Nick Devlin as much as possible, putting his cocky obnoxiousness out of her mind. She glanced in his direction as he strode up the front walk. Cargo pants, faded blue T-shirt, messenger bag, Timberlands. Crazy, messy handsome. She swallowed and forced her gaze back to Lindy Garcia. “You got the consent form?” She’d spoken to the Garcias about the TV situation already but needed written confirmation.

  “Emailed it back to you a moment ago.” Lindy held the door for them to enter.

  Ari drew a breath as she walked into the main living area, bracing for the energy of the place. There was nothing to indicate that anything was amiss. Ordinary furnishings. A few children’s books and toys strewn in corners.

  A crucifix on the wall above the fireplace.

  It was a room like millions of others across the country, wholly unremarkable. Still, Ari couldn’t shake a vague sensation, a low buzz under her belly button. It’s nothing, she told herself. First-day hypervigilance is all. Shut it out and concentrate on the interviews.

  After hasty introductions, they assembled in the living room. Ari and Samir sat on one couch, Nick and the camera guy on the other. Lindy Garcia sat nervously in a side chair, her husband, Tom, next to her in a straight-backed kitchen chair.

  Ari focused on Lindy and Tom. “I’m going to start the voice recorder now,” she said, drawing a recorder, pad of paper and pen from her bag. “Samir brought other recording equipment, but we won’t be using that right now. We want to get the basic story from each of you about what’s been happening.” She nodded in the direction of Nick and Rocky. “The…journalists…are here to observe. They will not be making any recordings of any kind, nor will they be filming the interview.” She raised a brow and made eye contact with Nick for the first time that day.

  He was already focused on her.

  Her lips parted. His eyes were the clearest green imaginable.

  The small voice inside her, the one she kept locked away, piped up without warning. I like him, it declared. He’s nice. For a moment, time seemed to slow. She couldn’t wrestle herself back immediately, the way she usually did. A sensation of falling forward, into Nick’s eyes, was met with his slow nod of acknowledgment.

  She forced herself to meet Lindy’s open, anxious gaze. “Tell me what’s been happening. From the beginning.”

  The young woman rubbed her thighs as she spoke. “It started when we moved into this house, about a month ago. Our daughters began talking about seeing and hearing things.”

  Ari scribbled notes as she listened. “What kinds of things?”

  “Rosie, our oldest, started saying she was afraid to go to sleep at night because there was already someone in her bed, someone she thought she saw once, but not clearly. Only a shape. We thought it was related to a nightmare or something, you know. But then she said someone was messing up her bed after she’d made it in the morning and moving things around in her room. It was clear she was scared.” She stopped and gestured to her husband.

  He nodded. “Rosie started wanting to sleep in our room. At first we said no, but then we let her sleep in a sleeping bag next to our bed, thinking that might be uncomfortable and motivate her to go back to her room.”

  Lindy chimed in. “That’s when Violet, our baby, started talking about having another sister in the new house. Someone she liked, who was nicer to her than Rosie.” The woman shivered and gave Ari an imploring look. “Violet was four last month. She has a big imagination. We tried to tell her that her new friend was lovely but, of course, make-believe.”

  At this, Ari maintained her composure but the familiar scald of shame and confusion burned. She knew all too well what it was like to be told that what she saw and heard was only imagination. And, of course, that was what parents had to say—because it was true. Children do have extraordinary imaginations. Especially quirky, lonely little girls.

  She forced her tense arms to relax. “So far, I’m not hearing anything unusual. What makes you think there’s something paranormal to investigate?” This was where she had to be careful. It was possible, as with many of the cases she took on, that one or both girls had an emotional problem or were even being abused in some way. From the feel of the home and the way the Garcias spoke about their daughters, this didn’t seem likely, but she had to consider every possibility.

  Lindy glanced at her husband, then back at Ari. “A couple of weeks ago, Tom and I started to notice things. Things that seemed strange. Then it got more pronounced.”

  A light buzz in her ears told Ari that the attention of everyone in the room had sharpened. She snuck a look at Nick, who was listening closely to Lindy, his expression compassionate. Interesting, but something she couldn’t stop to think about right now. “What kind of things did you notice?”

  “Rosie’s books were flung all over the floor one day when she came home from school. Violet couldn’t have done it. She’s not even tall enough to reach some of the higher bookshelves.”

  Tom chimed in. “Then last week, when Rosie was out in the backyard, the back door somehow locked and she couldn’t get back in. Lindy heard her yelling and pounding on the door. By the time she got there, Rosie was in tears.” He gestured for his wife to continue.

  “Violet was with me the whole time, straightening up her room. And she doesn’t even know how the door locks, so she couldn’t have done it.” Lindy’s pupils dilated with fear. “When we were talking about what could have happened, Violet said it was her other sister who had locked the door, because she wanted to play with Violet all by herself.”

  Ari sat back, considering. Tom spoke up. “I heard Violet playing by herself in her room two nights ago. She was alone but talking to someone. It didn’t sound like make-believe.” He took his wife’s hand. “Violet said, ‘I love you, but Rosie is my sister, too. Don’t make her cry.’ It sounded like she was trying to convince someone not to hurt Rosie.”

  Lindy glanced from Ari to Samir. “Yesterday I found one of Rosie’s favorite old dolls with the head torn off. Violet could never have done that and wouldn’t have. We didn’t tell Rosie. I stashed the doll away.” She bit her lip. “Later on, I found random items scattered around the master bedroom, like an angry child came in and threw things around. Nothing broken but tossed around. Tom and I are scared but trying not to show that to the girls.” She paused, swallowed and looked at her husband. He nodded at her to go on. Tears filled her eyes. “We got a call from the school counselor yesterday, just before school let out. Rosie told her she was afraid to come home. Thank god the counselor knows me from PTA. She called us first, when she could have reported this to Child Protective Services.”

  Tom took his wife’s hand. “We called our priest and he came over last night. He told us to consider going to a hotel.” His voice took on a tremor. “He thinks this is either demonic possession or a haunting.”

  Ari nodded, but her heart was sinking. She would need to interview the girls.

  Nick couldn’t take his eyes off Ari. That she was beautiful was indisputable. Her black hair hung in a gleaming braid down her back, her face was smooth and bright with interest in her subjects and her red lips parted as she listened. The glasses she wore made her look bookish in an irresistibly sexy way. But the thing that held him was the way she stayed cool and confident with the Garcias, especially since the two young parents were terrified. As he watched the interview, he made a study of the psychologist, as she was making a study of Lindy and Tom.

  He noticed
times when Ari appeared unfocused, though it was barely discernible. Her eyes took on a faraway look, but she came back to herself almost instantly. Then a slight flush pinkened her cheeks as Tom mentioned the priest and the theory of demons or haunting, and the silence in the room hung a split second too long. Ari was uncomfortable, though about what was unclear.

  He spoke before he realized he was going to. “It all sounds scary,” he said to Tom and Lindy. “I give you both a lot of credit for listening to your girls and calling in help.” The words tumbled out without thinking, but rang true.

  Ari regarded him, an expression of mild surprise on her face, but directed her comments to the young man and his wife. “Agreed. I’d like to speak to your priest, and perhaps the girls. For now, let’s do a walk through the house and set up our recording equipment.” She motioned to Rocky. “You can film the placement of the equipment if you’d like, but no audio, please.” Rocky nodded, face pale, and reached for his camera bag.

  Nick followed Rocky as he filmed Ari and Samir moving through the main floor, setting up cameras, recorders and motion sensors. As they went, Ari’s movements were sure, her instructions to Samir brief and confident. His respect for the psychologist grew.

  “No, not there,” Ari said to Samir, then pointed to a corner of the kitchen. “That angle is better for the motion sensor. You can leave the camera where it is.” Her face was intense, emotions hidden as she walked into each room, taking time to look around. Tom and Lindy were silent as they trailed the investigators and reporters.

  Ari led the group upstairs and paused on the top landing. Though her expression was unreadable, a tiny quiver was noticeable in her jaw and one hand curled into itself.