tightly, unable to hide his amusement. “Maybe you should come back tomorrow. Late tomorrow. We’re probably going to be up all night.” Lifting his hand to cover the smile he could no longer contain, he gave Theresa a conspiratorial wink.
“No, I don’t think it can wait.”
Theresa stepped forward. “What is it that’s so important?”
An awkward silence followed her question, as Max struggled to come up with a plausible reason for being there. Although he’d come to press her for more information about the trauma in her past, to share his own secret with her, he didn’t want to push in front of his brother.
“When we talked at dinner last night, about your psychic abilities—powers, whatever you call it—you said you hadn’t had them all your life. When exactly did you develop your gift?”
***
Theresa was stunned that he would come right out and ask. She thought she’d have more time, with him subtly trying to determine the cause. Then again, she should have known better. While Max was a whole lot of things, subtle wasn’t one of them.
“It doesn’t matter when I developed my abilities. I have them and they can help with your investigation. That’s the only thing that’s important.”
“Look, you’ve been right on a couple of things so far, I’ll grant you that. But you haven’t given me anything concrete, something tangible I can wrap my hands around. Anybody with some skill at deductive reasoning could probably tell me the same things and they’d never claim to be psychic.”
Max prowled forward, his loose-limbed stride bringing him closer, stopping bare inches in front of her.
“I’m a skeptic. Make me believe you’ll be more help than hindrance in this case.”
Theresa narrowed her eyes, her lips tightening to rein in her aggravation. She was so tired of his disbelief. No matter what she said or did, it always came back to proof.
“Probably makes you a good detective, but a lousy choice of a friend.” Her finger stabbed at his chest again. This time her hand brushed up against something in his jacket pocket. The vibrations emanating from it were overwhelming. Focusing, she absorbed the energy flow and channeled it.
She stared into his steely-gray eyes.
“Okay, Mr. Skeptic. There’s a letter in your pocket. It’s a very important letter—something you’ve been waiting on for a long, long time.” Max slowly nodded before folding his arms across his chest, his stance rigid.
“Will you believe me if I tell you what I can about the letter? You know I haven’t seen it. Will that convince you that I’m not a phony?”
“It sure as hell would go a long way toward your credibility.”
“Fine. Have a seat.”
***
This ought to be good, Max thought. He pulled out a chair and eased his long frame onto it. Remy followed suit. Theresa remained standing, her hip against the tiled countertop, her stance relaxed, but her expression unreadable. Her face was blank except for her eyes. They gleamed green in the kitchen light, shooting sparks, all directed at Max.
Without a word he reached into his pocket, pulling out the letter. Removing it from its envelope so she couldn’t see the return address, he hesitated a split second before handing the folded letter to Theresa. Clasping it in both hands, she threaded the sheets between her fingers, angling it first one way and then another, staring at the stark whiteness of the paper. Finally after what seemed like an eternity to Max, she began to speak.
“Two years ago you quit your job on the Shreveport Police Department and came back to New Orleans. You told everybody you were burned out, needed a change. Not true, though, was it, Max?”
Max continued to stare at Theresa, close-lipped. He nodded again.
“There were some problems there. You were being investigated—missing evidence, wasn’t it? You and your partner were accused of stealing drugs and weapons from lockup and selling them.”
Max felt blind-sided, stunned by the
“No, I don’t think it can wait.”
Theresa stepped forward. “What is it that’s so important?”
An awkward silence followed her question, as Max struggled to come up with a plausible reason for being there. Although he’d come to press her for more information about the trauma in her past, to share his own secret with her, he didn’t want to push in front of his brother.
“When we talked at dinner last night, about your psychic abilities—powers, whatever you call it—you said you hadn’t had them all your life. When exactly did you develop your gift?”
***
Theresa was stunned that he would come right out and ask. She thought she’d have more time, with him subtly trying to determine the cause. Then again, she should have known better. While Max was a whole lot of things, subtle wasn’t one of them.
“It doesn’t matter when I developed my abilities. I have them and they can help with your investigation. That’s the only thing that’s important.”
“Look, you’ve been right on a couple of things so far, I’ll grant you that. But you haven’t given me anything concrete, something tangible I can wrap my hands around. Anybody with some skill at deductive reasoning could probably tell me the same things and they’d never claim to be psychic.”
Max prowled forward, his loose-limbed stride bringing him closer, stopping bare inches in front of her.
“I’m a skeptic. Make me believe you’ll be more help than hindrance in this case.”
Theresa narrowed her eyes, her lips tightening to rein in her aggravation. She was so tired of his disbelief. No matter what she said or did, it always came back to proof.
“Probably makes you a good detective, but a lousy choice of a friend.” Her finger stabbed at his chest again. This time her hand brushed up against something in his jacket pocket. The vibrations emanating from it were overwhelming. Focusing, she absorbed the energy flow and channeled it.
She stared into his steely-gray eyes.
“Okay, Mr. Skeptic. There’s a letter in your pocket. It’s a very important letter—something you’ve been waiting on for a long, long time.” Max slowly nodded before folding his arms across his chest, his stance rigid.
“Will you believe me if I tell you what I can about the letter? You know I haven’t seen it. Will that convince you that I’m not a phony?”
“It sure as hell would go a long way toward your credibility.”
“Fine. Have a seat.”
***
This ought to be good, Max thought. He pulled out a chair and eased his long frame onto it. Remy followed suit. Theresa remained standing, her hip against the tiled countertop, her stance relaxed, but her expression unreadable. Her face was blank except for her eyes. They gleamed green in the kitchen light, shooting sparks, all directed at Max.
Without a word he reached into his pocket, pulling out the letter. Removing it from its envelope so she couldn’t see the return address, he hesitated a split second before handing the folded letter to Theresa. Clasping it in both hands, she threaded the sheets between her fingers, angling it first one way and then another, staring at the stark whiteness of the paper. Finally after what seemed like an eternity to Max, she began to speak.
“Two years ago you quit your job on the Shreveport Police Department and came back to New Orleans. You told everybody you were burned out, needed a change. Not true, though, was it, Max?”
Max continued to stare at Theresa, close-lipped. He nodded again.
“There were some problems there. You were being investigated—missing evidence, wasn’t it? You and your partner were accused of stealing drugs and weapons from lockup and selling them.”
Max felt blind-sided, stunned by the
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