Page 23 of Jasmine Street Blues

“I don’t know,” she said softly.

He looked directly at her; she saw the accusation in his eyes. This was not the same man who’d kissed her, who’d asked her to spend the night at his house, in his bed. This was all-business Police Chief Maxwell. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” The short-lived hope that she might have a sliver of a normal life for a few weeks or months slipped away. “By the way, I sometimes paint dead people. I don’t know how or why, I don’t choose who or when, it just happens. Eventually I’m found out and when that happens I move on, I hide. I run away when people find out what I can do, because they always look at me the way you’re looking at me now. They ask questions I can’t answer.” Her own voice gradually became as sharp as his had been. “If I had the skills or the connections to change my name and disappear forever I would, but I don’t. All I can do is…” She took a deep breath. How much did she want to tell this man she barely knew? “So I slip away. I fade into the woodwork and accept that I’ll always be alone, that I’m a freak of nature, that everyone I meet will want to use me or expose me or… or…”

Mac took her face in his hands, leaned down and in, and kissed her. Surprised, shocked, she froze for a second. Then she melted and lost herself in the kiss which was a combination of comfort and desire, of hope and connection. And still, she tasted a little of his desperation.

He didn’t hate her; he wasn’t scared of her.

The kiss ended. Mac wrapped his big arms around her and pulled her close. For a long, wonderful moment he held on. When he finally let her go he looked behind her, to the unfinished painting of the pirate. One finger shook in that direction. “That has to be Giles. According to Colt his ghost has been here for a very long time. Does that mean…” He looked at her again. “Is Carrie’s ghost here? Is she… dead?”

“I don’t know,” Loran whispered. “I don’t know that’s she’s a ghost, like the others. See the colors?” Again she mentioned what was different about the young girl. “Giles is painted entirely in shades of brown and gray, like the others have always been. With Carrie I had to use vibrant paints. There’s color in her cheeks, her eyes are a brilliant blue, her shirt is colorful. I can’t guarantee she’s alive, but I also can’t tell you she’s not.”

Mac paled, when faced with the possibility that the young girl he’d been looking for might be dead. “It’s possible, right? I’ve always known that. Giles is here, we know that. If Carrie is here, too, maybe Colt can talk to her, find out how she died, if she is…” He couldn’t finish that thought, as his mind turned to the worst possible explanation. “I tracked her here, I know she was in Seawolf Beach for a while. Did she die here? She was young, then. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Was there an accident? Was she killed?” His face paled. “Did she OD like her mother? Why did Kylie ask me to find her if she was already gone? What could she mean by…” His words trailed off, then he added, “I need answers.”

How could his dead ex ask for anything? Well, there was Colt…

At a time like this one, when she’d been found out, she normally ran. She could, and had, slip away in the middle of the night, starting over as best she could. Sometimes she used a fake name for a while, if there was an opportunity, but usually she had to rent a decent place, set up a bank account, get a driver’s license.

Most people let her go, when she disappeared. A few — like Henry — followed for a while, searching for the same kinds of answers Mac was looking for. Why? How? What kind of dark magic do you possess? But this was different. Mac was different. She cared about him and he was in pain. She didn’t want to leave him. Not yet.

Loran placed a comforting hand on his forearm. “I don’t know how, but I promise, I’ll do everything I can to help you answer all those questions.”

* * *

Mac wanted to run, but he didn’t. He did walk fast, though, and when others on the street waved or said hello he returned their greetings but didn’t slow down. The mutt was well-behaved on the way home. Calm. Easy. So much for dogs having great intuition. On the outside Mac was in control. Inside… chaos. His worst fear was that Carrie was dead, that he was too late, had always been too damn late. All this time…

Loran painted dead people. He wanted to know how it worked, how long this had been going on, but none of those answers would change the fact that she was painting Carrie.

He took some faint hope in her observation that Carrie’s portrait was different from the others. Was that enough to give him hope? Hope could be dangerous.

He hadn’t wanted to walk away from Loran’s house, didn’t want to leave her alone. He wanted to be there when Colt arrived. Colt, the ghost whisperer with all the answers. Maybe. He didn’t want to miss a word, a clue, the answers he’d spent the past five years searching for.

In a matter of seconds, his plans for the evening had changed. He and Loran had been well on their way to his bed for a little fun. Maybe even more than fun. He’d sensed from the start that she was special, that allowing himself to be involved with her could be life-changing. He’d never expected this.

Could this woman he was attracted to have all the answers he needed? Was that why his instincts had led him to her?

Mac had made a few phone calls before collecting Bubbles from Olive and heading for home. As he’d walked out the door he’d pictured Loran’s half-packed bag sitting on her bed. She wouldn’t need it tonight.

He still wanted her, but everything had changed in an instant.

After getting Bubbles settled on the back porch with fresh water and a bowl of food, and grabbing Loran’s purse from the couch where she’d left it, Mac got in his patrol car and drove back to Jasmine Street. Driving saved him a few minutes, no more, but they might be important minutes. He had no way of knowing. He parked in the driveway behind Loran’s van. No more than a minute later, Colt pulled his truck to the curb.

They met near the front steps.

“You didn’t make a bit of sense on the phone,” Colt said.

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Must be, if all I get from the Police Chief is gibberish.”

“That’s a bit harsh.” Mac opened the front door. Loran was there, waiting in her small living room. She didn’t like telling people what she did. He wondered if she ever had, or if when she was found out she just took off.

She had the look of a runner. Would she run from him, now that he knew her secret? Maybe, but she hadn’t bolted yet.

“Loran is an artist,” Mac began, as he dropped her purse on a nearby chair.

Colt looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “I’m aware.”