Shards: Book One of the Anderian Series

Chapter 1: Murder

The white stone cottage style home sat atop a sun-washed hill covered in long-stemmed grasses and wildflowers. Along its left side, ivy and roses twined together, looking as if they'd sprung up from the stones, but so perfect only constant care and attention could produce such results. Wind chimes hung from the eaves of the porch, their long pipes producing hollow notes that reached me at the bottom of the gravel drive where I rested in the shade of a towering oak.

This was usually the kind of place people put on postcards, but today it was a crime scene.

Law enforcement had been gone since yesterday, leaving the usual mess behind them. Not that I'd seen it yet, but I'd been to enough crime scenes to fill in the blanks. Fingerprint dust and blood in various stages of drying, knocked over furniture if there had been a scuffle, and glittering glass underfoot.

I walked up the driveway with a purposeful stride, one I hoped was convincing enough to deter anyone from stopping to question me about my presence here. Not that I couldn't be here. The deceased's daughter had given me permission when she hired me to investigate the murder, but the local police department made it their personal mission to make my job miserable.

Unorthodox. That's what Jac Grisham called my methods—just thinking about his name caused my lips to twist into a scowl sure to contribute to wrinkles. Another infraction to add to that man's list. I called it getting the job done and having a close rate double that of the police. To be fair, they were bound to rules I didn't have to follow, but I could wear the badge and still solve crimes better than any of those morons on the force. I'd proven it for two years before they cast me aside.

"Enough, Bria," I muttered, twisting the key in the lock. The bolt turned over, but the door stuck, requiring me to put my shoulder against it to force it open.

"Don't walk out that door when I'm talking to you!"

"I have nothing left to say."

A bottle of wine shattered against the wooden door just above his head. Burgundy rivulets ran down his face, mixing with the darker red of blood from a cut on his cheek.

Gasping, I pulled myself out of the echo. A sour taste coated my tongue, and the sausage biscuit I ate for breakfast churned uncomfortably in my stomach. Gloves covered my hands as a precaution—always—but the wide neck of my sweater had slid down when I put my shoulder against the door, and the tiniest sliver of skin had touched the wood.

Damn it. It had been years since I'd messed up like that. Unexpected touches were the worst because it required complete focus to not be overtaken by the echoes. When I was in control, I could avoid them entirely, or I could watch them like a bystander. But just now—I raised a trembling hand to my face. There wasn't a physical cut, but I could feel the sting.

Not everything had a story to tell, but in my line of work, more often than not, the surrounding objects had been witnesses to terrible events. It's why I wore gloves twenty-four-seven. Note to self—invest in turtlenecks.

Rattled, I paused inside of the doorway and took a few deep breaths, mulling over the echo. Unbidden though it might be, it might be useful, but... I zeroed in on the man's clothes, wishing I'd been able to see the woman because women's clothing often offered more clues when something happened. Men's fashion was often too consistent. Unfortunately, the echoes didn't work like that. I saw the man because he was the one touching the door. The energy for the echo came from his experience.

He wore a flecked tweed suit, and in the hand, not clutching the doorknob, he held a fedora. The edges of the echo unravelled, the image losing its clarity the harder I focused, so I catalogued as many details as possible. Sandy brown hair combed over a wide forehead. Freckles on his cheeks and hooked nose. Young—late twenties. Thirty was pushing it. And then I could recall nothing else, like a morning dream—it faded.