Gifted

1•

   I like dead people.
   Specifically, the ones the NYPD can find. The government might say I have a sort of ...gift. A gift for solving Manhattan's trickiest murders, at any day, any time, anywhere.
   In ten minutes.
   The NYPD and I have a deal. By 10:00 every other Saturday morning, they bring the body of a case they couldn't solve to the back door of my office labeled Gina Black — Private Detective. At 10:01, I carry the body to the back of the building and lower it into an open casket, courtesy of the NYPD. I glance at the victim as I pull on a pair of latex gloves and take a seat beside her.
   She looks about 21, her pretty blonde hair framed around her pale jawline. As I examine her features, something catches my eye. I frown, leaning in to study her more closely. There's some distinct discoloration near her hairline. Where she took the final blow. Shivering, I take her cold hand in mine, my dark skin contrasting hers.
   "What happened to you?" I murmur, closing my eyes.
Taking a deep breath, I focus, conjuring the victim's final thoughts....
Helpless. Afraid. Angry.
Hopeless. Sad. Confused.
   ...until they turned into reality.
Hide. Don't move. Don't breathe. I open my eyes, finding myself in complete darkness. My pale hands tremble in my lap as my body keeps as still as possible, my small frame lightly brushing the three walls around me. Before I can deduce where I am, something creaks in the distance. Against my will, I wrap my arms over my knees.
People ask how I do it. As much as I enjoy solving cases, it never gets easier. Because when it comes down to it, I'm always too late. I've had to make peace with the fact that I can't save anyone — only avenge them.
   That's why I succeed.
That's what I tell myself as the door creaks open. As cold air washes over me. With it, someone steps into the room, setting my teeth on edge.
Step.
Step.
Step.
A shiver slithers down my spine. Any second now, I'll die, no closer to solving the victim's murder than before. No — suddenly, I leap up, sprinting desperately across the pitch black space. The murderer springs into action, pounding after me as I fall into the abandoned hallway. I run blindly as my body rounds a stairwell, nearly crashing into the wall. She knows this place well. Too well.
I skip the stairs and jump to the floor below, crying out as my ankles buckle in pain. Just a few more seconds.
My heart stops.
But not because the murderer's caught up with me — no, my heart stops because of the dimly illuminated sign ahead of me.
Black Industries.
I wake up with a gasp. No. I've mistaken it for something else, there has to be some kind of mistake, there — abruptly, the door bangs open. It's my father, storming in with a wild look in his obsidian eyes. I leap up, knocking my chair over as I stare at him in shock.
"You — you —"
"Gina, it's not what it looks like," he growls, his voice dangerously low.
"How could you keep this from me?!" I yell, moving protectively in front of the casket.
It's too late — he's already seen her; he's here to take back what he's lost. To hide her away before it gets out that one of our own employees was murdered inside Black Industries.
"Who was she?" I whisper, shaking. "What happened to her?"
He ignores me, waving in two large men behind him. They shoulder me out of their way, preparing to lift the casket on either side.
"Stop!" I shout, trying to get between them and the casket. "You can't do this! This case hasn't been solved yet!"
Easily, my father's men pick up the casket and carry it out of my office. Fuming, I stalk across the empty space to my father.
"What have you done?" I breathe.
"What I needed to to keep us safe," he answers coldly.
He towers over me, refusing to move as I stare daggers into his face.
"The NYPD will hear about this," I hiss. He crosses his arms challengingly, but I hold my ground.
"And mark my words, I will find out who killed her. I always do."
For what seems like forever, we stare at each other. The tension between my father and I has always been thick, but in this moment it escalates until I can no longer breathe. Gone was the man who taught me to ride a bike, to cook. Gone was the first person to know about my ability. No, the man in front of me was a stranger. And suddenly, it was like I was reliving a victim's final moments.
Completely helpless.
He turns on his heel, slamming the office door behind him labeled Gina Black — Private Detective. So I sink to my knees, wondering if everything I know is just. A damn.
Lie.