Excerpt
Zira already knew that Curtis Farrow was guilty. The proof was documented by pictures, DNA evidence, and the testimony of his clients and co-conspirators. More than that, he wore his guilt like a neon sign. Reeking of fear sweat, with resigned, fearful lines pinching his eyes as he shifted and squirmed in his chair, refusing to meet her eyes.
For ten years he sold false identities to those hoping to escape debt collectors, ex-spouses, and the Office of Corrections, Enforcement, and Surveillance (OCES). All that remained was the formality of reading his mind. Sometimes she could save people. Miss a detail, mitigate a sentence. But his guilt was too obvious for her to do anything to save him and trying would only get her in serious trouble.
She stroked Bea's soft, speckled fur, reluctant to release her grip on her support dog. He rested his head on her knee and whined. Dread about what she had to do soured her stomach and she tightened her grip on his long fur.
"Zira, is there a problem?" Lieutenant Paulson leaned against the locked, grey door. The harsh lights made his thin face appear cavernous and sickly.
She scowled. He'd seen her do this dozens of times in the six months since he'd been assigned as her handler. He knew full well the toll it took on her. Though, truth was, he wasn't the worst handler she'd ever had. At least he watched from inside the room instead of hiding on the other side of the two-way mirror like a child afraid of the boogie man.
Curtis' wide bloodshot eyes begged her to refuse. If only she had that option.
Zira nudged Bea's head off her knee and stroked his back one more time, taking in one last bit of quiet, and then released him.
The cramped interrogation room hummed with feelings. Paulson's irritation was like bored fingers drumming on a desk, and the terror pouring off Curtis Farrow was an icy fist twisting her insides.
Bea sensed her anxiety and tilted his blocky head, waiting for the command to provide comfort, to help her reconnect to her own feelings, and to block out everyone else's. She lifted her hand, held it flat, and pressed down telling him to stay where he was. He curled up under her chair.
"I'm going to touch your hands," she warned Curtis.
"Please, no. Don't." His scarred and meaty hands jerked against the shackles that bound them to the table.
She swallowed her fear and guilt and rested her fingers on top of his. He jolted as if she'd electrocuted him and then froze. His fear was like a pitcher of ice water poured over her brain. It silenced Paulson's thrumming impatience and threatened to flatten her own feelings under the deluge. She bit her lower lip until she tasted warm, coppery blood. The sharp pain helped pull her back into her own body.
Reading a mind was not like picking up a book and thumbing through the index to find the page you wanted. It was a labyrinth of time-addled thoughts and half-remembered memories, where connections were obvious to the one who lived them, but an incoherent, non-linear knot for anyone else.
Plus, there were the flies. They weren't real flies, that was just how she thought of them. The swarming, winged nightmares were drawn to dark memories and they clustered around them, adding yet another layer of chaos. She had no idea if they were merely a visual interpretation for what she felt when reading a mind, or if there was some deeper neuroscientific or theological explanation. She only knew that she hated them, and the way they made her feel as though her entire body was coated in thick, black, wicked oil both inside and out. But with practice Zira had learned how to sweep them away and bring the memories she needed to the surface where they could be seen, and when required, plucked out.
She activated her tablet, careful to keep one hand on Curtis' clammy skin. A picture appeared on the screen of a dark-haired woman. A white sheet was pulled up to cover her breasts, but revealed six one-inch-long stab wounds in her upper chest and shoulders.
As soon as he saw the woman, the memory clawed up from behind the squirming curtain of flies.
