Alex, the artist. After a tree falls on her
house, she joins her aunt on an unspoiled island, but something wakens her
family psychic streak. She draws eerily accurate scenes of violence, but she
knows nothing about them.
Connor, the prosecutor. He’s building a case
against a drug lord one piece of evidence at a time. For him it’s personal, and
he can’t risk a relationship with a witness, especially a psychic who’ll blow
his case out of the water.
Rollins, the killer. He’s a cog in a much bigger
wheel, and the witness to his acts of violence threatens his operation and his
life. He’ll do anything to see that doesn’t happen.
When
violence is near, Alex is compelled to draw the scene. While she relaxes on an
unspoiled island near Charleston, South Carolina, violence disrupts the
tranquil scene when a dead man takes shape on her sketch pad. She knows nothing
about the man, but the killer believes she witnessed the murder and sets his
sights on Alex. After seeing her drawing, the police think she's involved, and
the prosecutor fears a psychic witness will destroy his case. Now, with danger
at every turn, she must uncover a killer before he destroys her and her loved ones.
Excerpt
 |
| Ace Basin, near Charleston, SC. Dave Allen Photo |
Alex smoothed the paper on her
board and took a number 2 stick of Payne’s gray from the box, gazing toward the
water. The bleached skeleton of a tree lay on its side, smooth and ghostly in
the fog. Thin light from the morning sun touched the trunk, giving it a
shimmering, ethereal glow. She began drawing, selecting pastels without
conscious thought. She worked steadily, intent on capturing the scene before
her.
When she was satisfied, she
replaced the used sheet with a fresh one and shifted so she could see the old
pier. The last wisps of mist hung there, creating the image of a translucent
walkway floating above the water. The fog hid the broken board—senseless violence. She sketched without
thought, her hand moving automatically over the paper. The pier faded from her
vision as her fingers flew. A face, swollen and distorted, took shape under the
charcoal.
She blinked, startled by what she’d
done. Not the mist-shrouded wooden structure, but a dead face. The face that
belonged to yesterday’s body, so misshapen she couldn’t tell if she’d ever seen
it. Shaken, she ripped the paper off her board and crammed it into her bag.
Later she’d examine it, think about what she’d drawn. Now she wanted only to
get away. She packed her materials and hurried from the cove, heading toward Chicora’s
breezier ocean side to clear the images from her mind, to concentrate on
happier things.
P.S. I've turned comments on again, but spam is overwhelming so I've resorted to the dreaded Captcha Codes. Sorry. I wish there were a better way.
P.S. I've turned comments on again, but spam is overwhelming so I've resorted to the dreaded Captcha Codes. Sorry. I wish there were a better way.
