Poisoned Pearls Read Online Free

on with a stick. She wore her dark hair soft and loose around her face
and was pretty enough, with a pert nose and wide lips, though not really my
type. At least she had sensible brown leather boots on underneath that coat.
    I’d never seen a post-cog at work—not in real life,
just on TV cop shows. She didn’t stalk dramatically around the site, flaring
her coat around her, nor did she drop to her knees and spread her hands out
over where Kyle’s body had been, shaking and muttering to herself. She simply
walked over to the spot, stood there with her eyes closed for a moment, arms
crossed over her chest.
    I wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be doing, exactly.
Post-cogs worked on different frequencies—some read people, others read
places or things. Was she getting a read on the alley? Or a sense of the last
people who’d been there? Was she able to figure out the weapon that had been
used? Or maybe she was good enough to focus in on the killer, though I doubted
she’d be working for the Minneapolis cops if she was that good.
    When she opened her eyes, they connected immediately with
mine. It wasn’t a shock, not like how the magazines claimed. A bolt of
electricity didn’t pass through my soul.
    But something happened. More like a chill. Like a ghost walking over my grave. She also
seemed to recognize me, though I didn’t know her from Eve.
    Then she stalked toward where Ferguson and I were standing. Shit . Ferguson’s face had gone carefully
blank again.
    I knew that thinking about the multiplication tables was
bullshit—there wasn’t anything that could keep a really strong telepath
out of your thoughts. And she was probably just a post-cog, not a telepath.
Though the government (and the rich) had tried for years, people almost always
only had a single ability: Telepathy, telekinesis, pre-cognition, or
post-cognition.
    Still, I automatically started going through my numbers as
she approached. Three times two is six.
Three times three is nine .
    “How do you know the deceased?” she demanded when she got
close.
    Ferguson gave a loud sigh. “Ms. Monroe, this is Ms. Lewis.
She isn’t a suspect at this time. She’s listed as the deceased’s emergency
contact.”
    Maybe Ms. Monroe’s skin really was that pale, because even
in the dim light of the alley I would have sworn she blushed. Three times five is fifteen .
    “I’m sorry for your loss,” Ms. Monroe said, sounding mostly
sincere. “So the deceased was a friend of yours, then?” she continued, giving
me the once-over that in another time and place would have had me offering to
buy her next glass of champagne. Didn’t matter if she wasn’t my type. There was
something about her that set my pulse pounding.
    “Yes,” I said shortly. No sense in giving her more material
to work with, worm her way inside my skull. Especially since she seemed to
already be there. Three times six is
eighteen .
    “She’s involved,” Ms. Monroe said flatly, turning to
Detective Ferguson.
    “What?” I asked. I was not involved in Kyle’s death.
    Ms. Monroe waved her hand at me, dismissing my objections.
“Not now. But she will be.”
    Ferguson turned his cold stare at me. “We don’t need any
sort of vigilante going off half-cocked on this case. We still don’t even know
the cause of death, if it was even accidental.”
    His tone implied that he doubted this was anything other
than an OD, just another stupid street kid who’d found a new creative way to
off himself.
    “I’ll stay out of it,” I lied. Particularly if the cops had
that kind of attitude.
    Ms. Monroe glared at me. “Be careful what you seek. Or
you’ll see things you don’t want to.”
    My mom had named me Cassandra in the hopes that maybe I’d
turn out to have some sort of powers. She hadn’t appreciated it when I’d
pointed out that Cassandra hadn’t come to a good end.
    “I’ll keep that in mind,” I told her dryly. “Look, can I
go?” I asked Ferguson. “I need to get back