Trace (TraceWorld Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: Letitia L. Moffitt
Tags: Noir fiction, Paranormal Suspense, female detective, psychic detective
once more before she spoke again. “There is no trace in that house . But . . .”
Heads lifted. Eyes met hers uncertainly. She tried to take another long slow breath, but the air seemed to shiver in her lungs.
She had to do something she had never done before. She had to step outside the rules she carefully maintained in order to succeed in the face of near-universal contempt for her work. She hadn’t wanted this melodramatic pause—she loathed theatrics—but she couldn’t help but hesitate before she spoke again.
“Grayson Bryant is involved in murder.”
If she had expected her statement to create a sensation, she would have been disappointed. Fortunately, she never expected much of anything from the detectives, didn’t care whether they believed her, responded to them only when they were too rude to let slide, which was often, but not so often that it made any kind of dent in her steely exterior. There were frowns, there were glances exchanged, there were the usual skeptical lip-curlings and nostril-flarings, even a couple of eye-rollings. Only Dalton, Matt, and Jeb showed any signs of concern. Nola had never talked about a person before, only places. One thing was no different this time from all the others, though: she sounded absolutely certain of the truth of her words.
And yet in truth, she wasn’t certain at all.
“Care to elaborate?” Of course Marshall Schultz was the first to respond, and of course he made sure to use the snarky tone he usually took with her.
“I . . . can’t. I don’t know what it means, whether he’s witnessed it or covered for it or done it—or wants to do it. Or something else entirely. I’m not sure. I just know . . .” There were suddenly so many unblinking eyes on her that she could only finish with, “That’s all I have to say.” She nodded awkwardly to Jack Dalton and dashed out of the room, out of the building, to the parking lot, where she got into her car, drove three blocks to a grocery store, and parked again. She hadn’t wanted any of the detectives to see her sitting in her car, but she was too wound up to keep driving.
Something different had happened in that house that morning, something she didn’t understand.
She had heard voices.
As soon as she admitted this to herself, she wanted to laugh hysterically. Voices! Three years it had taken her to build up the PD’s grudging belief that she wasn’t a kook or a charlatan, in large part because she made it clear that what she did was based in science and not psychosis. She was an objective observer who recorded data. That was all. Until now. Now she was hearing voices.
“A trace can’t talk,” she muttered. “A trace has no consciousness. It’s particles, energy. It isn’t a ghost.” She caught herself before she could say, “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” which would have been just too ridiculously B-grade horror movie.
But there was no escaping what she had heard: Help me . Over and over, a desperate cry to be saved. It wasn’t coming from any trace attached to the house. The cries were mobile, moving through space, following the man who had been standing next to her when she first entered the room.
2
The first time she’d experienced trace was upon the death of her maternal grandfather. She hadn’t been close to him at all, had only met him once, in fact, before seeing him on his deathbed, and she’d been so young at that first meeting that she could recall nothing about it. She’d been eight when her mother took her to the hospice center. “Daddy’s dying,” her mother said in the car. Nola figured out quickly that this was about her grandfather; her mother never called Nola’s own father anything but Steven, and Nola had just seen him two weeks ago, alive and healthy in his condo on the other side of town.
Emma Lantri always gave the impression of speaking more to herself than to anyone else present, always sounding distant, looking
Heads lifted. Eyes met hers uncertainly. She tried to take another long slow breath, but the air seemed to shiver in her lungs.
She had to do something she had never done before. She had to step outside the rules she carefully maintained in order to succeed in the face of near-universal contempt for her work. She hadn’t wanted this melodramatic pause—she loathed theatrics—but she couldn’t help but hesitate before she spoke again.
“Grayson Bryant is involved in murder.”
If she had expected her statement to create a sensation, she would have been disappointed. Fortunately, she never expected much of anything from the detectives, didn’t care whether they believed her, responded to them only when they were too rude to let slide, which was often, but not so often that it made any kind of dent in her steely exterior. There were frowns, there were glances exchanged, there were the usual skeptical lip-curlings and nostril-flarings, even a couple of eye-rollings. Only Dalton, Matt, and Jeb showed any signs of concern. Nola had never talked about a person before, only places. One thing was no different this time from all the others, though: she sounded absolutely certain of the truth of her words.
And yet in truth, she wasn’t certain at all.
“Care to elaborate?” Of course Marshall Schultz was the first to respond, and of course he made sure to use the snarky tone he usually took with her.
“I . . . can’t. I don’t know what it means, whether he’s witnessed it or covered for it or done it—or wants to do it. Or something else entirely. I’m not sure. I just know . . .” There were suddenly so many unblinking eyes on her that she could only finish with, “That’s all I have to say.” She nodded awkwardly to Jack Dalton and dashed out of the room, out of the building, to the parking lot, where she got into her car, drove three blocks to a grocery store, and parked again. She hadn’t wanted any of the detectives to see her sitting in her car, but she was too wound up to keep driving.
Something different had happened in that house that morning, something she didn’t understand.
She had heard voices.
As soon as she admitted this to herself, she wanted to laugh hysterically. Voices! Three years it had taken her to build up the PD’s grudging belief that she wasn’t a kook or a charlatan, in large part because she made it clear that what she did was based in science and not psychosis. She was an objective observer who recorded data. That was all. Until now. Now she was hearing voices.
“A trace can’t talk,” she muttered. “A trace has no consciousness. It’s particles, energy. It isn’t a ghost.” She caught herself before she could say, “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” which would have been just too ridiculously B-grade horror movie.
But there was no escaping what she had heard: Help me . Over and over, a desperate cry to be saved. It wasn’t coming from any trace attached to the house. The cries were mobile, moving through space, following the man who had been standing next to her when she first entered the room.
2
The first time she’d experienced trace was upon the death of her maternal grandfather. She hadn’t been close to him at all, had only met him once, in fact, before seeing him on his deathbed, and she’d been so young at that first meeting that she could recall nothing about it. She’d been eight when her mother took her to the hospice center. “Daddy’s dying,” her mother said in the car. Nola figured out quickly that this was about her grandfather; her mother never called Nola’s own father anything but Steven, and Nola had just seen him two weeks ago, alive and healthy in his condo on the other side of town.
Emma Lantri always gave the impression of speaking more to herself than to anyone else present, always sounding distant, looking
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