I’m Charlotte Davidson: private investigator, police consultant, all -around badass. Or I could’ve been a badass, had I stuck with those lessons in mixed martial arts. I was only in that class to learn how to kill people with paper.
Just in case, though, I stormed into my apartment, tossed a quick hello to Mr. Wong, then rummaged through my entertainment center to lay out all my exorcism equipment. I kept it in my entertainment center because exorcisms were nothing if not entertaining.
I could be irksome when I put my left ventricle into it.
A split second later, my life flashed before my eyes, and I came to one important conclusion about it. It was fun while it lasted.
Felt my heartbeat falter, hesitate, then stumble awkwardly forward, tripping on the next beat, then the next, faster and faster until each one tumbled into the other like the drumroll of dominoes crashing together. Funny how time stands still when death is imminent.
Dead people I could handle. They were usually beyond hysteria. This was the people-left behind part. The hard part.
His gaze slid over me like a veil of fire. He could ignite my deepest desires with a single glance. I decided right then and there no more reading romance novels by candelight.
But we’d never really seen eye to eye. Mostly ’cause he was much taller than I was.
I love children, but I don’t think I can eat a whole one.- Bumper sticker.
He seemed determines, his resolve unwavering. This would take tact. Prudence. Possible Milk Duds.
You’re the reason I breathe.
Garrett must have sensed I was awake. “Hey Detective,” he said to Uncle Bob, who was now trudging across the grating toward us. “I think we’re losing her. I have no choice but to perform mouth-to-mouth.” “Don’t you dare,” I said, my lids still in lockdown.
My calculations – allowing for a 12 percent margin of error, based on the radius of the corresponding confidence interval and the surgeon general’s warning – concluded that they probably didn’t stay behind for the tacos.
Cookie had taken her daughter amber to school then walked the thirty-something feet to work earlier. Our business was on the second floor of Calamity’s, my dad’s bar, which sat right in front of our apartment building. The short commute was nice and rarely invloved rabid raccoons.
Mistakes were made. Others were blamed.
I’d never taken to four foot creatures who had the uncanny ability to point out all my flaws in thirty second flat. And just for the record, I can too read without moving my lips.
After a geological epoch passed in which single-celled organisms evolved into talk show hosts, Mr. Coffee was still holding out on me.
Nobody wants to look like a fool. Nine times out of ten, that reason alone keeps people from allowing themselves to believe.
Somebody has to be sane during regular business hours, and it’s not going to be me, missy.
This place is like crazy on crackers.