Phantom Evil. Heather Graham

Indian. What kind?”

      “Cheyenne.”

      “And what else?”

      “English—well, Scottish, originally, but my mom grew up in London.”

      “Cool. Are your parents alive?”

      “No. My mom died from cancer eight years ago, my father had a heart attack four weeks later.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “So am I. And you?”

      “My folks are gone. You know that. They died in a plane crash.”

      “And since the plane crash—”

      “My turn,” she interrupted. “Do you know your family—or families?”

      “Yes, of course, very well. I like family. You? What is your feeling for your brother?”

      “I adore him. My turn. Siblings?”

      “No.”

      “Ah. You’re an only child,” she said gravely.

      “Yes. I’m so sorry.”

      She shrugged, grinning. “I’ve met a few people who were an only child within their household, and they came out okay.”

      “Ouch. Preconceived notions.”

      “No, it’s just that, rich or poor, a person who has siblings has had to share upon occasion. There will always be a time when what happens in a sibling’s life is more important. That’s all.”

      “Ah, but I’m Cheyenne,” he said, a quirk of amusement on his lips.

      “And that means?”

      “We’re all about community, and the People.”

      “I see. Leaning back on your pedigree,” she said solemnly.

      “Don’t forget that part of me is clansman,” he said.

      “All for the good of the clan?” she asked.

      He laughed. “We’re big into standing up for one another in feuds,” he said. “Actually and honestly, I do play well with others.”

      Their server arrived with their food orders. She opted for another glass of wine and Jackson decided on a second scotch. He laughed and teased the pretty girl serving them, pleasantly, and not obnoxiously, Angela noted. He was still smiling when she left them at the table with their fresh drinks and plates of food.

      “Do you see ghosts?” Jackson asked her.

      She froze, startled by the sudden impact of the question. She had to force herself to swallow her bite of food.

      “Do you?” she replied.

      He took another sip of scotch, and his eyes met hers squarely. “I believe that the world is full of possibilities. Do I believe in ghosts like the ones on TV? No. I’m pretty sure that if ghosts exist they are around both by day and night, and that we don’t need to see a lot of people with their eyes wide open—deer–caught–in–the–headlights—jumping at every sound.”

      “Logical,” she told him.

      “Pardon?”

      “Logical. If they exist, they must exist in daylight as well as in the middle of the night.”

      “What about Griffin?” he asked her.

      Once again, she froze. He had a knack for throwing in a tough question just when she had relaxed.

      “What about him?” she asked dully. “He’s dead.”

      “Do you ever ‘see’ him?”

      She shook her head. “No.”

      “You two were together for years,” he commented.

      “Five, to be exact.”

      “You didn’t foresee his death?” he asked.

      She stared at him, every muscle in her body as tense as piano wire. “When they told us that the cancer had spread into every organ and riddled his bones, yes, I foresaw it.”

      “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wondered if it made you—susceptible.”

      “Susceptible to what?” she demanded.

      “Seeing ghosts. I just wanted to make sure that you were over it, and that you were standing on even ground.”

      “Am I over it? Do we ever get over the loss of loved ones? No—I have never managed to do so. My parents, and Griffin, are always alive in my heart. Do I accept the reality of it? Yes. And they are all gone. Gone. They don’t come and take my hand and direct me to dead bodies—or to lost children, for that matter.” She paused, needing to wet her lips. She didn’t sip her wine, she chugged it. Most unattractive, she was sure; she didn’t care. He could be so completely courteous. He could make her comfortable, he could make her laugh. And then, he could home right in for the kill.

      “What about you?” she demanded more heatedly than she had intended. “Do your lost field agents come and speak to you in the night? Do they ask you how you didn’t happen to get there in time to save them?”

      There wasn’t so much as a crack in his expression, not a change whatsoever in the steady dark blue eyes that surveyed her.

      “No. They are gone. Like you, I accept that they are gone. Like you, I do remain haunted by the lives they once led.”

      She flushed. He should feel badly for badgering her about the losses in her life. She was left feeling similarly—but she had phrased her words in a much meaner manner.

      “I’m sorry,” she murmured uncomfortably. Damn him! She didn’t need to be apologizing to him.

      “One thing is true—we can’t undo the past. We can only do our best in the present, and hope to find the answers in the future. Dessert? Coffee?” he asked her.

      She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

      “Want to split a bread pudding? It’s out of this world here.”

      She sat back, still uneasy, and totally baffled by his ability to remain so unruffled. She had been tested throughout dinner, she realized.

      “I’m fine, thank you.”

      “Another glass of wine?” he asked.

      “Fine, why not?”

      He ordered brandy and bread pudding, and she had another glass of wine. His conversation turned casual. He talked about his love for the city; he had worked here for nearly a year when he had first joined the bureau. “Things are always just a little bit different in these parts. Louisiana laws are still based on Napoleonic Code—French law—while the majority of the country is based on English law. It’s not major, but there are some differences. You’ll note they have parishes instead of counties.”

      “I went to Tulane. I know that,” she told him. Inane. He had her dossier.

      “And majored in history and philosophy,” he said.

      She nodded. “And you?”

      He shrugged. “I spent six years in college. I liked it. I might have stayed a college student all my life, but it doesn’t pay the bills. World religions, history and psychology.”

      Angela frowned. “Psychology, of course. You were with a Behavioral Science Unit. So, tell me, because I was thinking today that someone as involved as Regina was in preparing that home to be the perfect welcoming point for her husband wouldn’t have committed suicide. And to be honest, suicide had sounded like an entirely rational explanation to me before.”

      “It’s hard to say. I didn’t know her,” Jackson said.

      Dessert and