The white stone cottage style home sat atop a sun-washed hill covered in long-stemmed grasses and wildflowers. Along its left side, ivy and roses twined together, looking as if they'd sprung up from the stones, but so perfect only constant care and attention could produce such results. Wind chimes hung from the eaves of the porch, their long pipes producing hollow notes that reached me at the bottom of the gravel drive where I rested in the shade of a towering oak.

This was usually the kind of place people put on postcards, but today it was a crime scene.

Law enforcement had been gone since yesterday, leaving the usual mess behind them. Not that I'd seen it yet, but I'd been to enough crime scenes to fill in the blanks. Fingerprint dust and blood in various stages of drying, knocked over furniture if there had been a scuffle, and glittering glass underfoot.

I walked up the driveway with a purposeful stride, one I hoped was convincing enough to deter anyone from stopping to question me about my presence here. Not that I couldn't be here. The deceased's daughter had given me permission when she hired me to investigate the murder, but the local police department made it their personal mission to make my job miserable.

Unorthodox. That's what Jac Grisham called my methods—just thinking about his name caused my lips to twist into a scowl sure to contribute to wrinkles. Another infraction to add to that man's list. I called it getting the job done and having a close rate double that of the police. To be fair, they were bound to rules I didn't have to follow, but I could wear the badge and still solve crimes better than any of those morons on the force. I'd proven it for two years before they cast me aside.

"Enough, Bria," I muttered, twisting the key in the lock. The bolt turned over, but the door stuck, requiring me to put my shoulder against it to force it open.

"Don't walk out that door when I'm talking to you!"

"I have nothing left to say."

A bottle of wine shattered against the wooden door just above his head. Burgundy rivulets ran down his face, mixing with the darker red of blood from a cut on his cheek.

Gasping, I pulled myself out of the echo. A sour taste coated my tongue, and the sausage biscuit I ate for breakfast churned uncomfortably in my stomach. Gloves covered my hands as a precaution—always—but the wide neck of my sweater had slid down when I put my shoulder against the door, and the tiniest sliver of skin had touched the wood.

Damn it. It had been years since I'd messed up like that. Unexpected touches were the worst because it required complete focus to not be overtaken by the echoes. When I was in control, I could avoid them entirely, or I could watch them like a bystander. But just now—I raised a trembling hand to my face. There wasn't a physical cut, but I could feel the sting.

Not everything had a story to tell, but in my line of work, more often than not, the surrounding objects had been witnesses to terrible events. It's why I wore gloves twenty-four-seven. Note to self—invest in turtlenecks.

Rattled, I paused inside of the doorway and took a few deep breaths, mulling over the echo. Unbidden though it might be, it might be useful, but... I zeroed in on the man's clothes, wishing I'd been able to see the woman because women's clothing often offered more clues when something happened. Men's fashion was often too consistent. Unfortunately, the echoes didn't work like that. I saw the man because he was the one touching the door. The energy for the echo came from his experience.

He wore a flecked tweed suit, and in the hand, not clutching the doorknob, he held a fedora. The edges of the echo unravelled, the image losing its clarity the harder I focused, so I catalogued as many details as possible. Sandy brown hair combed over a wide forehead. Freckles on his cheeks and hooked nose. Young—late twenties. Thirty was pushing it. And then I could recall nothing else, like a morning dream—it faded.

But it was enough this time. For once, men's clothing helped. That was the kind of suit a grandfather might still own, but with his fresh face and aggressively tamed hair, I put that fight as happening during the fifties, which meant I'd wasted all that time and energy on something that had nothing to do with my murder victim, Molly Kincaid.

In the fifties, Molly would have been under ten years old, and she was a recent transplant to the area, having purchased the house three years ago after a nasty divorce. The police already pinned her ex-husband as the primary suspect, which is where I came into the picture. Their daughter, Laura, called me in near hysterics, begging me to clear her father's name.

An hour later, I almost wished I hadn't taken the case. The police weren't wrong for investigating Harold Kincaid. Molly walked away with half of everything and a monthly alimony check that would keep her more than comfortable. That alone would have been enough to garner a little extra digging, but a recent engagement to a woman twenty years his junior provided him with the perfect motive for axing the ex.

I left the foyer and entered the dining room. One cursory glance told me there was nothing important in here. I might have to touch something to see an echo, but sometimes the absence of them was palpable in the air. There was a sterility about the place, a coldness that told they had lived me not much life in that room.

But the kitchen was another story entirely. Energy pulsed from nearly every surface. The cabinets, counters, and hardwood floor were original to the house, and the appliances appeared to have been around for at least twenty years. They had made countless memories—bad and good. I made certain to keep my hands away from all of it. It would be too easy to be sucked into another pointless echo, and I needed to preserve my energy.

What I needed wasn't in here either. At the end of the kitchen, there was a small keeping room where Molly likely ate most of her meals in front of a large fireplace at the dinette set that was currently upended in the center of the room, but I didn't need to see the broken chair or blackening blood smears on the floor to know this was where the murder happened. The echo marked the spot.

Pressing my hands against my abdomen, I entered the room, skirting close to the edges to avoid the pulsing force. New echoes were powerful, and those resulting from violence were overwhelming, sometimes taking years before they disappeared into the touched objects, waiting for some unsuspected person with a gift like mine. No matter how many times I'd done this, it never grew easier. To get the answers I needed, I would have to step into that echo, absorb the rage and sorrow, but it was worth it to give someone a little peace—the peace I would never have for myself.

I studied the objects closest to the blood on the floor, attempting to determine the best object to touch. It was always easier when the victim was present. Their body positioning provided the best information about the scene, but unless I stumbled upon a murder before the cops, chancing of me having that kind of access ever again were slim, not to mention the people in blue would gladly toss me behind bars as the number one suspect if I was the one to call the crime in.

"Bunch of intolerant jack asses," I muttered, crouching low, my hands dangling between my thighs. "Molly, Molly, Molly.... What happened here?"

The turned over table and chairs indicated a struggle—no sneak attack for this killer, unless... I glanced at the wall across opposite the archway separating the keeping room from the kitchen. A mirror—a gilded monstrosity that took up most of the wall—hung at the perfect height to give anyone sitting with their back to the kitchen an unobstructed view of the kitchen, and based on the rubbery clumps of egg scattered on the floor, Molly had been enjoying breakfast shortly before being forcibly removed from this mortal coil.

I dragged a barstool from beside the island and dropped it where I suspected Molly had been sitting, wincing as anguish engulfed me this close to the echo. No point in disturbing anything in the keeping room until I'd gone over it all. The stool was slightly taller than the chair, but it would do.

If she'd been eating, he—or she because I wasn't stupid enough to think a woman couldn't slit a throat as quickly as a man—would have been spotted the moment Molly looked into the mirror. The killer was either unaware of the flaw in their plan or was hoping to get extremely lucky. 

Or... perhaps they walked in from the hallway. It did lead directly to the front door, and from my new vantage point, I could see it was more likely that someone entering the room from the other side had flipped the table. If Molly had pushed it to get it out of her way, it would be closer to the mirrored wall instead of lying on its side, its top butting up against the brick hearth.

"Did you know the killer, Molly?"

Why else would they have walked right in? She wouldn't have immediately expected harm from someone she knew, though it didn't look good for the case against poor, hysterical Laura's father.

It seemed the mirror was my best bet for getting the fullest version of events, but would the echo be clear enough? Most of the time, I had to touch something the victim had physically touched—those gave me the strongest, clearest visions, but the scope was limited to what the person was seeing.

This soon after the murder, the energy behind the echo was so strong it would seep into everything in this room. Even my clothing was absorbing it, but if I tried touching the cloth, it would be a distorted, grainy replay of events with nothing to anchor it to a particular focus. It was risky and a possible waste, but if I could see the killer's face, I would solve this case—at least for Laura.

I peeled the glove from my right hand slowly, flexing my fingers in the cool air and enjoying the freedom for the few seconds it was allowed. How I missed touching the world without a barrier between us—it was an ache that wouldn't leave me, but it was to exist without it or go mad.

Inhaling deeply, I reached for the mirror, my fingers hovering just above the glass. It shimmered and pulsed, and I yanked my hand back, blinking rapidly in case something in my eye had caused the phenomenon. It didn't happen again, and I stretched my hand out once more, not seeing the bloody fingerprint on the bottom corner of the frame until it was too late.

The room was in shambles. Food debris and blood covered the floor, and the cheap chandelier swung crookedly from the ceiling. Molly—it's what she called herself here—covered the wound in her shoulder with a shaking hand while she glared at him through spiky lashes.

"You've fallen far," he said, his voice a grumble around the foreign syllables of the human language. "I never imagined you would glamour yourself to look so old."

She straightened and licked her lips. "It kept you from finding me for a long time, didn't it?"

He grunted in acknowledgement. How long something took rarely held meaning to him. Time wasn't important when you had an unending supply of it, but he had to admit he'd been rather put out by how long this particular human had evaded him.

"If you stop resisting, this will go much easier on you. The Synod does not seek to cause suffering for the Shard Keepers." The lie tasted foul, but he told himself it did not matter. If that was the only way they could make it home, he would lie and kill a thousand more times.

Molly laughed wetly, blood speckling the corner of her mouth. "Even a naive school girl would know you are lying. I see the anguish it causes you."

"Fine." His blade sang as he pulled it from the scabbard about his waist, and he turned the point on her. He was tired of arguing. "Then I am done with pretenses. You either come with me willingly, or I render you unconscious. Either way, you are coming with me so we can remove the Shard."

Her chest heaved, and she dropped her hand to her side, blood dripping from the tips of her fingers and falling to the white tile. He did not lower his blade, but he recognized a woman who was giving in and it did not bring him the joy it should have.

"Excellent," he reached behind him and touched the corner of the mirror frame to activate the portal, leaving a bloodied fingerprint on the frame. "We will—No!"

After a hundred battles, he knew what it felt like when his blade pierced a stomach. The weight of a body when the sword was the only thing keeping them from dropping to the ground. Sometimes they clawed at the blade, tearing the tender flesh on their palms. Sometimes they begged for mercy.

Molly did neither of those things. She grasped the hilt; her damp hands clamping down over his, and tugged hard, pushing the blade deeper before twisting it. He roared and ripped the blade out of her body, but it was too late—she was dead when she hit the ground.

"You bitch," he snarled, grabbing her by the lapels of her shirt and shaking her. Letting her go, he screamed and shoved the table at the fireplace, spinning about the space for any clue where to go next. Now that she was dead, the Shard would pass to the next in her family, but if she had any living descendants, they had been well hidden. That child she raised with her last husband wasn't hers, but it was a good place to start.

He slid his sword into the scabbard, not bothering to wipe the blood away. It would be useful later. Before he left, he paused before the mirror. The beast he so carefully controlled scrambled against its bindings, setting his blue eyes on fire. Deep breaths calmed the animal, and between one blink and the next, the light faded, making him appear human once more.

Just as he was about to leave, something caught his attention. Eyes wide, he leaned forward, his nose nearly flush against the glass. How is this possible?