Anjali knew she was being followed.
She wouldn’t be much of a telepath if she didn’t.
He’d followed her from the pet food section and kept his distance as she maneuvered her cart between rows of liquor.
Anjali was out of staples like cat food and vodka.
Ah, the life of a single psychic gal in the city.
She was tempted to lead her pursuer on a wild-goose chase—ducking in and out of buildings, zigzagging across streets, leaping on and off buses—but she was feeling lazy.
Besides, she wasn’t getting any serial killer vibes from him.
She lifted a blue bottle of Skyy off the shelf and turned around to put it in her cart and came face to face with her supermarket stalker.
His smile was hesitant. “Anjali?”
He had nice teeth—white and straight. Anjali had a thing about teeth. You could be the most attractive person in the world, but if your teeth were funky—forget about it.
He also pronounced her name correctly. Most people tended to say An-jelly, when it was really Un-ja-lee.
Nevertheless, she didn’t make a habit of fraternizing with strange men just because they practiced good dental hygiene and happened to pronounce her name correctly.
“Yes?” she said with just a touch of surly.
Anjali did not subscribe to the notion that a stranger was a friend you hadn’t met yet.
“My name is Scott Wilder. Sorry about approaching you like this but your phone has call blocker and, well…never mind.” He held out his business card. “This should explain why I’m here.”
She didn’t want to take it, but figured the faster she got this over with, the faster he’d leave. So she put down the bottle and took the card.
THE COLD SPOT
PARANORMAL INVESTIGATIONS
SCOTT WILDER: FOUNDER
The Cold Spot? She had to admit that was pretty clever. Still, she didn’t make a habit of fraternizing with paranormal investigators just because they were good with words.
“I’m sorry,” she said, handing back his card. “But I’m not interested.”
“Let me explain—”
She tried to keep her voice even. “Listen, being psychic isn’t a gift. It’s a curse. I’ve spent my whole life avoiding anything to do with the supernatural, the paranormal, whatever you want to call it. So you’re just wasting your time.”
He held her gaze for a few moments and then smiled again. “You know, I need a few groceries myself.” He took hold of her cart. “Mind if I share yours? Call it cart pooling. Less traffic in the aisle.” He headed off toward the produce department.
Anjali frowned. Persistent, he was.
Scott Wilder was thumping a cantaloupe when she approached. “That’s a keeper. Did you know the Australian aborigines think of telepathy as a normal human function?”
“If an aborigine jumped off a cliff, would you?” Determined, she took hold of the cart and moved away. Scott followed her, cantaloupe tucked under his arm.
“Aren’t you curious about how I found you?” he asked.
“No.” She pushed her cart past the beauty care aisle and saw a woman trying to shove two boxes of hair dye under her shirt.
“Personally, I prefer a bigger shirt when I go shoplifting,” Scott murmured. “That way I can get in at least a week’s worth of groceries.”
Anjali almost laughed as she pushed the cart forward. She was trying to thaw out from the frozen food section when she noticed Scott was nowhere to be seen. Good riddance, she thought, and finished the rest of her shopping.
Standing in line to pay, Anjali was hopelessly eavesdropping on the squabbling couple in front of her, when Scott showed up lugging a full basket. Her surprise must have shown on her face because he grinned.
“I really did need a few things.”
Anjali found some of her annoyance toward him dissipating. She turned a curious eye to his basket. Alfalfa sprouts, celery hearts, whole grain bread, and of course the cantaloupe. A health nut. Her sister, Zarina, would love him. Well, except for the whole “investigating the supernatural” thing.
“I know you don’t really care,” Scott said. “But it was Mill University.”
So that was how he’d found her. Anjali shook her head in disgust. “Jesus, you take one ESP test and you’re on their list forever.”
“The file mentioned the Bradford House and the…incident. You were on a class field trip?”
“Social studies. The house wasn’t supposed to be haunted—not like the Winchester. It wasn’t even that historic. The descendants had made a bunch of changes—installing indoor plumbing and fixing a broken sewage line—and that upset the local historical society.”
The corner of Scott’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Naturally. The preservation of history supersedes sanitation.”
“That’s always been my motto,” Anjali said and then looked at him, narrowing her eyes. “You do realize that just because I’m talking to you, doesn’t mean I want anything to do with you.”
Scott put the basket down and flexed his hands. “Of course. I just assumed you’d already scanned the headlines of the Star and the Globe and had nothing else to do.”
“Now that we understand each other…” Anjali pushed her groceries together, making room for Scott to lay his on the checkout counter. “Anyway,” she continued, keeping a close eye that his sprouts didn’t touch her Cheetos, “I didn’t have a sense, not even a clue that anything was wrong until I walked into the house. Then it was like being…invaded. Emotions and thoughts that weren’t mine filled me up. I felt overshadowed. I could smell death.”
“What does death smell like?” Scott asked.
She shrugged. “Atlantic City.”
His dark eyes flashed with amusement.
Anjali looked away. She could joke about it now. Had to joke about it. If it wasn’t for her sense of humor, she would have killed herself…twice.
“I must have blacked out,” she continued. “When I woke up I was in the hospital and somebody from the university was there to talk to me.”
“According to the file, the attending doctor in the ER arranged that.”
“My parents were furious when they found out. My mother cursed the doctor out in Hindi. Although I’m still not sure why calling someone ‘a dirty owl’ is bad.”
Anjali often thanked God that she wasn’t an only child. If all her parents’ hopes and dreams had depended on her they would have committed suicide…twice.
“I’d really like your input on this case,” Scott said in a cautious voice. “You’re older now and—”
“Don’t you get it? I’m afraid of ghosts! Nothing you can say or do will ever convince me otherwise. Why don’t you call John Edward? He loves talking to the dead. Apparently he’s got them on speed dial.”
Scott’s upper lip curled. “John Edward? Don’t get me started.”
At the scent of scandal, Anjali’s ears perked. “What? Have you met him?”
“I’ll tell you another time,” Scott said. “Oh right…we won’t be working together.”
The register next to them opened up. Scott grabbed his basket and neatly maneuvered to the head of the line.
Meanwhile, Anjali’s line continued to move like a clogged artery, and the couple in front of her continued to argue.
“God, you’re cheap,” the woman snapped.
The man glared. “I’m nothing but a prick and a paycheck. Is that it?”
Anjali watched as Scott grabbed his bags and sailed out the exit.
She hated ghost hunters.
Even if they did call themselves paranormal investigators.