Invasion of Justice (Shadows of Justice)(6)

By: Regan Black



Sudden tears streamed hot down her face. "I have to see him," she begged. "Let me help."

"You can't." They came to a stop in front of the Ritz. "It's too sensitive, Petra. I'm sorry. Don't even try to fly to him. That's an order. It'll just make things worse."

She swiped at her face, struggled to regain her composure. "Where are they holding him?"

"I'm not authorized to tell you."

"Aaron, please!"

He shook his head. "I can't. Go inside and try to get some rest."

"My parents?" she asked before he stepped out of earshot.

"They've been told."

"And?"

Kincaid just shook his head and turned away.

She didn't need to hear the answer. With such damning initial evidence, her parents would've deserted their son for using his unique mental talents for selfish or criminal purposes. The family standards were impossibly high, image and reputation vital. Nathan's choice of a military career was constantly lamented by their mother as an outright rebellion and promotion of violence.

She entered the hotel lobby and, grateful for the empty elevator, let the tears fall. Once inside her suite, the murder she'd been privy to replayed in her mind and she clutched her stomach as the gruesome reality swamped her.

Nathan wasn't capable of the evil she'd witnessed and she would find a way to prove it.

Determined, she lit up her computer and programmed the music for an extended flight. To hell with orders. No one could track her during a spiritual search. Flying without an anchorperson was a risk, but it conveniently eliminated a record of any comments she might make.

Besides, she was flying to Nathan, her brother and best friend. They couldn't hold him anywhere that she wouldn't find him.





Chapter Two



The patient presents as a normal, healthy eight-year-old girl. Gleaming dark hair and intelligent blue eyes in a serious face. Her parents arranged the session, as they were concerned about recent nightmares.

Patient describes dreams of a grandfatherly sort of neighbor who takes her hostage and abuses her to the point of death. Her words were simplistic and often her vocabulary limited a full description of events so I don't suspect staging. No one in her neighborhood fits the physical description according to parents and police. The medical report confirms parental and patient claims that she is unharmed to date.

Her fear however, is real, and quite tangible. I ached for her while she spoke, my own eyes filled with tears. In twenty-four years of private practice, I've never been moved to such extent.

I've prescribed three more sessions of one hour each.

–From the notes of Dr. Julian Reynard, founder, Reynard Psychiatric Institute



Petra's first attempt was useless; she'd not even been able to break free of the suite. Now she felt ill and her stomach threatened to derail her next attempt. She eased back on the couch and tried to work through her preliminary reports for Kincaid.

Chills skated across her skin and she felt her temperature climb. When tears rolled down her cheeks, she realized the whole episode was an echo of someone else's trouble.

She reached out from her mind, searching for the source of the miserable signals. Her parents and closest friends were safe. In the past, only her brother could push his symptoms onto her like this. She still hadn't quite forgiven him for the flu of 2090, though sharing his high fever probably saved his life.

Impatient, she stood up to make tea. Focusing on a physical task often interrupted wayward connections like this. But the room spun and she fell back.

"Nathan?" she whispered to the empty room. Maybe her parents were right. Nathan's talents did surpass hers, but this didn't feel like Nathan. Of course, in her opinion, Nathan hadn't felt entirely like himself for nearly two years.

The fresh, devastating loss brought on convulsive sobs. Desperate, Petra tried to pull away by imagining the connection as a thread and cutting it.

Imagery didn't work. Wishing for a shut-off valve for her empathic ability wouldn't either. That left one option.

Grateful she'd kept her laptop close, she reached out and restarted the music. The meditative baroque melodies washed over her. It was dangerous to backtrack an unknown link, but she didn't feel any undercurrent of deceit, just a bone-crushing loss that echoed her own feelings. This tie was clear and strong and, at the moment, her brother was neither.

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