The Darkest Frost
The Frost Estate, Dearborn, MD
As a psychic detective, I've had some
of the most bizarre, if not bugnut crazy telepathic
episodes. Like the time I experienced a migraine and an
orgasm while doing a reading on a serial killer.
Twenty-six-year-old Ellen Neal's hatred for men resulted in
ten brutal murders. All of which followed the same sadistic
pattern--except for the last one. That victim she actually
slept with. But after the man dosed off, sweaty and sated,
she bashed his brains in with a paperweight. Jacked him up
so bad, the funeral director insisted on a closed casket.
I worked the case in an unofficial capacity--read: off the
books--so none of my telepathic observations could be used as
evidence, but I was the first to point the cops in Neal's
direction. As it turned out, my instincts were right. The
woman was a straight-up nutbag.
With an angel's face and a cheerleader's smile, Neal was
sweetness and light personified, but her emotions gave my
senses a much darker picture. Namely, the skull-numbing
headache-orgasm I had the first time she saw the coroner's
grizzly photos. The pleasure-pain combo hit me the second
she touched them. What a horror that was. I had to suffer
in silence while she gleefully relived the sex and the kill
repeatedly. No question, she was guilty as hell, but it
took a hidden bloody toe print and two pubic hairs before
detectives could indict her.
Neal is currently sitting on death row in Muncy,
I have a gift for reading people's emotions. Most of the
time my 'auras' come through one or more of the five senses,
but I can't control the form they take. Some days, I see
visions or smell odors. Other times I taste or feel
something, and on rare occasions, I even hear music and
voices. Then there's the bizarro variety, like the creepy
orgasm-migraine I had during the Neal case. Overall, my
degree of accuracy stands at about 90%, a success rate I
hoped would carry me through my latest case, the most
challenging of my career.
The death of Caryn Gilson, my ex-best friend.
I'd watched her boss closely. Waited for the perfect chance
to breach his inner circle. Though he didn't have a
security detail or bodyguards, he'd sealed the outer
perimeter of his Georgian-style mansion tighter than
Buckingham Palace. Mile-high gates, cameras, and
Whenever he ventured out, he blended in with the crowd or
vanished into traffic as if by magic. Photographing him
proved even more challenging. Where's Waldo had nothing on
this guy. Every picture I'd taken--and I'd shot dozens--came
out blurry or obscured somehow. Digital. Instant. It
didn't matter. The man seemed as elusive as Alice's white
rabbit. But patience was a virtue, and mine had paid off.
After months of legwork, tons of research, and a gazillion
surveillance hours, I'd finally found a way inside Braeden