Tanya Holmes - Books - The Darkest Frost

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, Pennsylvania.

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 motion-sensors abounded.

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 Frost's house.