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a form of penance. I’d once been a cop. Then my psychic gift had led my partner and me into a situation where only one of us had emerged alive. I still wished it hadn’t been me.
    Max Murphy had been a great guy, a good cop, a wonderful husband and a caring father. He’d been the best partner an officer could hope for. He’d believed in me, and his belief had gotten him killed.
    I hadn’t been able to remain a cop after that—no one trusted me; hell, I didn’t trust myself—so I’d quit the force. I could find no better way to be punished for my sins than to work for the widow of the man I’d destroyed.
    To my amazement, Megan didn’t hate me. She didn’t blame me. The crazy woman loved me.
    While I wanted nothing more than to head into Murphy’s and draw a Miller Lite, then sit down and drink it with Megan, I couldn’t go back there and risk her life and the lives of her three kids the way I’d risked Max’s.
    Jimmy drove toward LAX. Even at this time of night, make that morning, the traffic was obscene. How did people live here?
    He found a decent hotel, went inside to book a room. He was less bloody than I was. When he came out he handed me a key. I stared at it dumbly. Separate rooms? That was . . . different.
    I didn’t comment. Jimmy was in charge of the bills; he could do what he liked. This saving-the-world gig didn’t pay well. Hell, it didn’t pay anything. Once “recruited” into the federation, DKs and seers obtained “cover” jobs that allowed them to easily do their secret jobs while providing them with enough cash to live on and fund their clandestine activities. Ruthie had run a foster-care facility, which allowed her to take care of her duties as both a seer and the leader of the light while also recruiting for the federation.
    The most troubled kids are usually the most powerful kids in terms of supernatural gifts. They’re different, big-time, and they end up getting kicked out ofhome after home because around them weird stuff happens.
    And when they try to explain it, they can’t. Or what’s the truth sounds very much like a lie: I don’t know how the family dog ended up in pieces. I can’t remember how I got out of the house, or what I did for the past three hours. I can’t explain why my clothes are always torn and bloody yet I’m not.
    Ruthie had been the first person to tell me it was okay that I “knew” stuff about people just by touching them. That I wasn’t evil or crazy. That I didn’t have to hide it—at least from her.
    Jimmy and I each grabbed our own duffel and went into the hotel. The two rooms were located right next to each other. I guess I should be glad he hadn’t asked for separate floors.
    “Night.” Jimmy disappeared inside.
    I went in, saw the connecting door, felt a little better, until I opened it and discovered the one to his side remained closed. I left mine open and got into the shower.
    The blood had dried; it took a while to get it all off. I let my hair air-dry—there wasn’t much of it; I’d learned the hard way when I’d been a cop that long hair was an invitation for morons to pull it out or spit gum in. I’d hacked off my dark brown tresses a few weeks into my rookie year, and I kept them short now by snipping at them with any sharp implement available. For some reason the choppy, messy style suited my face.
    It was an exotic face, or so I’d been told. Skin darker than the average Caucasian, hinting at a mixed heritage, my bright blue eyes as much a mystery as the rest of me.
    The hotel was more upscale than I’d been stayingin lately. There was a mini-bar, and I pulled out that beer I’d been craving. Ten bucks. I twisted off the cap. Jimmy could afford it.
    My finances were in flux. Cop to bartender was considered by most a downward trend, although on a busy night, tending bar was definitely more lucrative. But since I’d had to go on the road as the leader of the light, my cash flow had dwindled.
    The only money coming