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  I took a deep breath. I had no fucking idea why this guy was so familiar with me to call me by the nickname I’d used since kindergarten. Before today, we had met only once for just a couple of hours, and during that short period of time, he killed my future as a doctor.

  I took his hand, half wishing he’d drop dead on the spot.

  After all, he was the one who convinced the Chapel Hill Police Department and my medical school that I’m the Grim Reaper.

  CHAPTER 2

  “You’re very welcome,” Rowling said while walking me into the building.

  “Excuse me?” was my reply. I didn’t thank him, and I had no intention of doing so.

  “Hasn’t your mom told you to say thank you when someone helps you?” He arched an eyebrow. “If I recall it right, it’s not the first time I’ve saved your behind. Oh, don’t say you don’t remember how I got you out of jail. Otherwise, you would still be in the middle of a triple-murder trial.”

  “Hello? That wasn’t going to happen, as I didn’t kill anyone,” I retorted, following him into the elevator. “That was a false accusation.”

  “Ha! Haven’t you ever heard about the tales of innocent citizens serving twenty-plus years in prison for a crime they didn’t commit?” Rowling snorted as he punched the Door Close button.

  “Okay, thank you so much for facilitating the process of proving my innocence for the alleged triple murder,” I said through clenched teeth. “Then again, you didn’t need to give them the impression I’m the Grim Reaper!”

  “Don’t be upset. I didn’t tell them you’re the Grim Reaper. I just advised them not to touch you unless they have suicidal wishes,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s true those guys, who slipped out of the judiciary system without getting the penalties they deserved, died just minutes after you touched them. You should be proud of yourself. After all, you made the world a better place by killing them.”

  “I didn’t kill them!” I snapped.

  “Whatever.” He shrugged.

  “You know what? I got kicked out of medical school because of your stupid remark to the police force in Chapel Hill.”

  “That means you don’t have to spend the rest of your life surrounded by germs, sick people, and misery. Lucky you.” He smiled like an angel.

  “That’s not my point!” I shrieked, partly because he was sort of right. It was true I often fantasized about winning a jackpot with Powerball, paying off my student loan, and leaving medicine for good. Then again, quitting on my own was one thing, while being forced to leave was a totally different story.

  “Besides that, what I mentioned was nothing but my personal opinion. It’s not my fault they chose to believe it. They could have laughed it off as a stupid joke, which they didn’t.”

  He had a point. I sighed.

  As the elevator door opened, he held it for me, and this time, I thanked him. It was true that I was upset about him, but I had to show I had manners.

  It’s true I have manners, but it’s also true that I tend to lose balance at the wrong place at the worst possible time. When I walked out of the elevator, I tripped over nothing. For a moment, I felt like I was flying, but at the same time, I was aware of gravity kicking in. While I was falling, many thoughts crossed my mind. Is it possible to crack my head like Humpty Dumpty in the federal building’s elevator and die? If I get injured, disabled, or die, will I be able to pay off my student loan with the settlement? Yeah, perhaps falling might not be that bad….

  And the next thing, I was in his arms. No. Technically, I was in his arm because he was holding me tightly against his chest only using one arm. Without thinking, I inhaled his clean, wholesome, and… alluring scent. He smelled of fresh linen, citrus, and deep blue ocean—Mediterranean Sea, perhaps. It was addictive. I inhaled deeply.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered.

  I looked up at his face and lost my words. I knew he was good-looking, but with a close-up view of his beautifully sculpted face and the captivating green eyes, I realized how hot he was. As I witnessed the green of his eyes deepen, I half expected him to clasp me tighter and start stroking my face with his other hand—or, even better, kiss me—totally like Fifty Shades of Grey.

  But that didn’t happen.

  Instead of caressing my face with a sensual touch of his long fingers, he patted my cheek with the other hand like a jerk. “You don’t need to fake a stumble in order to cling to me. All you have to do is ask, or just hug me as much as you want to.”

  “I didn’t fake a stumble!” Pulling myself out of his embrace, I retorted, “I happen to be a tad bit on the clumsy side. Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “Now you’re playing hard to get, huh?” He was grinning from ear to ear. “By the way, Hernandez wants to see you.”

  “Hernandez who? As in, the head of the FBI in the New York Field Office?” I asked, puzzled. I couldn’t understand why he’d bother to meet someone as insignificant as a newbie assistant.

  “Yes.” Rowling nodded. “Go upstairs and turn left. The corner office is the one Hernandez occupies. My office is in the right corner. Meet me as soon as you’re finished with the old guy.”

  * * *

  It started with three sudden deaths of my patients.

  I was in the middle of clinical rotations and the patients dropped dead when I touched them.

  Yeah, you heard me right. I touched the patients I was supposed to look after and they dropped dead. To be precise, three patients died just minutes after I touched them in three consecutive days.

  The first patient was Mr. Jack T. Simmons, who was visiting the outpatient clinic complaining of a sore throat. He had a massive heart attack as soon as I touched his hand to take his pulse. The next day, I was running a preliminary physical exam on Mr. Patrick Barnes, who had a minor stomachache. When I tried to listen to his heart using the stethoscope, I touched his chest. He had a massive brain hemorrhage and died on the spot. Neither of them had a preexisting condition that could have caused them to die so suddenly.

  And on the third day, I was helping Mr. Caleb Schumacher, who was visiting the outpatient clinic because of a twisted ankle. I palpated his leg to see the maximum point of tenderness, and he broke out into hives. He then started wheezing and clutching his chest. Before I had time to say “Emergency!” he was a dead man. The cause of his death was anaphylactic shock, a massive allergic reaction, but what caused it was never identified.

  People die for many reasons, but having three patients with no preexisting life-threatening conditions dropping dead while they were under my care in three consecutive days didn’t spotlight my performance in a good way. Actually, everyone cast me suspicious looks. As a result, I was detained by the Chapel Hill Police Department as a serial murder suspect.

  The police had conducted a thorough investigation of me. They went so far as to analyze all the garments, including bras and panties, I wore at the time of the incidents. I’m not a slob, so I had washed and dried the clothes I had on during the first episodes, and the police accused me of tampering with evidence. I told them I never skipped laundry because I couldn’t stand the idea of having my dirty clothes staying dirty overnight, facilitating the growth and proliferation of potentially harmful microorganisms.

  “Oh, yeah?” one of the detectives said sarcastically. “You can’t stand having dirty clothes around you.”

  “You can’t stand having dirty men around you, can you?” another detective chimed in.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Guess what? In the past, all three of the men were arrested for killing and/or raping little girls; however, they were released because of holes in the case, such as an accidental destruction of DNA in the lab. They walked as free men. You couldn’t tolerate seeing them go unpunished, and that’s why you killed them. Right?”

  “I didn’t kill them!”

  The conversation between the detectives and yours truly didn’t go very smoothly.

  There was no physical evidence to charge me
for three first-degree murders, mostly because I killed no one; however, the lack of physical evidence made it even more difficult to prove my innocence.

  When the investigation hit a dead end, this gorgeous guy appeared in the uncomfortable interrogation room of the Chapel Hill Police Department. Without even introducing himself, he started asking me questions. To my surprise, the detectives didn’t object to having a total stranger interrogating me.

  After a couple of hours, he said something that sounded almost like a sick joke.

  “First of all, she didn’t kill those men—at least not intentionally. It’s just she happens to be something like, say, the Grim Reaper. That’s why those criminals dropped dead the moment she touched them.”

  I expected the detectives to get really annoyed by his stupid remark, or crack up laughing like jerks, but they didn’t. Soon, the chief of the Chapel Hill Police Department himself came into the room where I was being held. Apologizing profusely, he released me, admitting it was atrociously wrong to detain me.

  The detectives and police officers avoided having any physical contact with me, as if they believed the handsome man’s silly words. He was already gone when I was released. I wished I could say “Thank you” to him.

  I went back to the normalcy of my life. Or, at least, I thought so.

  At that time, I was going to return to school and continue my education, but they didn’t welcome me back with open arms.

  They were all about this stupid rumor that I was the Grim Reaper, or the Angel of Death, and also started avoiding physical contact with me at all costs. When my fiancé broke up with me, he communicated with me by text message.

  The board of directors ran a quick assessment of the pros and cons of keeping me registered as a student, and they came to a conclusion to dismiss me pronto. Obviously, they didn’t think having someone nicknamed the Grim Reaper was a very good idea.

  It was like I had suddenly contracted some deadly and incurable infectious disease, such as Ebola.

  According to the social understandings, medical professionals are supposed to be super-logical and scientific; however, people in this community also happen to be big on superstition. Maybe dealing with life and death had that effect on them. Oh, did I mention rumors spread faster than the speed of light in the medical community?

  I wasn’t a rocket scientist, but putting two and two together was an easy task. I knew it was him. Though the chief of police never admitted it, I knew it was the guy who butted into my interrogation who spread the word that I was the Grim Reaper.

  CHAPTER 3

  After I finished meeting with Assistant Director in Charge Sheldon Hernandez, my brain was smoking with confusion.

  Unlike what I had anticipated, the head of the FBI’s New York Office treated me like a very important guest. Though maybe "sacrifice" was a more appropriate word than "guest."

  “Did you have a chance to touch Rowling?” were Hernandez’s first words.

  “Yes,” I answered, and he clicked his tongue.

  “Assuming we’re not in need of an ambulance, he didn’t die on the spot, did he?” Hernandez was a broad-shouldered, heavyset man in his mid-forties sporting bushy eyebrows. While he spoke, his bushy eyebrows were furrowed as if they were holding their own breath.

  I didn’t know the right response, so I just shook my head. “No.”

  “Damn.” Then he mumbled, “Then again, considering USCAB is a huge post-retirement job provider for us, having the only son of the CEO killed might not be such a great idea.”

  “USCAB? Isn’t that a security company?” I asked. If I recalled correctly, USCAB—United States Cover All Bases—was a conglomerate of security, insurance, real estate, and several more fields.

  Hernandez cleared his throat. “I thought you knew about your direct superior’s background.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Good. That explains why you took this job offer.” He smiled.

  I felt trapped. My gut instinct was screaming, “You shouldn’t have taken this job!” At the same time, the little white angel on my shoulder was whispering, “Then again, considering all the other potential employers rejected your application, you need to keep this job. You know it’s next to impossible to pay off your debt, which is larger than a quarter million dollars, working at Walmart or Starbucks.”

  Looking at my sullen face, he continued. “Ms. Meyer, you should be proud of yourself. It’s the first time Rowling has asked for someone specific to work as his subordinate. Anyway, I believe you two will get along well.”

  “Sir, why was I hired?” I asked. “Not that I’m complaining, but I have no suitable background for the FBI.”

  “That’s a good question.” He smiled, which meant he was contemplating a plausible answer. He cleared his throat. “We reviewed your qualifications when Rowling requested you to be his assistant. So, you went to medical school, and you were in the middle of clinical rotations, am I correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe you have encountered difficult patients, and maybe a moody attending physician or two.”

  “Yes, I have.” I nodded. “Many of those types of people.”

  “Excellent. That makes you a great assistant. At times, Rowling can be quite difficult. I had been looking for someone who can steer him in the right direction—especially when collaborating with different branches of law enforcement. Perhaps you’ve heard or read before, but the relationship between the NYPD and us is best described as complex. Making it lousier isn’t in our best interest. Think of him like one of those difficult patients and temperamental physicians all rolled into one, and throw in a spoiled five-year-old. Oh, and don’t forget he’s a genius when it comes to offending the people the bureau doesn’t want to offend. You get the picture, right?”

  “I think so.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

  “He tends to create unneeded tension and trouble, especially in the wrong place and at the wrong time. Perhaps he’s doing it on purpose….” As he spoke, his hands clenched into fists, and his knuckles whitened. “Anyway, I hope you’ll manage to steer him clear of trouble.”

  “I can try,” I said.

  He wished me luck on my new career, and the meeting was over.

  “By the way, Ms. Meyer,” he said to my back, “I believe you’re used to witnessing strange things.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” After all, having three people dying minutes after touching me qualified as strange events.

  “Very good. Excellent,” he said.

  When I left his office, I was welcomed by a crowd of applauding special agents and special assistants. They praised my selfless decision to take this job. Some of them were even teary. Then again, none of them tried to shake hands with me.

  Obviously, they were happy to have me as Rick Rowling’s assistant. At first, I didn’t know why, but then I caught a couple men cheering and high-fiving, and overheard, “Thank God he got an assistant before he laid his eyes on us! We’re safe. Yeah!” At that point, I knew why they were so ecstatic about me joining the FBI—none of them wanted to work with him.

  I felt terrible for taking the offered salary without negotiation. I shouldn’t have believed what the recruiter said. He told me it was a challenging, exciting, yet very stable job with nice pay, and I believed him.

  When I finally reached the office of my new boss, I froze in shock.

  The door was ordinary, but the metal panel on the door read Paranormal Cases Division.

  At first, I thought it might be a typo, but I didn’t know any words that could be misspelled as "paranormal." If I recalled right, I was never informed about coping with supernatural beings, such as vampires, werewolves, and ghosts.

  “Mr. Rowling, is the panel on the door a joke?” I confronted my new boss, who was sitting at a huge mahogany desk. I had seen a similar one at a former professor’s house. He was a WASP—White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant—coming from old money. He loved having parties so he could show off his glamorou
s life and super-fabulous estate to his students. The desk was an antique from the eighteenth century.

  “What’s the big deal?” He arched an eyebrow. “Paranormal Cases Division is the official name of this division.”

  “Such a division isn’t listed on the FBI website,” I pointed out. “You know paranormal is about ghosts, aliens, and UFOs, right? Do I look like an idiot who believes such an outrageous section actually exists?”

  “You know what? There are many kinds of sections and departments dealing with such lives, and our particular division happens to be one of them.”

  “Mr. Rowling, you’re joking, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, don’t forget we also deal with vampires. By the way, drop the ‘Mr.’ and call me Rick, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, and added, “Rick.”

  “Good. Have you ever seen Ghostbusters? Hey, stop rolling your eyes. According to that movie, the Big Apple happens to be America’s most haunted city, which is probably true. Perhaps you’ve heard of a scandalous tale or two involving non-human existences such as ghosts, spirits, aliens and the like. And guess what? Someone has to deal with them to keep the power balance in this town.”

  “All right. Assuming that paranormal lives actually exist, why doesn’t the government tell the general public about our supernatural neighbors?”

  “Like ‘Breaking News: Your neighbors might be Martians, and your doctor might be a zombie!’? Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, those who are acquainted with paranormal presences are already aware of them, and the rest of the world need not know or learn about them. Informing the entire city sounds as good a plan as pushing the panic button.”

  “Okay, I get your point.”

  “Good. Any more questions?” he asked, shifting on the chair and crossing his long legs.

  “Yes. What made you hire me as your subordinate?”

  “That’s simple.” He shrugged. “First of all, I need an assistant who takes care of my daily chores, such as making case files. Writing case files is almost like writing your patients’ charts, so I believe that part will be easy for you. I’ve had my share of assistants, but for some unknown reasons, they quit within a month or so. Those losers. Can you believe one of them quit on the second day? In addition, the people I deal with are not necessarily ladies and gentlemen, so having someone with a reputation as the Grim Reaper helps.”