Free The Taken by Vicki Pettersson

now she sounded like her aunt.
    Marin tapped one stubby finger on her chair arm. “Fine,” she finally said, leaning back. “Then here’s how this is going to work, and I won’t take no for an answer. I’m still your boss.”
    Kit tensed.
    “Drop everything else you’re working on, hand it to John or Ed, and focus that innate stubbornness on winnowing down that list. You find that damned contact of yours.” Marin leaned forward, sharp eyes honed. “You write down every damned detail about that crime scene, hound the detectives, and drive this damned story into the ground. Then we bury the murdering bastard that stole our reporter, our girl, with it.”
    Kit found herself unexpectedly smiling. Yes, this was what she’d needed. This was why she’d come here instead of going home. She stood.
    “Copy me on everything, I don’t care how small or seemingly insignificant. I want an update on your work to date, and daily reports after that.”
    “Thank you, Auntie.”
    “Don’t thank me.” Marin stood, too. “I’ve known Nicole since she was fourteen years old and you dragged her home like some flea-bitten stray. I don’t think I ever saw her without a camera under her arm. I definitely never saw her without you.”
    She looked at Kit like she was wearing one of her more outrageous outfits . . . or nothing at all. And that’s how Kit felt standing in this office without Nicole. Naked. Like something vital was missing.
    “The thing is,” Marin continued, chin wobbling, “if I ever had a child, a daughter, I’d want her to be . . .” She waved one arm, and shook her head. “Well . . . nothing like either of you. But I cared for that girl. I still care. So go out there and get me the goddamned truth.”
    “I’ll get you your truth,” Kit swore, with identical familial passion. “And a goddamned murderer.”
    Marin smiled briefly, eyes turning up at the corners like a cat considering a three-legged mouse. “Have that report on my desk by morning. I’ll be your personal research assistant and an extra pair of eyes. Meanwhile, I’d like you to reconsider staying with me. The circumstances surrounding Ms. Rockwell’s death are . . . unsettling.”
    “Your stubbornness is annoying,” Kit said, but reached over to place a hand on her aunt’s arm.
    Marin grazed Kit’s knuckles with her own before letting her hand fall away. “Runs in the family.”

Chapter Five
     
    I n addition to the death senses, Grif was relieved to find he’d retained his celestial ability to unlock things. He entered Craig’s ranch house without even having to touch the keyhole, bypassing the red blink of a security camera with the wave of his hand. Yet he’d already discovered the ability was clearly meant only for use in locating Katherine Craig. The one time he’d tried to open the back door of a gentlemen’s club—just to ask for directions, of course—he’d been yelled at and chased by the owner’s dog. Briefly caught, too, he thought, scowling at the ripped hem of his pant leg. He’d have given the fleabag a mouthful of feathered daggers if he’d had his wings. As it was, he had to stick to the plan. He couldn’t shield himself from attack, never mind Craig.
    And though he still felt vulnerable without his full celestial powers, the limitations were also a comfort. Like a rainbow, their absence was an intangible promise. He’d be back in the protective lap of the Everlast in a few short hours’ time. Just an angel’s blink, really.
    Though still long enough for a woman to die.
    Pulling the autopsy papers from his breast pocket, he looked up Katherine Craig’s time of death. Ten fifteen at night. Just over two hours from now, and not even a full twenty-four since Rockwell’s murder. At least Craig wouldn’t have to live with her grief for long, Grif thought, tucking the papers away.
    He looked up, squinting into a darkened hallway. Outside the home, the chalky white walls had gleamed beneath the full