Free The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) by Lotta Smith

fully aware of the complete lack of credentials
on my part, but I was totally obsessing with that for totally unknown reasons. And
I had no fucking idea why I was comparing myself to Archangel’s former fiancée.
Talk about a frustration.
    “Yes and no. But
your reaction wasn’t all that bad considering you didn’t puke, or cry like a
drunken idiot shedding bodily fluids all over the place. Or collapsing on the
spot, potentially ruining forensic evidence. It just indicates you’re normal,
at least marginally.” He said. “As far as I know, I’ve never met anyone who’s
indeed cool at murder scenes except for some murderers.”
    “But you can look
at the corpses without a twitch of a facial muscle.” I pointed out. “And Agent
Henderson’s always well-composed in front of the corpses. Even baby faced
officers who looked as if they just came out of the police academy were better
composed than me.”
    Archangel gave out
a low chuckle. “Detaching yourself from the murder and the corpses, and keeping
the emotions inside is the first thing they teach at any law enforcement
academy, so the officers were only following the protocol. They may be
pokerfaced, but inside, they’re freaking out as much as you are, maybe, more
than you.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah. In
addition, even though Henderson keeps the same scowl, he cries at night.”
    “You are making
that up, right?”
    “Not really, it’s
just that I haven’t yet checked. You’d never know, it might turn out that I was
right.” He shrugged. “About that Congresswoman, she had to be literally resuscitated
by paramedics at the first crime scene she attended. She puked inside her mouth,
got choked and had almost died. That was not a pretty sight. Besides that, did I
mention you’re the first person that I’ve met who, with no military or police
procedural training, had managed to eat dinner just after discovering the first
corpse of lifetime?”
    “No, that’s a
total news flash. And, am I?” I asked, recalling the first time I encountered
Michael Archangel. It was before becoming his personal assistant and after
touring the globe as a fire breather with Iron Dragon. Back then, I was a live-in
maid at a manse in a private island in the Caribbean. My last employer was a
nice, if a little bit temperamental, elderly lady. The island had a great
privacy and I used to take a stroll on the white sands and evening skinny dips
in the sea. When a large number of outsiders came to the island, so did
troubles. Plenty of troubles including murders.
    “Yes, you’re the
first person who had no problem eating roast beef after witnessing a murdered
corpse. That made it pretty much difficult to ditch the theory that you might
the killer.”
    That fiasco in the
island was promptly solved by Archangel, just like usual. In addition, he saved
my behind by loaning his pink summer jacket to me (my clothes were stolen while
I was skinny dipping in the sea) and nailing the killer who was planning to
kill me as well. The P.I. wasn’t all that eager with the part of saving me,
though, anyway, he liked my pancakes and Japanese style sweet omelet with a
hint of soy sauce.
    “Thank you,” I
said. And I meant for everything.
    “For what?”
    “For your
assurance that I’m normal. I was beginning to hate myself for being a terrible
person.”  
    “You hate yourself
just because getting frightened by horrible deaths? Then you must be coming
with lots of reasons to loathe yourself every day.”
    “No, I mean, I
hated myself because I was being a jealous bitch,” I confessed. “When I met Dr.
Stewart back in the morgue, she was so happy, radiant, and, and…so
mother-to-be. I said congratulations for her coming motherhood, and I meant it.
I was indeed happy for her, and happy for her baby, too. But at the same time,
a jealous, vicious, and obnoxious bitch was crawling in the bottom of my heart,
wondering why I wasn’t the one to be a happy mother-to-be.” I gulped in the