Free Dying by the Hour (A Jesse Sullivan Novel Book 2) by Kory M. Shrum

to no benefits. The only option most of them had was to become Analysts of necromagnetic phenomenon—A.M.P.s—and only if they were good at remote viewing, particularly death prediction, did they even have this option. Otherwise it’s food stamps, unemployment, or homelessness.
    It’s my understanding remote-viewing is like clairvoyance because viewers see pictures of stuff in their heads, but remote-viewers can do more than just see something. Somehow they can keep “entering” into a vision differently to get several pictures. Then they piece these pictures together for a more accurate assessment of the situation.
    And as I search the walls, I realize she is definitely looking for someone now.
    The sound of her pencil scratching furiously over the paper fills the basement. I put Winston on the cold concrete floor. He still doesn’t stray far, but he’s feeling better, or at least brave enough to search the basement’s corners for stray crumbs.
    I want Gloria’s attention, but I know better than to interrupt. Though Winston’s snorts don’t seem to bother her. I search the pictures for clues as to what’s going on.
    It’s the same girl in every single one of the pictures, from different angles. Sometimes she’s smiling. Sometimes she’s looking at the viewer, in others it’s her profile. It varies. But in every one, she is young—fifteen or sixteen with thick dark hair, a big nose and thin lips. She stands in protective postures, like someone who isn’t comfortable with herself, cradling skinny limbs across her small chest. Most of the time her wild hair covers half her face.
    Gloria finally stops, and puts her pencil down.
    “Who is she?” I ask.
    “Liza Miller.”
    “She looks young,” I say. What I really wonder is what would Liza think if she knew an African-American woman in her late 40s she’d never even met was sitting in her basement drawing pictures of her.
    I tell Gloria about the brick.
    At the end of my story she says, “Call Dr. York. Ask him where the clothes were. Who had access? And get it tested to see if it is your blood.”
    “You didn’t see this coming?” I ask.
    “I can’t see everything,” she reminds me. And even if she could, it doesn’t mean she can stop it. In fact, trying to save me proved to only put me in danger last year when we got trapped in the church basement. “You still need to report it.”
    “And say what?” I laugh. “I can’t tell them who it is. Most people would at least have an idea, but not me. Is it a religious freak? Someone with a zombie fetish? Or it could be—”
    Gloria intercepts my escalating voice. “I think we have established that Caldwell isn’t the type to get his own hands dirty.”
    “He has minions,” I say. “It could be another Martin-drone.”
    “What happened to your arm?” Gloria asks softly.
    She sounds as tired as I feel.
    “I tripped and the brick fell on me. And there was glass.”
    “You tripped over a brick and fell on it?”
    I let out a long exhausted breath. “No. I tripped, holding a brick and then dropped it—on myself.” A long stretch of silence expands between us with the exception of the low click of Gloria’s water heater and Winston’s investigative snorts. “And I think I broke my house.”
    “You broke your house?” She asks, flatly.
    “Yeah, like all the electrical stuff.”
    She pushes away from her desk and starts to ascend the stairs. “A headache is coming. I need a drink.”
    I scoop up Winston, happy for an excuse to get out of that dark dank basement. By the time we reach the top of the stairs, Gloria is chugging a 2-liter of Coke like a beer at a frat party.
    I remember why I came. “Brinkley said you’d know what was next.”
    “Liza Miller is next.”
    “Is she a zombie?”
    Gloria gives me a warning glare. No one but Lane appreciates the z-word.
    “I don’t know what she is,” Gloria admits. The plastic coke bottle, which partially deflated in her ravenous sucking,