Free Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) by Stuart Jaffe

carried a weight of threat.
    Inside, he found a waiting room — one sofa, two chairs, boring coffee table with assorted magazines, jazz playing quietly from ceiling speakers, a few live plants dotting the corners, and framed photographs of deer and elk hung on the walls. A woman behind a counter like that in a doctor's office smiled at him and said, "Evening. How are ya?"
    "I'm sorry. I think I'm at the wrong place."
    "This is Dr. Ashley Connor's office," the woman said.
    "Doctor?"
    The woman kept her smile strong, but Max saw doubt entering her eyes. "Yes," she said, "Dr. Connor is an ophthalmologist."
    "Oh, then I'm at the right place, I guess. Sorry for the confusion. I've got a lot of doctor appointments this week. Trying to catch up on the backlog," he said, hoping to sound convincing.
    "Are you Mr. Porter?"
    "Yes?"
    "She's got you down for a nine o'clock appointment."
    "She does?"
    "Yes, dear. Nine o'clock."
    "Isn't it a bit late?"
    "Certain appointments are considered of the highest priority."
    "I see," he said, knowing he would regret asking the next question. "Except I didn't make an appointment. I was wondering how —"
    "Everybody does. Now, if you'll just fill out this paperwork, we'll get you back there as soon as possible. Thank you."
    Max took the clipboard the woman offered and sat on the leather sofa feeling like he just stepped out of a boxing ring after being pummeled in the head for ten rounds. How could she have written in an appointment when he hadn't even decided to go ahead with this until he left the car? How did she even know his name? Confusion painted every motion he made, but he pushed on despite his desire to run. He hated to admit it, but the more he thought over the possibilities, the more he agreed with Drummond — he needed the detective's help.
    Fifteen minutes later, the receptionist sent him back to Room #4 where he found the traditional mechanical chair — several metal arms poked out of the side, each ending in a different tool. A hefty, attractive woman swept into the room and said with a thick Southern accent, "Good evening, Mr. Porter. I'm Julie."
    "Good evening."
    "You're new here. Where you from?"
    "Michigan."
    "Oh, that's much too cold for me," she said, as she turned down the lights and covered one of his eyes. With pleasant, pointless conversation, Julie tested Max's vision and finished by putting dilating drops into his eyes. "Dr. Connor will be in here in just a few minutes once those drops have a chance to work."
    "Do you always stay open this late?"
    "Only when we have special appointments, but then that happens a lot. Dr. Connor is very much in demand. It's a pleasure meeting you," Julie said and whisked out the door.
    Max waited. Time crawled.
    This is a stupid idea, he thought. Just taking the smallest step back and examining his recent circumstances, Max would have to admit that everything appeared crazy and dangerous. If he told anybody he was at the eye doctor waiting to talk to a witch about freeing a ghost so he could protect himself and his wife from an obsessive real estate developer — heck, just stating it in his head made him want to be committed.
    As the impulse to leave gained enough momentum to raise Max from his chair, the door opened and in walked Dr. Ashley Connor. She was younger than Max, looked to be straight out of school, and her features reminded Max why college had been such a wonderful experience. Often when confronted with a beautiful woman, Max would half-jokingly say to himself, "Remember, you're married." This time, however, he found his mind altering the mantra to "Remember, she's a witch."
    "Hello, Mr. Porter," Dr. Connor said as the light scent of rosemary perfume drifted toward Max. She closed the door and turned on the lights. Max winced — his dilated eyes unable to see her well in the brightness. The blurry image took him by the hand and headed toward the backend of the room. "Do I understand correctly that you wish to see me not as a