Dancing With The Dead

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Someone followed her.

Someone she couldn't see or hear through any normal means, but whose presence fairly vibrated across her psychic senses.

Someone whose mission was death.

The wind stirred, running chill fingers across the back of her neck. Nikki shivered and eyed the surrounding shadows uneasily. She'd never been afraid of the dark before—had, in fact, found it something of an ally, especially in the wilder days of her youth. But tonight there was an edge to the silence, a hint of menace in the slowly swirling fog.

People disappeared on nights like this. At least they did here in Lyndhurst.

She returned her gaze to the slender figure just ahead. This was the fourth night in a row Monica Trevgard had come to the park after midnight. So far, it was to do nothing more than sit on a bench for an hour before slowly returning home.

Nikki had no idea why. If the teenager had a reason for coming here, she sure as hell hadn't found any evidence of it. Her actions to date made very little sense. The only child of one of Lyndhurst's—and possibly America's—richest men, Monica had spent most of her life rebelling against her family and their wealth. And yet, ironically, it was only thanks to her father's money that she was free to walk the streets tonight. Though nothing had ever been proven, it was a generally conceded fact that John Trevgard had at least one judge and several police officers on his payroll.

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