Copycat Killer (Psychic For Hire 1)

Stunned, I turn around and scrutinize the mourners anew. Ordinary people, whom I never imagined could be DCK. The thought never even crossed my mind. Storm was right. I am not ready.

Finally the tears that I had been so determinedly holding inside come pouring down my cheeks.

I don’t turn back towards Storm. I can’t bear for him to see them. “Well, it was good seeing you,” I tell him in a strangled voice. “Good luck with your case.”

“Diana,” he says, the soft note of regret in his voice only making me cry harder. His warm hand lands on my shoulder. I shrug it off and walk away.

Chapter 4

DIANA

It rains all the way on my walk home from the funeral, a dreary relentless dripping that drenches the hood of my summer jacket and creeps into my collar.

My wet misery feels appropriate. By the time I get to my neighborhood I feel completely drained. I trudge past Notting Hill tube station. This is an expensive part of town, with pristine four-storey townhouses and expensive cars outside them. I had loved it when I first moved here. It had made me feel excited about living in London. Now I wish I had chosen a cheaper location. But my rather large deposit is invested, and I can’t afford to lose it.

Arriving at one of the immaculate looking townhouses, I let myself in. Inside, there is an entryway and a staircase leading straight up from it. The faded blue carpet and the smell of an odd cleaning fluid already feel like home. Every door on this level, and the upper ones, has a number on it. All of the rooms in this house have been converted into separate lodgings. I swiftly climb up several flights of steps to an apartment on the third level. There is no elevator.

My sour-faced landlady comes to collect the rent every Thursday and likes to inspect the apartment to make sure I am keeping it clean. She had been here just yesterday. Her presence always makes me feel resentful. Though she is not due for another week, I am already worried that I will have to beg her to let me pay the rent late. I cannot imagine it will be a pleasant conversation.

Stop moping, says the little voice snidely. You could have been living like a queen right now, but you chose not to.

“I wasn’t moping,” I mutter resentfully. “And I don’t know what fantasy world you imagine we’re living in, but money doesn’t magically grow on trees.”

Not on trees, she retorts. But there is plenty of it if you know how to get it.

“Well I don’t,” I mutter.

Tomorrow I am going to ask Smithers’ to release the money that I had saved up through work for Magda’s funeral. A portion of my pay packet got kept back every week. If he releases it within the next few days I can use some of it to make up the rent. The rest of it I intend to send to Xander Daxx for funeral costs. Anonymously of course.

As I let myself into my room, a yowling AngelBeastie throws herself at me. Realising I am drenched, she hisses in complaint. I know what she wants. Most days Beastie is perfectly happy being a house cat and refuses to go out. But right now she’s decided she is sick of being cooped up here. She wants me to sneak her downstairs.

I am not allowed to keep a pet. Whenever my landlady is here AngelBeastie resentfully deigns to hide under my bed. On days AngelBeastie does want to go out, I sneak her down on my way to work and then sneak her back in when I get home.

Today I don’t have my usual Friday night shift at the restaurant. Luca, my boss, has closed it for a private family party for his daughter’s birthday. He didn’t need the extra staff. I dearly wish he had, despite my tiredness. I quickly strip off my damp clothes and step into a hot shower.

My so-called studio apartment is just one room. On one side is a bed, a basin, and a shower inside a plexiglass cubicle. On the other side of the room is a small kitchenette aga

inst one wall, a little table and chair, and a small wardrobe. The decor is old and the wallpaper is peeling, and the air-freshener I need to cover up the musty smell that comes from the shower has run out. Still, it is better than the attic I used to live in at the Colton house.

I could probably afford a whole house in the suburbs in America with the rent I am paying for this one room.

London is expensive, snaps the little voice. Get used to it.

“Can’t you be nice for once?”

I’m never nice.

“I’ll settle for quiet. Please. I’m tired.”

What will you give me if I’m quiet?

“Nothing. Because I’ve got nothing.”

Outside the cubicle Beastie is rubbing herself on the plexiglass and meowing loudly in warning.

“Hush, Beastie. I’m nearly done.” I am worried someone will hear her and make a complaint to my landlady.

Beastie gives a final yowl and quietens. She retreats a few feet away, where she licks her fluffy white paws and glowers at me with baleful angelic blue eyes.