Psychic Aiden McConnell has taken up the life of a recluse
after an investigation he was involved in ended badly and
tarnished his reputation. Reporter Lexie Nolan has been
busted down to covering the society pages after her
articles about disappearing teens was discredited. Neither
has much trust in society or one another, but when another
teenager disappears, a teenager both have a connection to,
they're going to have to join together to save not one, but
two young girls from the monster known as the Granville
Ghoul. When their investigation uncovers a deeply rooted
evil in their small southern town, Aiden and Lexie realize
their only hope of survival is to trust in themselves, and
each other.
Leslie Parrish's COLD SIGHT is a chilling paranormal
introducing psychic investigators who cover unsolved cold
cases. Aiden and Lexie are layered characters, reacting to
their situation based on events from their past; tenacious
in their dedication to pursue the evil in their small town.
The story is well-written, guaranteed to keep readers on
the edge of their seat. Filled with many plot twists,
readers are going to have a tough time putting this one
down!
Leslie Parrish introduces Extrasensory Agents, a band of
psychic investigators interested only in the cases nobody
else wants-the coldest ones...
After being made a
scapegoat in a botched investigation that led to a child's
death, Aidan McConnell became a recluse. Still, as a favor
to an old friend, Aidan will help on the occasional ESA
case.
Reporter Lexie Nolan has a nose for news-and
she believes a serial killer has been targeting teen girls
around Savannah, but no one believes her. So she turns to
the new paranormal detective agency and the sexy, mysterious
Aidan for help. But just as the two begin forging a
relationship, the case turns eerily personal for Lexie-and
Aidan discovers that maybe he hasn't lost the ability to
feel after all.
Excerpt
Thursday, 6:05 a.m.
Aidan McConnell awoke to the smell of gingerbread and the
sharp, piercing sound of a woman’s scream.
The scream ended the moment he opened his eyes. The smell
did not.
It took him a minute to place the scent, which had invaded
his head and his dreams as he tried to grab some sleep just
before dawn on Thursday. At first, in those early moments
between asleep and awake, he assumed he’d been dreaming of
some long-forgotten holiday visit to his grandmother’s
house; her kitchen had always been rich with all the
delicious aromas any sugar-deprived kid could desire. But
when he sat up on his couch and realized the cloying,
sickeningly sweet odor of ginger and spice was truly
filling his every breath, he knew he wasn’t dreaming.
He was connecting.
“Damn it,” he muttered, not wanting this, not now, not
again. Not so soon after last night’s mental invasion.
Bacon, for God’s sake. The reek of fatty, greasy bacon had
seemed to permeate every inch of air in his house a few
hours ago, and now it was gingerbread.
Forcing himself to focus on his other senses, he stared at
his huge, antique walnut desk, which sat in the dead center
of the room. Its surface was hidden as completely as the
top of a freshly buried casket. Files, notepads, research
books, his laptop—they consumed almost every inch of space.
A few random items finished the job: A coffee mug that
read, “Psychics do it when they’re not even there.” A
colorful sand pail filled with pencils in varying lengths.
A paperweight. An old-fashioned wind-up clock that dinged
violently when the alarm went off.
Aidan stared, he focused, he thought about the coolness of
the brass on the clock and the heft of the stone base of
the paperweight and the way freshly brewed coffee tasted
when sipped out of that mug. He thought of the thousands of
doodled sketches he’d made with those pencils, trying to
capture images he’d seen while mentally connecting with
someone before they shortened and finally disappeared from
his mind like a shadow at high noon.
It didn’t work.
Spice. Cinnamon. Sugar. But bloated, vile, thick and
putrid like the remnants of a Thanksgiving pie buried in a
garbage heap with rotting turkey and moldy stuffing.
He focused harder, rubbing the tips of his fingers across
the grain of the leather couch, craning to hear the faint
tick of that clock, staring at the desk, ordering his other
senses to combine and smother the smell. But still the
stench enveloped him. He could taste it now, the sting of
too much ginger, the vile, rancid sugar melting on his
tongue. His stomach rebelled.
Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth, resorting to his
oldest tricks against the familiar invasion into his
psyche. He visualized a sea of sturdy cement building
blocks. One by one, he began piling them up, erecting the
psychic barrier between his mind and the one he was
unwillingly connecting with. Building mental walls in order
to protect himself wasn’t just an expression when it came
to Aidan, it was pure survival. He’d have gone insane long
ago if he hadn’t learned how to protect himself.
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