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Maggie York, Tome 1: Ghost Walking



Description ajoutée par feedesneige 2017-09-19T16:17:08+02:00

Résumé

A Maggie York Paranormal Mystery Book One

Not believing won't make the ghosts go away.

New Orleans' homicide cop Maggie York is at the top of her game until a sniper's bullet changes everything. She flatlines, comes back. But not quite the same. She sees and hears things...ghostly things. And she blurts out enough to her doctors to end up on medical leave with a diagnosis of PTSD. If only.

Six months later, the voices have faded and the ghostly sightings are less frequent. The department still won't let Maggie return to the job. Oh, she's quit talking about ghosts, except to a few friends and the loony relatives who believe she's a witch, but Maggie doubts herself. Since inactivity is making it worse, she sets out to track down her shooter, only things get complicated...a ghostly witness wants his own murder solved, and sexy homicide cop, Josh Brandt—who just happens to be her replacement—wants her to butt out of his case.

After Josh catches her at the murder scene of a key witness, he wonders how the attractive redhead is staying one step ahead of him and how deeply her involvement goes. She doesn't appear as unstable as he's been told, but she's hiding something. He recognizes the signs...because he has secrets of his own. Unraveling her case soon draws them down twisted but intersecting paths.

And failure may cost Maggie her life.

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Extrait ajouté par feedesneige 2017-09-19T16:23:14+02:00

CHAPTER ONE

New Orleans streets at night were darker, more mysterious than most places on earth. If ghosts were going to live anywhere, this was the place, and October was the time of year. A faint breeze stirred the humid air, but Maggie barely noticed. Her eyes scanned the shadows, watching for movement, anything that didn’t fit…human or not. Not that she accepted the local belief in paranormal beings. Like, um, ghosts, for example. Not one bit. She shook her head, sending her red hair swinging against her cheeks. More likely she was going crazy.

Her boots clicked loudly on the uneven sidewalk, and she studied the unlit stoops of the houses that butted up to the concrete. Maybe it was the narrow streets or the black recesses created by spreading live oaks that made this portion of the French Quarter so eerie, as if it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

She paused at the corner, looked over her shoulder, then continued across the cobblestone street. Even the beam from the single light pole was swallowed by the night, giving off only a hazy glow. It was hard to read the building numbers. She was looking for Daddy Mo’s, one of New Orleans’ late-hours jazz clubs.

Hoping to find a murderer. Her murderer. Or he had intended to be.

She shifted her tense shoulders, and the resulting twinge in her rib cage was a sharp reminder of that night six months ago. The bullet had nicked her heart, collapsed her lung. By the time the paramedics rolled her gurney into the hospital, she’d coded twice and was legally dead. But they’d brought her back.

Yeah, well, sort of. Not the old Maggie—seasoned, no-nonsense homicide cop—but a new version of Marguerite Durant York, one she didn’t yet understand. She’d returned…changed, hearing voices and seeing things she shouldn’t be able to see.

It cost her the one thing that mattered—her career on the major crimes squad.

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