In Lingering Touch, Finn’s powers of psychometry go out of control. It was fascinating to see what my muse came up with in describing his abilities.
The Summer Park Psychics, book three
Best to get it over with quickly. He put away his flashlight, then pulled the glove off his left hand and stuck it in the pocket of his jeans.
He did not want to do this. He so did not want to do this. But he touched the wall anyway, his fingers splayed over the smooth surface.
Voices began to echo in Finn’s mind, their words distorted as he strained to listen. Yelling. Jazz’s voice mixed in. Elsa’s name. A man’s voice as well. Accented. Crisp. Dante.
Finn pushed back farther. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He was keeping as tight a hold of his powers as he could, holding on to the tenuous threads of the past while trying to not lose control in the present.
A man and a woman speaking quietly. Her voice—her energy—was so familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Dante again. They were talking about Michael’s paintings.
Finn pushed more.
Jazz barking orders. Just her—in her element.
His breath hitched and he felt himself leaning forward, wanting to be closer to her, even now. He stopped himself, the strain increasing as he tried to control his body and his powers at the same time.
This used to be so easy.
He paused at that moment, listening to her voice. The measured cadence of her speech was comforting. It was the last comfort he was going to have for a while. He pushed again, rewinding the memories imprinted on the wall.
The room became colder. His skin prickled and he felt a pull, like gravity was shifting and the wall wanted to suck him in. His stomach lurched and his knees weakened. He had felt similar things working some of his early cases—before he had learned how to spot trouble and brace himself for it. Domestic investigations that had gone south. Way, way south.
He sensed death. Violence. Fear.
His stomach kept churning. He didn’t want to hear anyone die. And if he became lost in the memory… He sure as hell didn’t want to experience it with them.
At least in his nightmares, he always woke up before the victim died.
He couldn’t feel his body anymore.
The wall was sending out ripples of energy, like it wanted to cleanse itself of the paintings it had touched. Then the ripples became a spiral, pulling him in, thick as tar.