The #Monday Movie +#EXCERPT #BookTrailer Swap! #Spotlight on: #Author Leslie A. Kelly @lesliekelly ~ Share YOUR book trailer links here #MusicMonday

Meet the Extrasensory Agents…a team of psychics who can solve the coldest of crimes! 

Derek Monahan sees violent death wherever he turns. His strange ability forces him to watch crimes that repeat in loops of blood and anguish. The only positive is that he is able to use his power to solve cold crimes…like the disappearances of boys from a secretive academy.

Dr. Kate Lincoln hates that her kid brother was sent to an awful school in Georgia. The place is a nightmare–housed in what was once a brutal asylum. Now her brother has disappeared, and she’s the only one who seems to care.

Derek wants to help the beautiful doctor, but going undercover in a place that seethes with ancient violence isn’t easy. When she sees just how much his job affects him, Kate realizes she wants to be the one to help heal the wounds of this strong, noble, and very sexy man.

As long as she survives to do it.

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Twenty Years Ago

“I’m so sorry, Derek, but it’s true. Your mom and dad are dead.”

Derek Monahan couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t think anything. Couldn’t feel anything.

His ears were messed up. Maybe he’d taken a pitch to the head. He was dreaming.

“I can’t believe it either.”

He could only stare at his dad’s best friend, who he’d always called Uncle Abe, wanting to punch him in the face for saying such a rotten lie.

“I know it’s not easy for you to hear. You can go right ahead and cry; I’m here for you.”

Derek wasn’t crying. He didn’t have a single tear in his head. They were frozen.

Finding out you failed a test—that was not easy to hear. Hearing the girl you liked didn’t like you back wasn’t either. Realizing there was no Santa Claus hadn’t been so fun, even though he’d suspected it.

This? This was the-f-word devastating.

“That’s why they didn’t come to my game?” he whispered, hating himself for being so mad at them earlier. When he hadn’t seen them sitting in their regular seats in the stands, he’d thought awful things—that his Dad always worked late, and his mom always forgot stuff.

He’d do anything for that to be true.

“You know they’d have been here if they could, son.”

“I’m not your son,” he managed to whisper through lips that suddenly felt cold, like he’d just gulped a Slurpee.

The man put a big hand on his shoulder. “Forgive me. That was insensitive.”

“How?” he whispered, dropping his stare to his feet, which he scuffed in the dust of the baseball dugout. One minute he’d been basking in his team’s appreciation for the double he’d hit to bring in Jason and Carl to tie the game. The next a cop car had pulled up and two detectives had gotten out, along with his Uncle Abe. They’d whispered with the coach, who’d called Derek in off the field, not meeting his eyes.

And then Abe had broken the news. Dead. His parents—both of them—dead.

“How?” he repeated.

Abe shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. “We can talk about that later.”

“Tell me the truth, Uncle Abe.” He swallowed hard. “Was it a car accident?”

Abe shook his head, and tears fell down his face, big and shiny. Derek had never seen a grown man cry, other than when his dad fake-sobbed every time the Diamondbacks lost. These real tears shocked him.

“No, Derek. Not an accident.”

Derek’s stomach began to twist up and his guts cramped. He suddenly didn’t want to know the rest. But somehow, words came out of his mouth anyway; he couldn’t stop them.

“Did somebody kill them?”

Abe swallowed, the lump on his throat bobbing up and down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a clump of used tissues and used them to wipe his nose.

Derek’s anger grew. Whatever the answer was, his imagination was only making it worse. He needed to know. Not later. Now.

He gripped Abe’s shirt in both his dusty hands. “Tell me. Would you tell me? Just fucking tell me!” he yelled, not caring that he was using the kind of words he usually only used to impress his friends, but never around adults. Right now, though, he felt like an adult. Like he’d become one in the last five minutes.

“It’s too much. You don’t want to hear this.”

Frustrated, rage building, he swung a leg back and kicked the man, his cleated foot connecting with a shin. Abe didn’t get mad. Instead, he grabbed Derek’s shoulders and pulled him close for a hug.

Derek almost resisted, but in the end, buried his face in the man’s shirt, hiccupping and heaving. But he still didn’t cry. He was shaking too hard, “How?” he mumbled.

He felt Uncle Abe’s chest move as he hauled in a deep breath. Finally, he answered.

“The police think that, this morning, after you left for school, your dad…well, I guess he got mad about something. He, uh…he hurt your mom, Derek. And then he hurt himself.”

Hurt his mom. Hurt himself. Both dead.

Derek wasn’t stupid. He knew the words for this. He couldn’t say them, but he knew them. Yet he didn’t believe them. “No.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He let go of his dad’s best friend’s shirt and shoved him away, staggering a few feet. He almost stumbled over his own glove, which had fallen off his hand, unnoticed.

“You’re a liar!”

His dad loved his mom. She loved him back. He saw them kissing all the time. They held hands when they went out. They rubbed their noses together and cuddled on the couch. His friends all thought his parents were gross. He told them he agreed, but secretly he was kinda glad he didn’t ever have to worry about them getting the big D like so many other parents had.

“My dad would never hurt her,” he growled. “He’d never hurt himself, either. We go to church together every Sunday. Everybody knows people who do that can’t go to heaven.”

“I’m sorry, Derek. I’m so very sorry. But the police, well, they found a note on your Dad’s computer screen. And the evidence….” Abe cleared his throat and shoved the crumpled-up tissues back into his pocket. “I think we should go.”

Derek saw him looking around and followed his stare, seeing how everybody in the stands, and on the field, was watching them. Heads were together as the word spread. He couldn’t help looking at the top of the bleachers, where Whitney Frost sat. She’d told him she was going to come watch him play. Now she was crying.

Everybody knew. Hopefully they didn’t know all of it—like that the lying cops were saying such bad things about his dad. But they knew his parents were dead. Coach had probably told one parent, whispers had gone around. Now the whole crowd was watching him with pity.

He hated it. He didn’t want pity. Turning away, he ground his teeth and curled his hands into fists, every muscle in his body tense and tight. “I wanna leave.”

“I called your grandma. She and your aunt are coming on the next plane. You’ve got lots of people who love you and who will take care of you.”

They lived in Georgia. Far from his home in Arizona. It would take them a while to get here. Hours, probably. Hours when he’d have to try to start believing this. Well, some of it. Because he would never believe—never—that his dad had hurt his mom.

“I want to go home.”

“Um…”

Derek didn’t even wait. He swung around and stalked toward the school building. His bike was chained to the bike rack. He’d be on it, pumping his legs and racing through his neighborhood, and would see for himself that this was all a lie. Or a mistake. His parents would be there, his mom in the kitchen making something boring and healthy for dinner. His father would be just getting home from work at the courthouse, and Dad would go in the kitchen and hug Mom from behind and she’d call him a perv and push him away and then they’d both see Derek standing there and mom would blush and dad would laugh and they would all have dinner and he and Dad would play a game on the Xbox while mom took a bath with her nightly glass of wine and they’d go to bed and tomorrow would be the same, followed by all the other tomorrows until Derek was a teenager and his dad would teach him to drive and he’d fight with his mom about whether he could get a motorcycle and they’d come to his high school graduation and take him to college and would be proud of him when he became a lawyer like his dad and him and Whitney Frost would get married and they’d all go to his own kid’s baseball games and his parents would still be holding hands.

They’d always be holding hands.

Actually, when I write, I need silence. Even if I’m alone in the house, I often put earplugs in. I tell hubby I’m holding in my brains…lol!

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