Author: A.J. Aalto
Genre: Paranormal Romance / Urban Fantasy
When an FBI Internal Affairs investigation lands the Preternatural Crimes Unit in a bureaucratic spank-fest, it feels like the perfect time for Marnie Baranuik to skip town and lend her expertise to a bear-sized Canadian cop who doesn’t want her help with his case, his love life, or his car stereo. Back in her childhood stomping grounds, Marnie leaps into action, facing an exorcist in skinny jeans, a slap-happy specter, and an old friend up to new tricks. Are ghosts behind a string of unusual deaths? Why didn’t her revenant companion, Lord Harry Dreppenstedt, tell her he had a Combat Butler? Can she survive dinner with her parents? With a shifty man of the cloth offering her soul’s redemption, and a revelation that could change the future of her love life, she has her gloved hands full. She may not make a great first impression, but no one makes a Last Impression quite like Marnie.
Excerpt #1
“I don’t have the time or patience to hold your hand,” he
warned, and the Blue Sense reported he was fibbing; Constable Schenk had a
natural protective streak a mile wide.
“And I don’t have the time or patience to let you,” I volleyed.
“Why should I humor you, Miss Baranuik?”
I let the Blue Sense rise until the psi in the car made the skin under my gloved palms twitchy. It reported his feelings of dedication, his unwillingness to let anyone distract him unless that distraction was going to pay off.
I said, “There are five pictures of Britney Wyatt in the car with us.”
He retrieved his folio, took a paper clip off the inner pocket, and fanned two photographs for me. One was a picture of three young people, two male, one female. The girl in the middle had a brilliant smile and a heart-shaped face, long dark hair with a thick shock of turquoise painted across the brow, and a silver nose ring. The other picture was a college graduation picture, between her parents. Same dark hair, lacking mermaid colors.
“Two,” he said.
I flipped the sun shield down above his head and a picture was tucked there, stuck with a piece of tape. Britney Wyatt, solo, posed with one fist under her chin, a professional picture with fair lighting, taken by a chain department store photographer.
“Three,” he conceded. “Lucky guess.”
“There’s an official print-out with her picture in your briefcase. Four.”
He nodded, unimpressed. “Paperwork. You’ve worked with cops before.”
I smiled, and took off a glove. I reached for his jacket. He let me. The inside pocket above his heart yielded to my questing fingers the rough corner of photo paper. I flicked it around to look at it; a snapshot of Britney, not looking at the camera, holding something that looked like a digital voice recorder. The photo was dark and grainy, but she was stunning, a flash of ghostly beauty lit only by the moon, pale and delicate, the set of her brow serious. Another shock of color at her brow, but the night and the poor picture quality washed it out, and I couldn’t quite tell if it was blue or purple. I showed Schenk the picture and said, “Five.”
He considered me for a long moment before he took the picture back and tucked it away in his jacket. We listened to the car idle, warm air blowing softly from the vents.
He made an unhappy noise. “This might get cold and ugly.”
“Like the last guy I dated,” I said, cramming my froggy hat back on. “Awesome.”
“You let me know when you start regretting this.” He stretched an arm behind me to put his folio in the back seat.
“Eleven o’clock last night,” I said, putting my glove back on. “But that won’t do Britney Wyatt much good. I’m here, and I’m tenacious, and I’m tough like a cinder block.”
“Of course you are.” Schenk nodded like he believed me, but his lips did a little yeah-right pucker. “All right, you’re on a one-day trial. Buckle up, Miss Cinderblock.”
“And I don’t have the time or patience to let you,” I volleyed.
“Why should I humor you, Miss Baranuik?”
I let the Blue Sense rise until the psi in the car made the skin under my gloved palms twitchy. It reported his feelings of dedication, his unwillingness to let anyone distract him unless that distraction was going to pay off.
I said, “There are five pictures of Britney Wyatt in the car with us.”
He retrieved his folio, took a paper clip off the inner pocket, and fanned two photographs for me. One was a picture of three young people, two male, one female. The girl in the middle had a brilliant smile and a heart-shaped face, long dark hair with a thick shock of turquoise painted across the brow, and a silver nose ring. The other picture was a college graduation picture, between her parents. Same dark hair, lacking mermaid colors.
“Two,” he said.
I flipped the sun shield down above his head and a picture was tucked there, stuck with a piece of tape. Britney Wyatt, solo, posed with one fist under her chin, a professional picture with fair lighting, taken by a chain department store photographer.
“Three,” he conceded. “Lucky guess.”
“There’s an official print-out with her picture in your briefcase. Four.”
He nodded, unimpressed. “Paperwork. You’ve worked with cops before.”
I smiled, and took off a glove. I reached for his jacket. He let me. The inside pocket above his heart yielded to my questing fingers the rough corner of photo paper. I flicked it around to look at it; a snapshot of Britney, not looking at the camera, holding something that looked like a digital voice recorder. The photo was dark and grainy, but she was stunning, a flash of ghostly beauty lit only by the moon, pale and delicate, the set of her brow serious. Another shock of color at her brow, but the night and the poor picture quality washed it out, and I couldn’t quite tell if it was blue or purple. I showed Schenk the picture and said, “Five.”
He considered me for a long moment before he took the picture back and tucked it away in his jacket. We listened to the car idle, warm air blowing softly from the vents.
He made an unhappy noise. “This might get cold and ugly.”
“Like the last guy I dated,” I said, cramming my froggy hat back on. “Awesome.”
“You let me know when you start regretting this.” He stretched an arm behind me to put his folio in the back seat.
“Eleven o’clock last night,” I said, putting my glove back on. “But that won’t do Britney Wyatt much good. I’m here, and I’m tenacious, and I’m tough like a cinder block.”
“Of course you are.” Schenk nodded like he believed me, but his lips did a little yeah-right pucker. “All right, you’re on a one-day trial. Buckle up, Miss Cinderblock.”
Author Bio
AJ Aalto is the author of the paranormal mystery series The Marnie Baranuik Files. Aalto is an unrepentant liar and a writer of blathering nonsense offset by factual gore. When not working on her novels, you can find her singing Monty Python songs in the shower, eavesdropping on perfect strangers, stalking her eye doctor, or failing at one of her fruitless hobbies. Generally a fan of anyone with a passion for the ridiculous, she has a weak spot for smug pseudo-intellectuals and narcissistic jerks; readers will find her work littered with flawed monsters and oodles of snark.
AJ cannot say no to a Snickers bar and has been known to swallow her gum.
Links
Website: http://www.ajaalto.com
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22042045-last-impressions?from_search=true
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/aj.aalto.5
Twitter: https://twitter.com/ajaalto
Buy the book on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Last-Impressions-Marnie-Baranuik-Files-ebook/dp/B00K397URO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1428415769&sr=8-1&keywords=last+impressions
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