Death Perception (Darcy Harbinger Mystery Book 1)

By Anne Marie Stoddard

*This book was previously published under the title DARK PERCEPTION*

A mirror phobia, a major caffeine addiction, and a dead body or two...

Art school student Darcy Harbinger sees dead people--before they actually die. She has premonitions of other people’s deaths, but when she tries to warn these walking doomed—or goners, as she calls them—the news doesn’t go over too well. She’s getting a reputation on campus as a witch, a psychic, and a freak. Are Darcy’s powers of paranormal prediction a gift... or a curse?

When Darcy’s intuition interferes with her painting, she winds up with a creepy portrait of a doomed classmate. The girl is livid about her bloody portrayal on canvas—and she’s freaked out by Darcy’s creepy warnings. When the girl winds up dead, Darcy finds herself at the top of the suspect list. With the evidence piling up against her, can Darcy clear her name before the killer paints her into a corner?

DEATH PERCEPTION is the first novel in a brand-new supernatural mystery thriller series. Anne Marie Stoddard is the award-winning USA TODAY bestselling author of the Amelia Grace Rock n' Roll Mystery Series and several other works.

**Praise for Death Perception and Anne Marie Stoddard**

“[Death Perception] is a spooky, suspenseful and fun page-turner. It grabbed me from page one and never let go! Phenomenal!”
—Eve Paludan, #1 bestselling author of Witchy Business

“Murder takes center stage and demands an encore in Murder at Castle Rock, a fast-
paced and entertaining backstage pass to mystery.”
—Rochelle Staab, bestselling author of the “Mind for Murder” mystery series

“Amelia Grace... is one of those heroines you’d like to be friends with, and you’ll find yourself rooting for her.”
—Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

“Blended with humor and emotion, readers will fall in love with Amelia Grace.”
—InD’Tale Magazine

“The interactions between all the key players is what made this such a great read. Every conversation, every memory, every revelation moved the story nicely along and enhanced the feeling that it was more about connections than crime.”
—Night Owl Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Marie Stoddard
• Release date: Jan 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370727995

Anne Marie Stoddard

Anne Marie Stoddard is a USA Today Bestselling Author, iBooks Bestseller, Amazon Mover & Shaker, and Amazon Top 100 Author. She writes supernatural thrillers and cozy mysteries with an edge, many of which are based on her experience working in radio and at music festivals across the U.S.Aside from writing, Anne Marie loves her husband and their dog, college football, hula hoops, music, coffee, and anything pumpkin-flavored.For more details about Anne Marie's upcoming projects, giveaways, and more, visit her online and subscribe to her newsletter at http://www.amstoddardbooks.com/.Connect with Anne Marie on social media!Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AmStoddardBooksTwitter: https://twitter.com/AMStoddardBooks

Book preview

Chapter One

"I’m dying!" The cry pierced the air, jolting me out of my trance. I blinked twice, letting my eyes adjust, then peered at the skinny blonde pleading with me from across the room.

Seriously, Darcy, are you almost finished? This pose is killing me, Shannon Tucker whined as she eyed me from her frozen position in the middle of the studio. I can’t sit like this much longer. My muscles are stiff, and I’ve got a bitch of a headache. She poked out her bottom lip. Why’d we have to do this on a Friday night, anyway? I’m missing Grayson Black’s St. Patty’s Day party. By the time I get there, he’ll be out of green beer.

Sorry, I murmured absently, thinking I could use a pint of Guinness right about then myself. My forehead wrinkled as I shifted my gaze from the easel to the paintbrush in my hand. At the sound of Shannon’s cry, I’d jerked the brush away from the

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canvas, and now there was a trail of vibrant red dripping in its wake. The stream of color slowly bled across the ivory skin on my painted woman’s face. The portrait was a fairly accurate likeness of my classmate. She had the same blue eyes, blonde ringlets, and smooth, creamy complexion… and now, she had the same stream of blood dripping down her bottom lip.

I frowned down at the canvas. Shit. I’d just screwed up big time. My ability to foresee the deaths of people around me was all but impossible to ignore, so, of course, the blood was the first thing I noticed when Shannon walked into the studio. I’d never intended to feature her corpse in my work, though. Especially not in a work that I had to present in front of our whole Advanced Arts class next week. Hell, I didn’t even recall dipping the brush in red paint. The minute I’d cranked up the volume of some classic rock music and began painting, my subconscious had taken over—and that pesky crimson trail had found its way onto the canvas. Now, it was drizzling down the painted woman’s lips like something out of a bad vampire flick.

Darcy, you’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do… again. If anyone saw the portrait, it was going to raise questions—the type of questions I preferred to avoid. I’d decided a long time ago not to interfere with deaths from natural causes. Not to sound callous, but I couldn’t save everyone. I had to be selective about when to intervene—terrible

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accidents and foul play, mostly—or I’d rarely get anything else done.

But you know her, my conscience argued. I glanced over at my class partner as she rose from her stool, unaware of the phantom gore still trickling from her mouth. I think we need a quick break, Shannon said before I could protest. She stretched her slender arms high in the air like a ballerina in fifth position. "That feels so much better!" She bounced on the balls of her feet several times before whirling around in a pirouette. I crinkled my nose when a filmy red bubble expanded across her lips and then popped, spraying bright droplets of blood as she spun. Though I’d seen this type of thing before, my stomach still flip-flopped.

Shannon grinned at me, oblivious. So, how does it look? she asked, starting toward my workspace.

It’s not quite finished yet, I stalled. I stepped between Shannon and my easel, debating whether I should come up with an excuse not to show her my work or just come clean about what I’d done to the painting—and about what was going to happen to her. Breaking the news to someone that she’s dying didn’t usually go over too well.

It’s not like we’re close friends or anything, I thought, trying to ignore the guilt tugging at me.

More like acquaintances.

C’mon, let me see, Shannon insisted. She narrowed her eyes and strode determinedly toward my gruesome painting. I had a feeling she wouldn’t

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take ‘no’ for an answer.

All right, fine. Here goes nothing. I sucked in a breath and squared my shoulders, lifting my gaze to meet Shannon’s baby blues. You mentioned having a headache, I started.

Shannon nodded, grimacing. Yeah, it’s pretty killer. Got some aspirin on you?

I crossed my arms over my chest and studied her more closely. This was usually the kind of fun part, all morbidity aside. I’m a sucker for a good mystery, after all. I’d gather clues as subtly as possible and check them against my mental list of potential ways that the person might die, trying to diagnose the cause. Are you experiencing a dull ache or more of a sharp pain? Any dizziness or shortness of breath? Nausea, maybe?

Okay, maybe I wasn’t always so good at the whole ‘subtlety’ thing.

Shannon arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow. Uh, Darcy, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not interested in playing doctor. She grinned. I mean, I’m flattered and all, but I don’t swing that way.

I groaned. "Ugh, that’s so not what I was going for."

"Then what were you going for, exactly? Shannon’s smile faded. Giving me the creeps?"

I shook my head, more to clear my thoughts than to answer her question. Time to try another approach. Do you have a mirror with you? I already knew she did. It took a lot of primping and midday makeup checks to keep her face as perfectly

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put-together as Shannon Tucker’s was. Last week, I’d caught her re-applying her lipstick three times in a Painting Methods and Forms class that had lasted barely an hour.

Shannon looked puzzled as she studied my solemn expression. Following my gaze, she put her hand to her mouth, her eyes widening. What is it? Do I have something in my teeth? Shannon jammed her other hand into the pocket of her jeans and fished out a compact. She held it up to her face and squinted as she scrutinized her reflection. Her fingertips brushed lightly over the trickling blood, smearing it across her mouth like gory lip balm.

I stayed silent, waiting for the inevitable.

Sure enough, Shannon’s expression darkened, and she glared at me. There’s nothing there, she said, her tone irritated. What’s your deal, Darcy? Why are you messing with me?

Of course, she doesn’t see anything wrong.

Through Shannon’s eyes—or anyone else’s, for that matter—she’d appear completely normal. Just a pretty young coed, a picture of perfect health.

I didn’t see the world through the same lenses as everyone else. My view was a bit darker. Imagine if Instagram had a zombifying filter— that’d be pretty close.

No, I’m not messing with you. I sighed. Telling people the truth about my secret wasn’t my favorite thing to do. I didn’t need to be psychic to know she wasn’t going to handle the news well. Most people didn’t take too kindly to having their

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deaths predicted at random, especially when they learned how little time they had left. My friend Charlie had once compared me to a twisted fortune cookie: sweet on the outside but full of bad news.

What I’m about to show you is going to seem crazy, I warned, coming to stand beside Shannon. But I need you to trust me. It’s a matter of life and death. Yours, actually.

Okay… Shannon’s voice trailed off, and she narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

Pointing to her compact mirror, I said, This is how you see yourself. Then I gently grabbed her elbow and guided her over to the easel. "But when I look at you, this is what I see." I gestured to the bloodied woman on the canvas, feeling a little bit like the spokesperson in those anti-drug commercials from the early nineties—the ones that compared your brain to an egg scrambling in a frying pan. This is you; this is you on your deathbed. Any questions?

Shannon’s eyes widened and her jaw went slack. There was a moment of tense silence as she gaped at the painting. She brought her hand to her lips again and then pulled it back, her gaze shifting from her fingers to the ruby paint on the canvas.

I hurried through the rest of my spiel, hoping some of it would sink in before she went into full freak-out mode. "I know you’re probably shocked right now, but you need to listen to me. I wouldn’t be having this vision if you weren’t in serious danger. Shannon, something bad is going to happen

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to you sometime over the next several days. I don’t know what, or exactly when, but it’s coming. If you don’t go see a doctor, you’re going to die."

What the hell is wrong with you? Shannon snapped. Anger twisted her features, making the phantom blood on her lips seem even more sinister.

I mentally braced myself. Here comes the denial. I know it sounds insane, but it’s the truth, I said softly. I’m just trying to help you.

It does sound insane. Shannon glared at me. "You’re insane." She stormed past me and snatched her purse from the table, knocking my portable speaker to the floor. The electric guitar riffs and steady drumbeat abruptly ended as the batteries popped out and rolled across the tile.

Shannon, wait. I took a step toward her. Stay away from me. She stalked toward the

door, splattering a trail of phantom blood on the floor behind her. Shannon paused just outside the room and turned back to face me, sneering. Darcy Harbinger, you’re a freak!

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Chapter Two

Okay, I know what you’re thinking: This Darcy chick is a few fries short of a Happy Meal!

It’s all right—I won’t hold it against you.

I guess I should probably explain myself. My name is Darcy Harbinger, and I’m damned. Cursed. Afflicted. You get the picture. I see dead people… sort of. More specifically, I see people who are going to die very soon—like a psychic who can only see the futures of people who have no future.

My grandmother, Wren, called my ability the ‘Sight.’ She also called it a gift, though it was not exactly something I could return. Ever since I’d drowned on my tenth birthday, I’d had the ability to see the end coming for the people around me. I had only been technically dead for under a minute, but apparently that was all it took to bring a little bit of the Other Side back with me after I’d come to. I couldn’t foresee the exact event that would claim

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someone’s life, but when the wheels were set in motion that marked that person for death, I couldn’t lay eyes on him or her without seeing how they were going to look on a metal slab at the local morgue.

It wasn’t so bad, really. Sometimes, I even thought it was pretty damn cool. After all, how many people do you know with a freakin’ superpower? Besides the ones who flaunted themselves on the big screen in spandex suits and masks, anyway. I had a chance to make a difference in the lives of everyone around me—to an extent, at least. I did have my limits, which was why I’d been hesitant to tell Shannon about her impending death in the first place. If someone was going to kick the bucket from natural causes, I tried not to intervene if I could help it. I didn’t want to upset the balance of the Universe. Not to get all philosophical, but saving someone who wasn’t meant to live could have seriously bad consequences. A long time ago, I’d learned that the hard way.

I had been seeing the walking doomed, or ‘goners’—as I liked to call them—for the past fifteen years. While it was not something that one could ever get totally used to, I managed. At the time of the incident with Shannon, I was twenty-five and a grad student at Atlanta’s Southeast College of the Arts. Pretty much everyone there had their own brand of weird, which made it easy to blend in. Aside from hanging out with my best friend, Charlie, I was a loner. I liked it that way. It

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was kind of hard to make friends when you were distracted by the future head-trauma victim sitting next to you.

As long as I kept my head down and maintained a low profile, I could usually avoid run-ins with any soon-to-be-dead men on campus. The thing was, sometimes you just couldn’t hide from the doomed—like what had happened with Shannon. Of all the people I could’ve been assigned to work with in class, I’d been stuck with the one who was going to die soon. Just my luck.

Three days after the incident with the painting, I sat in the back of the Advanced Portraits studio, waiting for our Monday evening class to begin and wondering if Shannon would show up. I’d known that telling her about her death was a mistake, and yet, I’d done it anyway. Now, one of two things was probably going to happen: she was either going to go on thinking I was a nutcase until she croaked in a few days’ time, or she was going to decide she did believe me and head to the doctor. Not that I was rooting for her to kick the bucket, but if she did come out of this alive, I was in for one big karmic bitch slap.

Unfortunately for Shannon, I got the feeling she hadn’t taken my warning to heart. I had tried calling her to apologize a few times over the weekend, but she wouldn’t answer. Unless you counted the text where she threatened to file for a restraining order if I didn’t leave her alone. That’s what I got for trying to help. Whatever happened to

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good old-fashioned gratitude?

Several other students arrived early to class and were inspecting each other’s portraits. I sipped on my Styrofoam cup of coffee and watched as a few more people trickled into the room. Grayson Black and Jeremy Perkins entered the room and took their seats in front of me.

My heart did that crazy pitter-pat thing that it always did when I saw Grayson Black. With his wavy brown hair, dark, piercing eyes, and the body of a fine-tuned athlete, Grayson was, in a word, hot. There were no two ways about that. He’d even been asked, more than a few times, to pose for our in-class paintings. On those days almost all the women in the studio—and one or two guys—practically trampled each other scrambling to get a front-row seat for a better view of his chiseled six-pack and, um… other nice parts. On the days when he wasn’t modeling, though, he always parked himself near the back of the room, right in front of my usual seat.

Grayson’s eyes met mine as he slung his bag over the back of his chair. Hey, Darcy. He smiled, and my pulse hit warp speed. How come you missed my party Friday night?

When it came to Grayson Black, what little sense of ‘cool’ I had usually flew right out the window. Sorry, I said, feeling my cheeks warm. Something came up.

Grayson’s brow lifted as he waited for me to elaborate. He didn’t need to know that after my falling out with Shannon, I’d sat at home alone on

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my couch with a takeout carton of Thai food and a Game of Thrones marathon. When I didn’t say anything else, he shrugged and shook his head. Maybe next time, then.

Yeah. I held my breath, waiting to see what he’d say next. I wasn’t sure if Shannon had made it to the party, or what she might have told him and his friends. I was afraid to ask. Maybe my revelation had upset her so much that she’d skipped the shindig and had gone straight home. At least, then I wouldn’t have to worry that she’d run her mouth to all of our classmates about how I was a total basket case (in her opinion, anyway). Now that she knew about my ability, though, it was only a matter of time before she outed me. Damnit, why did I guilt myself into trying to help her?

Grayson cleared his throat, bringing my attention back to him. Oh, crap. The whole time I’d been lost in thought, I’d been staring at him. Now he was watching me with a curious expression. My cheeks began to burn, and I quickly pulled out my phone and pretended to respond to a text message. Grayson shrugged and turned around in his seat. He struck up a conversation with his pal, Jeremy.

I set my phone in my lap and gave an inaudible sigh, wishing I could sink through the floor. Way to be awkward, Darcy. Story of my life.

I’d lost interest in dating a long time ago, considering that my ‘talent’ had a tendency to kill the mood. There was just nothing sexy about being able to tell a guy that his great-aunt Rhonda was

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going to slip in the shower and die within a week. Despite that, I couldn’t