At this particular moment, however, the biggest conflict in my mind was the fact that she was, for the most part, correct.

I was the one who talked to the dead.

It was me who had this preternatural connection with the Otherworld that brought unimaginable agonies to my life, both mental and physical. Felicity had only been dragged into the fray because she was desperately trying to protect me, even if it meant sacrificing herself. After repeatedly watching me go through ethereal visions so intense that bloody stigmata mimicking a victim’s wounds had appeared on my own body, she had seen more than enough. From her side of the fence, it had been a wholly different kind of torture, and when the tables were turned and I witnessed her going through the same things over Kimberly Forest, I gained a healthy respect for her feelings. I guess I couldn’t blame her. She was only doing exactly what I would do.

Still, I was just as stubborn as she, and when it came to being the protector, I felt it my place to assume that role. It was the very meaning behind the name Rowan, after all.

I plunged the tip of a shovel down into the soft earth and used my foot to shove it deeper still. Pulling back on the wooden handle, I levered a sizeable chunk of dirt upward and plopped it off to the side then repeated the process as I continued mulling over the events of the morning thus far.

We had reached an impasse. Felicity had it in her head that she was going to add herself to the list of freelance crime scene photographers used by the local police departments. As a matter of fact, at this very moment she was literally on her way to fill out the necessary paperwork.