Michael

There is nothing like a sunset on a hot New England day, he thought to himself as he hit speeds topping 120 mph in the 67 Shelby. That car was the only woman Michael St. Jean would ever need - she was reliable, purred like a kitten, and when she got testy he knew just what to do to set her right. She was beautiful - painted a faded navy with a white racing stripe, matte aluminum rims and performance tires that shone with polish. If there was one thing he got right in this world, it was taking care of her. Countless failed relationships later, at least he had that.

At eight p.m. he could see a storm brewing behind the colorful clouds in the western sky. Thunder and lightning made him uneasy - he was a man of lists, predictable outcomes, goals and achievements. He calculated every step, every possible result before making a move. Even now, he knew the risks he was taking by attempting to break the sound barrier. Not knowing when or where mother nature's fury might strike was maddening, and unnerving on a level he didn't quite understand. Frustrated, he pulled the e-brake, spun her around and pushed the accelerator to the floor back in the direction of home.

Michael made a living out of studying the most unpredictable thing on earth - human behavior. His career in forensic psychology was a challenge he didn't always relish; being confronted daily with death, tragedy, abuse and neglect will leave an impression on even the hardest man. Three years ago, after he decided he had seen enough of One Police Plaza. New York was a dark, haunted place for him now, one that would never hold the same glory and shiny promise as it did when he graduated from NYU. He packed his duffel bag, gassed up and left for the quieter country of old New England.

He drove aimlessly on back country highways, and when his gas tank ran dry, decided to call that place home. After buying an old burned out Victorian on the cheap in a suburb called West Haven, he opened his practice in victim counseling. Helping to change the lives of living people felt better on his soul than trying to interpret the voices of the dead. His empathy often got the best of him at crime scenes; his talent was being able to see the scene from the victim's point of view, and as often as that unique perspective helped solve a grisly case, it led to dreams filled with the ghostly echoes of voices he could never quite understand.

Some nights, those voices still haunted him.

Pulling into his driveway shortly after nine, he heard the first swollen raindrops splashing on the roof. He tucked his aviators behind the visor, took a deep breath and prepared to run for it.