I'm Tiff Banks and I talk to the violently slain. I've learned to live with that, in fact I've made a career out of it.
Ex-detective Royal Mortensen and I opened our own investigative agency, and I thought we made a good team. I felt secure in our personal relationship too, until our new clients turned up. Why did Royal take them on without consulting me, and why are they withholding information which could help solve their case? I don't think they're human, and Royal knows exactly what they are, but refuses to tell me. I think there's a lot Royal isn't telling me.
I discovered that while I looked into the disappearance of author Gia Sabato's lover, Royal investigated something far more sinister. Are the two cases connected? Does an authentic nineteenth-century journal have anything to do with either?
When the case turns ugly, so does my relationship with the one man I've come to trust. So I'll do what I do best: pound the pavement and talk to dead people. The dead are always watching, they can do nothing else. They whisper to me.