Here's an exerpt from my 50,000 word (incomplete) novel, Bollywood Storm.

I suppose it’s best to start at the beginning.  My name is Elanna Forsythe George.  I am a thirty-six year old Forensic Scientist with the city of New York.  I specialize in what people like to call ‘Cold Cases.’  It sounds romantic, like it’s all X-Files or CSI but I won’t kid you - it’s not a big unit, but it isn’t Maulder and Sculley’s dingy dungeon either.  The cases come to us a few years after high-powered investigations, police and court proceedings have failed and there is a dead end.  After that it isn’t the case of no one having money to continue investigations.  It’s the case of there is just no evidence to be had.  By the time a case hits my desk, some people are willing to try anything – even contacting the JoJo Psychics and various Channelers.   But there isn’t a police officer that knows what to do with that kind of information.  They don’t have the touch and feel.  And they don’t know that I have. The people I work with in my unit are what Captains on the regular force call ‘renegades and wierdos.’   I joined because, like them, I don’t follow rules and I don’t much like working with people who do.
Since you’re curious to know, I came across ‘the gift’ when I was in first Year University studying Criminology.  Now when I say ‘gift’ I don’t mean it came out of the sky on a silver dish.  I was driving home to see my mother one dark rainy night when I came across a brutal car accident.  I was the first person there, and so I had to stop.  After I called the police on my cell phone I grabbed my flashlight from the glove compartment and went to the back of my car and retrieved my first aid box and a couple of blankets.  I followed the beam from my flashlight to the car.  What I saw chilled me to the bone.  You would think that a forensic scientist, someone who has seen so many crime scenes would be impervious to shock and queasiness. I will never get used to it, and the day I do is the day I have outlived my use in this job.
I had seen the car drive off the road only a couple of minutes before.  It hadn’t slowed down at all.  In the beam of my flashlight I saw the body of the man, who was thrown from the windshield of the car. Trembling, I reached for my cell phone and called 911 again.  “Hello, this is Elanna Forsythe George.  I reported an accident a minute ago.  I cam calling to say that upon closer investigation, the situation is critical. The car swerved off the road and hit a tree head on.  The driver was ejected through the window and is now impaled on a branch from that tree.  Yes, he is alive. Yes, I am the only one at the scene.”
As I approached the man, his eyes stared at me or at something beyond me. His mouth was closed tight with shock, and it was as if he said anything that the nightmare would be true.  He looked at his stomach where the branch protruded from and closed his eyes before he opened his mouth and stared back at me.  He was going into shock.  He didn’t even scream.  I climbed onto the smashed hood of the car and wrapped the blankets around his body, talking to him all the while.  “Hey, buddy.  It’s okay.  I’m here with you.  You’re going to be alright.”  I pulled some of the blanket around his head and soothed his forehead.  His body was resting on the car so there was no pressure on the wound from the weight.  In that respect, he was very lucky.  “Well, don’t worry, an ambulance will be here real soon.”  Remembering my First Aid training I kept a regular stream of chatter, letting the man know what I was doing next.  It keeps a person from falling into panic and despair.   It also kept me busy getting data for the ambulance attendants.   “I’m just going to take your pulse now,” I said as I found his pulse on his wrist.  It was fast and weak.  I put my hand on his forehead.  It was less cold and clammy than a few moments ago, thanks to the blankets.  As I spoke his breathing became a little less erratic.  I asked him what his name was.  “Martin.  Martin Johnson.”
“How old are you Martin?”
“Thirty-two”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.  Her name is Marla.  Marla,” he repeated his wife’s name as though he tasted it like wine, and in my mind I saw her.  Her face was warm, her eyes brown as her hair, which was shoulder length.  Then his whole face lit up as he smiled.  “And I have two children.  Tara and Evan.”  As the light in his face magnified and his breathing slowed, I imagined a boy and a girl, the daughter is blond like Martin, and the boy a spitting image of his mother.  In the distance I heard the sound of sirens and wondered if they would make it in time.  I looked into Martin’s eyes and saw a peace like I had never seen in this life, nor have I seen since then.  “What is your name?”  He asked.
I smiled.  “My name is Elanna.”
“Elanna,” he sighed, “that’s a warm name.”  No one had ever described her that way.  Elanna Forsythe George, a product of white upper-middle class professionals.  “Elanna, would you do me a favour?  Would you tell my family how sorry I am that I died and left them?”
Elanna stared stunned at the man.  “You’re doing fine Martin.  You’re not going to die.  You’re going to pull through and you’ll tell your family yourself.”
Martin smiled gently.  Too gently for a man whose body was impaled on a tree in the rain.  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I think maybe I’m right on this one.”  And with that he was gone.  Yes, he was gone - gentle as a breeze despite the violence to his body.  When the ambulance arrived, I was still holding Martin’s head listening to his words.  “Tell Marla that I will always be with her.  I will always be standing right next to her as she endures these first years without me.  I will be there whenever she wants to talk.  All she has to do is remember me and listen to her heart.  Tell Tara she will be a doctor.  Tell Evan he will be like me, a teacher.”

I want to read more!

Me too! You have a real gift, Meela; everything flows along as if we were in conversation through the page. So you're writing mysteries now, are you? That's a new turn for you    I'm excited.