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Devil’s eyes.That’s what his father called him. What a horrible thing for a father to do to his own child. His father is not a good man.

I drag in a breath. “You try to put the rock in the coffin with him, but someone stops you. A woman. She’s your grandmother. She tells you that Pops would want you to keep it with you always, for luck and to remember him and the good times.”

A squeak from his chair is the only other sound in the room.

“You’re older, maybe sixteen, and at a high school baseball game. You’re anxious and waiting for someone. A girl. And a first kiss.” I smile at this.

“You carry this rock with you everywhere you go. You keep it on the night table at home, and you touch it every night before you go to sleep.”

The images leap again. Several years. “You’re in the military. They discharged you with honors and just came back home—”

A crashing sound rips me off the vision, and I open my eyes, but the images still play in my mind, like a film in the background.

His chair is flipped and lying on the floor. He’s standing, his arm stretched and hand open in wait.

“That’s enough.” His voice is rough and terse.

I place the rock on his palm, and he returns it to the drawer.

We stare at each other. I didn’t tell him everything I saw. I kept what I saw about his little sister to myself. I wish I could feel smug about putting him in his place, but the weight and guilt he feels for the loss of his sister isn’t something to feel smug about. He carries so much pain. For his sister, his mother, and never measuring up to his father, never a kind word from that cruel man—the images of what he had to endure still flash in the back of my mind. How could anyone see evil in his eyes? I see only beauty. Sky and sea. But also hope and despair.

“Okay!” Lynn claps her hands and snaps me out of my trance. She stands up. “Now that we got that out of the way, and he’s a believer, can we go?” She tries to steer me to the door.

The detective doesn’t move, and neither do I. When he does, he rubs a hand over his chest and turns his back to me. His breaths are shallow, and his hands have a slight tremble. He fists them. A much more muted version of his pain reaches out to me like invisible fingers, a subtle and dissipating connection.

He faces me again. His careful mask of indifference has cracked. Raw pain darkens his face. His jaw ticks with the effort he makes to pull it all in and reassemble his features back to what they were before.

I can’t stop staring at him, at his momentary loss of control, and the vulnerability in his eyes. It speaks to something inside me, my own loss, pain, and fears. And the mask I, too, keep in place.

Chapter5

Jake

What the fuck.

My heart is running laps in my chest. That familiar hollowness echoes with the memory of all I lost and what she voiced. I don’t understand. How could she know any of it just by touching a rock? I open my hands and flex my fingers, try to suck air into my lungs, but it seems to be stuck in my throat.

I don’t believe this shit. There’s no psychic power, no visions, no ghosts, and sure as hell, none of this crap. If there were, Pops would have found a way to save Emily.

The room is closing in on me. I need space. I pick up the chair, set it aright, and shove it back until it hits the wall with a soft thud. I take a step to the side and keep some distance between the wacko and myself. Push the hair falling over my forehead off my face. It flops back in defiance. “It’s not possible.”

“And I spoke too soon.” The friend plops back in her chair. “He’s not a believer.”

The crazy woman heaves a deep breath, and her shoulders rise with the motion. “Were my descriptions accurate?”

I press my lips together rather than give her an answer. I’d sooner bite my tongue off than confirm the things she said. I was fooled by this bullshit once. Never again.

Her chin juts out. “Denial doesn’t make it any less real.”

I say nothing.

Her head shakes with minuscule movements, and she releases a breath. “We could do this all day. You could give me object after object, and I could read them for you, and you would still believe it’s some kind of trick.”

She gets up, grabs her purse, and hitches the strap over her shoulder. “Let’s go, Lynn. We’re done here.” There’s disappointment in her voice. And for some reason, I care.

Her friend gets up and follows her to the door, and I’m still stunned into silence.

Miss Bloom stops at the door and opens it. Small, delicate fingers hold the edge. She lets her friend go out first, then leaves. A second later, she pops her head back in—messy brown hair falls around her shoulders.