Page 9

She was not at the beach that day. The day I died for the third time, but she’s heard this story a thousand times over the years. It’s her favorite. When we were kids, we’d be awake into the night during sleepovers giggling over our many imagined lives for the man who now stands in front of us. Even now, well into our twenties, every so often, one of us asks the other, “What do you think he’s doing now?”

The answer is always something crazy.He’s training to be an astronaut. Or he’s a champion surfer living in Australia.We created many versions of who he was and what he did. But we never pictured this.

I give her a warning look, and she reads my meaning. No, I don’t want to bring this up right now. It is not the time nor the place.

He stands up, his body braced by fists on the desk between us. “Where did you find this?”

His posturing is intimidating, but I’m not sure if he intended it to be. He’s intense, and I want to shrink away from the unspoken menace in his voice but hold my ground as he leans over the desk and erases the space between us. “At an antique store. About a ten-minute drive from here. I just bought it.”

He stands tall now, his body less tense, but the sharpness of his eyes increases. “Why did you bring me the necklace?”

I’ve dealt with my share of intense men who think they can intimidate me—pompous, self-important men—but never anyone like him, never someone so intrinsically a part of my life. And he has no idea who I am. I swallow and dig in, find some cojones, as Grandma would say. “Because I know the owner of it was murdered. I saw it happen.”

“Because you saw it. In avision.” His lips curl at the last word. As if saying it leaves a nasty taste in his mouth.

My fingers grip the strap of my purse. “I saw it, yes.”

He drops to the chair, and it squeaks again under his weight as if protesting the six-foot-plus and two-hundred-pound man sitting on it. He swivels back and forth, arms lazily draped over the chair as if he didn’t have a care in the world. But his eyes are locked on me. He may be trying to look casual right now, put me at ease, so I drop my defenses and reveal more than I want. A cop trick, I’m sure. But his gaze is calculating and cold. He’s trying to read me and is coming up empty.

“You actually saw it?” he asks again.

“Yes.” How many times will I have to repeat myself?

“And you know for sure she’s dead.” His calm, casual, almost slouched sitting is a trap. This is a man who misses nothing. But then again, neither do I.

“I watched her die.”

He’s skeptical. He looks between me, the necklace, and the picture of the young woman wearing the same necklace.

He leans into the desk again, fingers steepled. “Explain.”

Lynn fidgets next to me. His gaze goes to her. “Did you see this murder as well?”

Lynn shakes her head so hard she makes me dizzy.

I touch her hand. “No, she didn’t see anything. Just me.”

He’s not buying it. I don’t blame him. There are two kinds of people in the world: those who believe in the supernatural and those who don’t. He’s clearly in the latter category. I’m sure we’d be out on the street already if it weren't for the necklace. But after a long and silent stare, he grabs a yellow legal pad and a pen from the mess of folders and papers on his desk. Flips the pages on the pad until he gets to a blank one and looks back at me.

“Names?”

“Ava Bloom—my first name is Avalon, but everyone calls me Ava.”

He looks at Lynn. “And?”

“She saw nothing.” I have the irrational need to step in front of Lynn as if doing so could keep him from seeing her.

“And yet she’s here. Name?”

I attempt to keep my features smooth. “She was with me when I found the necklace.”

“I thought you said you bought it. And I still need a name.”

I poke the inside of my cheek with my tongue and then bite it before speaking again. “Yes. I bought it. After I found it. In the store.” I smile with the warmth of a glacier. If he wants to play the asshole game, I can play it too. “Listen, I know you don’t believe in visions. That’s clear. But I had one about this necklace. And I’m never wrong.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. I can’t stop staring at his eyes and trying to match up the sweet boy of my teen fantasies with the cynical man sitting a few feet across from me.

Lynn clears her throat. “It’s Lynn. Lynn Reynolds.”