Page 34 of The Psychic

“See what I mean?” She hooked a thumb toward the TV. “That’s not his favorite team, and still he’s watching? Even to kind of try and forget for a little while?” She inhaled and closed her eyes, exhaling on a long breath. “It’s just so hard to believe, isn’t it …”

“Yeah.”

In the quiet that followed Brandy looked away from Ronnie and her eyes swam with tears. Dashing them away almost as soon as they formed, she straightened her shoulders. “You said she was strangled. What about her bloody hands?” Brandy asked. “You don’t think she was stabbed or something?”

Ronnie thought of her discussion with Sloan, what they’d concluded. “That looks like maybe from a dog. There actually wasn’t a lot of blood so maybe after her death …”

“What dog?” he’d asked.

Now, Ronnie shook her head. She hadn’t had a real sense of the dog since those first hours, day. And yet she’d heard barking …

Clint Mercer entered the room. He looked like someone who’d been in a car wreck.

His dark hair was practically standing on end from where he’d obviously run his hands through it.

His gray shirt looked like he’d slept in it and its front buttons weren’t aligned.

Contrary to his shirt, his jeans were pressed and neat.

He was barefoot, and his eyes were bloodshot … and he smelled like beer.

Seeing him, Brandy lost the fight with her emotions and she cried out and threw herself into his arms. He nodded, as if agreeing with her pain, looking over her head to Ronnie.

“Psychic girl,” he said tonelessly.

She shrugged. “Ronnie.”

“Okay, okay …” He carefully grabbed Brandy’s shoulders and pulled back from her. “You okay?”

“Yeah … yeah … It’s just that it’s Mel,” Brandy said, not sounding convincing.

Clint frowned and looked away. “I know.”

“Have you talked to Sloan?” asked Ronnie.

“Not yet. Have you?”

“We both have,” said Ronnie, nodding toward Brandy, who had found her way to the couch. Ronnie perched on a cushion beside her while she was sprawled as if her bones had melted. “He’s a friend of yours?”

“Doesn’t mean I want to talk to him,” Clint explained. “Brandy said he’s investigating Mel’s death. Good. I hope he finds the fucker.”

Well, then why don’t you talk to him?

She’d just had the thought when Clint’s cell phone rang. He fished it from his pocket and stared at the screen before clicking off.

“Was that Sloan?” asked Ronnie.

“Don’t you know, Miss Psychic?”

“Clint …” Brandy murmured, her eyes closed.

“Why don’t you want to give him a statement?” asked Ronnie.

Brandy’s eyes flew open and she gazed at Ronnie as if she’d betrayed her. “Why is Sloan doing this? Shouldn’t it be Abel Townsend?” Brandy asked. “Sloan’s with River Glen P.D. and Mel was found outside the city. It’s not his jurisdiction.”

“He thinks I did it,” Clint said in a strangled voice.

“That’s not true! You love Mel. Sloan knows that!” Brandy was fierce.

“He doesn’t know me. He’s been gone for years.” Clint took the only other chair, throwing a look at the TV. “We’re fucking losing,” he said, his voice deep with despair.

“He does know you,” argued Brandy.

“He’ll want an arrest. He’ll say I did it.”

“No, he won’t!” Brandy had found her feet again. No more throwing herself down in despair. “It’s Hugh. I told him it was Hugh. He’ll find out that—”

“It’s not Hugh.” Clint cut her off. “Hugh’s been gone since last Saturday. I’ve tried calling him, but he’s not answering. I left him two voice mails. Nothing.”

“That’s suspicious in itself,” insisted Brandy, and Ronnie silently agreed.

Clint explained, “Hugh’s out of range. He’s hiking on Mt. Hood with a friend. Building snow caves. All that shit. He’s not here.”

“Maybe he is. Maybe that’s a lie.” Brandy was adamant.

“You think I did it,” Clint realized, his tone changing to betrayal. “That’s why you’re blaming Hugh.”

“No! I know you didn’t do it. You couldn’t hurt Mel. You love her. And she loves you … loved you,” she corrected herself.

“Brandy said you ‘saw’ Mel … in a clearing in the woods. How?” The question was directed at Ronnie as Clint gave her his full attention. There was something furtive in his eyes, which made her heart clutch. He wasn’t telling the truth … or at least all of the truth.

She had a sudden image of his truck. Practically printed on her retina. The mud on his tires … Would that tread match the tire tracks left at the clearing?

Her thoughts were but an instant, but Clint must have seen something in her expression because he said, “You … you think I did it, too. Well, I didn’t. And none of your hocus-pocus can make me her killer.”

“If it wasn’t Hugh, who was it?” asked Ronnie.

“I don’t know. How should I know? Mel … oh, God.” He shook his head as the realization hit. “Listen, the truth is Mel slept with other guys. It’s one of them, probably.”

Brandy looked from Clint to Ronnie. “You’re not taking Sloan’s side, are you?”

“There are no sides!” Sloan’s side. What the hell? “Who else was she seeing? Do you have names?” Ronnie asked him.

“No. I don’t know.”

“Mel wasn’t with anyone while she was with you,” said Brandy loyally.

Clint’s mouth twisted. “Sure.”

“You must have another name,” probed Ronnie.

“Well, I don’t. That’s why I don’t want to talk to Sloan. I don’t want to have to tell him about Mel’s cheating.” He ran a finger through his already-mussed hair. “There was always somebody better.”

“There’s no one better than you,” said Brandy.

This time his smile was genuine. “You’re such an idiot.”

“No, I’m not. I’m the smart one.” She looked ready to cry again.

Clint said, “There was one guy … from Laurelton, I think. But if it was anything, it was over quick. She didn’t like his dog.”

“Dog?” repeated Ronnie.

“‘A smelly mutt,’ that’s what she said about it. We had a big fight, but she never ran off that time.”

Ronnie asked, “She ran off before?”

“Sure. Yeah.” Then with a scowl added, “You know I introduced her to Hugh? Next thing I know they’re getting married and I’m toasting the bride and groom.

Didn’t realize how I felt about her till she was gone.

” He shrugged. “As it turned out, she wasn’t sure about the marriage, either.

Hugh and his bros are extreme outdoors guys. Mel wasn’t into that.”

Ronnie thought of Mel at the clearing. Even when they were kids she’d been the one who’d tiptoed inside the shed, crossing her arms over her chest and gazing around with trepidation at the cobwebs hiding in the corners, the dirt on the floor, the tendrils of plants reaching inside the walls.

No, she wouldn’t have a love of the extreme outdoors in common with Hugh.

“Tell me how you really knew Mel was in trouble,” said Clint.

“I told you. She sensed it.” Brandy shot Ronnie a look for confirmation.

“I just knew.”

“When did you know? After she was … injured?” He seemed suddenly reluctant to say the word.

“After she was strangled,” agreed Ronnie. She could feel herself growing uncomfortable. It always happened when she was pressed about her gift.

“You told that to Sloan?”

“Yes.”

Clint’s look was ironic. “And he bought it? Doesn’t sound like him.”

“You should talk to him,” Ronnie suggested.

“Maybe he won’t go after me, if he’s letting you off the hook with that excuse.” A pause. A sick smile crossed his lips. “’Course, you are going to marry him.”

“Oh, Clint …” Brandy sounded tired.

“I didn’t say it. She did.”

“I’m not marrying Sloan.” Ronnie heard the thread of anger in her voice, but she barreled on. “Call Sloan. Tell him what you know. Get it over with.”

She found herself more annoyed than she ought to be.

She was an anomaly, a curiosity, a freak, and that hadn’t changed over the years.

She told Brandy she’d be outside and then left the room and carefully stepped over the wooden stringers laid out for the porch, down the steps and to the yard.

The rain was still holding off, but it felt like a cloudburst was coming.

There was a cracked, curving sidewalk that circumvented the porch and Ronnie walked along it toward the truck rather than to Brandy’s car. As she neared, outdoor floodlights attached above the garage doors lit up the area like midday.

Ronnie hadn’t expected to feel so angry. What was wrong with her?

You saw your friend dead.

Yeah, but—

And you think Clint’s involved.

She made a face. She was wondering about Clint. Brandy was, too, by her fearful protestations.

Had Clint driven this truck to the clearing?

Had the forensics team taken tire track impressions that would confirm or deny her suspicions?

She looked at the truck’s tires, then swept her gaze over the cab.

She glanced into the truck bed as the floodlights blinked off, leaving her in darkness.

Stepping back, she waved her arms, and the floodlights came back on.

She looked in the truck bed. Strewn across the metal flooring were maple whirlies, all damp and stuck in nooks and crannies. Lots of them. As if they’d floated in while the weather was nice, then had been glued down by the incessant water.

Plants had DNA …

Brandy stepped outside, and also negotiated the half-formed wooden porch on her way down to street level. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Cooling off.”

“Ready to go?”

More than. “Yes.”

By the time Brandy dropped Ronnie off, it was after eight, closing in on nine.

She let herself in and took off her wet and muddy boots, then padded sock-footed into the living room, before sinking into her favorite chair.

She held the remote in her hand for long minutes without turning on the television.

There was too much in her head already, she didn’t think she could absorb anything more.