Page 38 of The Psychic

Sloan almost wanted to believe Quick. He liked that she was determined and stubborn and goddamned attractive.

A figure from his past. A niggle in the brain.

An unfulfilled prediction. A moment in time when his life had taken a seismic shift, though he hadn’t recognized that fact while he’d been pressing on her chest and blowing into her mouth, the latter a practice that had all but been discontinued but one he’d believed in totally in that moment …

But there was no way she could know the things she did without some involvement. And now this expedition to find Shana … his ex-girlfriend … who’d lied to him about nearly everything, had even pretended to be pregnant, to which he’d asked, “Who’s the father?” knowing it couldn’t be him.

She’d slapped him on that one, even though he was right.

Still, Quick seemed truly worried about Shana, so he wanted to find her.

He looked around the exterior of the building, trying to focus on the moment.

Evan’s condominium complex was a series of townhouse units built in a U-shape around a pool/patio area.

There was an ADA-compliant lift on the pool’s far end, one of the reasons Caldwell had chosen this particular setup, the other being he had a corner unit with more space for his extensive computer and internet setup.

Sloan had twice asked his old friend for information when he hadn’t necessarily wanted his searches logged to his work account.

Both times Sloan had asked for Caldwell’s help was because of suspicious behavior within his own respective police department.

He’d thought it was best to check out the activities privately.

Caldwell had surprised him with his ability to access supposedly inaccessible information, and the speed with which he’d managed to do it was impressive.

“Don’t tell me how,” Sloan had warned Evan at the time.

“Oh, I don’t let my secrets out,” was the drawled reply. “You better keep the faith, too, bro.”

Bro … He and his friends had thrown that word around a lot back in the day.

Caldwell and Mercer and Townsend, among others.

Bros … “Bros over Hos” … what a stupid, misogynistic line.

It had made him wince at the time, and when one of them would utter it even now, which still did happen, that wince became a groan.

It was one of the reasons he’d always been on the fringe of their group of guys. One of the many reasons.

Now, as he heard movement inside the condo, Sloan darted a look toward Quick.

Weird that they’d reconnected in the past twenty-four hours.

He’d barely noticed her that day at the river until she was underwater and not coming up.

The panic he’d felt had driven him to dive in and find her, which he had, but he’d been scared shitless she would die anyway.

Those moments of heroism had changed his life. One instant he’d been toying with thoughts of engineering, or business, or tech … lost in all kinds of career paths … then after the rescue at The Pond he’d swung toward public service, which had sent him on the path to law enforcement.

Shana had wanted to get married. Right out of high school or during.

She didn’t care which. Crazy. She’d known he wasn’t as into her as she was him, and she’d doubled and redoubled her efforts to force the future she’d planned for herself.

But she wasn’t pregnant. He wasn’t that reckless.

Her pressure, desperation and lies had just brought on their inevitable breakup sooner.

And now, all these years later, she’d taken a job to serve Quick with divorce papers?

How in God’s name had that happened? He didn’t talk to Shana anymore.

Though she’d reached out to him a number of times, he hadn’t responded.

Her untrustworthy past was still very present for him.

Why had she been the one to serve papers to Quick?

There was something missing in that story.

Some motivation from Shana … something that didn’t add up …

And he’d be damned if he believed it harkened back to that day at The Pond.

Shana hadn’t even known who Quick was then.

He hadn’t known who she was, beyond that she was some friend of Clint Mercer’s younger sister.

They’d only crossed paths now because they lived in the same town. It wasn’t some secret plot.

He slid a glance at Quick as they stood in silence at the apartment door.

He expected it to take Caldwell a bit, given that he had to wheel himself from wherever he was in the unit, likely too far a distance for the few steps he could sometimes take unaided.

While Sloan waited, shifting from one foot to the other, his thoughts turned to Tara, his ex-wife.

She, too, had complained about his lack of attention, even when they were married.

She’d said it was his fatal flaw, a perpetual disengagement.

Maybe she was right, but then she’d gone and slept with someone he’d considered a friend, which had ended any chance of trying to save their marriage.

She’d tearfully sworn it didn’t mean anything.

She was just so frustrated and she wanted him to “wake the fuck up!” but he’d walked away.

No coming back from that one.

It was funny, really, when he thought about both Tara and Shana now. They were different, and yet the same.

“You don’t care about anyone but yourself!” Tara had accused him, which was diametrically opposed to Shana’s, “You care about everybody else but me!”

“Women,” Caldwell was fond of quoting from some film. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em.” Unlike Sloan, he’d never been in a long-term relationship and was still proud of the fact.

There had been a lot of “asshole,” “bastard,” even a few “fuckers” thrown at Sloan over the years before either of those two relationships were fully over.

“Coming,” Evan called from within his condo. “Hold on a sec.”

Sloan didn’t look at Quick again, but he could sense her along every nerve. She had a scent. Something kind of clean and light, a brush of some flower. Lilac, maybe? Not rose. Not that deep. Something fainter, breathier …

Don’t. Even. Think. It.

The last thing he needed was to get involved with a nutcase. People had done crazy things for an unstable partner in the name of attraction, and sometimes it ruined their lives.

You’ve already stepped into a gray area by bringing her to Caldwell.

When the investigations currently swirling around her were resolved, he would stay away from her. It was a simple solution.

The locks snapped back and Evan Caldwell, seated in his wheel chair, opened the door inward, his eyes alight with curiosity as he looked them over.

Ronnie didn’t waste time as they walked into Evan’s apartment. “Has Shana called you?” she asked Evan as he rolled out of the doorway.

“Well, hi to you, too, Ms. Quick.” A smile hovered around his lips. “You mean today? No.”

Ronnie didn’t back down. “Have you seen her recently?”

He turned his wheelchair to look at Sloan. “Who’s the cop here? What did Shana do?”

Sloan said, “Nothing that we know of. Quick’s just tried to get hold of her, but can’t get through.”

“You two working together or something?” Evan’s sharp gaze moved from Sloan to Ronnie and back again.

“Or something,” Ronnie murmured. “I’m worried about Shana.”

“Uh-huh. I got that. Why?”

They were standing in Evan’s compact foyer, looking straight across a spacious living room and through a sliding glass door which was flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows and opened onto a balcony.

Through the glass Ronnie could see the bistro directly across the pool area, its silver and black awnings rolled up and tightly wrapped.

“I feel she’s in danger,” she managed. She didn’t dare look at Sloan. He would know she wasn’t eager to tell him how she knew.

Evan’s wheels whispered across the hardwood floor as he moved toward a specially designed desk which sported an array of computer monitors, most showing blank screens, as if he’d just switched them all off before their arrival, which he probably had.

Soft music was playing from hidden speakers. Something classical, barely audible.

“You feel she’s in danger … Well, let me say that Shana’s a friend, but we’re not BFFs. I don’t know every little thing she does.”

“You help her out,” said Sloan.

“Sometimes.” Evan was nodding. “You gotta be careful, though. She’s kind of needy.”

Ronnie walked across the living room and stared out the slider, trying to get her frustration and worry under control. Was she wrong about Shana? Was her “vision” false?

“What do you think?” Evan asked her, nodding his head toward the view.

“Very nice,” she murmured distractedly. The pool area was directly below Evan’s balcony. Louvered wooden doors covered the outside bar, though the bistro lights were welcoming.

“I don’t use the pool much anymore,” he admitted.

“You have any kind of guess about where Shana might be?” asked Sloan. He’d followed Evan into the living area and was standing near a bar, a rolling cart that displayed half-full bottles of whiskey.

“Sorry, bro. So, are you going to tell me what’s going on, or just ask questions?”

There was a pause and Ronnie turned from the view to look at Sloan, who was clearly waiting for her to explain more.

She was saved from saying more by Evan himself. “Never mind. Let me guess. She’s out of money and the rent’s due and the landlord is a piece of shit who’s offering a discount for a blow job. That sound about right?”

“No.” Ronnie was firm.

Evan lifted his brows, waiting for more.

His looks had definitely improved with age. His nose fit his face more and his longish hair, combed away from his face, suited him. He wore jeans and a gray hoodie, his feet clad in designer sneakers. His arm muscles bulged beneath the tight sleeves of the hoodie.

Ronnie said, “I just want to make sure she’s alive and okay.”