Page 41 of The Psychic

Sloan called ahead and learned that Nadia was home. They walked up the woman’s cracked sidewalk together, and Ronnie saw the attempts made to brighten the small two-bedroom house with its now empty window flower boxes.

Nadia Lloyd was thin as a rail and, like her daughter, seemed to have aged unfairly fast. Ronnie put her somewhere in her fifties, based on Shana’s age, though that was just a guess.

In any case, she looked like mid-seventies.

Her hair was steel gray and had the fine, flyaway appearance of spun sugar.

Her face was lined and the scent of smoke floated around her as she answered the door.

“Sloan,” she said with real warmth.

“Hello, Nadia.”

Shana’s mother turned dark eyes on Ronnie. The warmth fled. There was something in the way she held her head, her faintly judgmental attitude, that echoed her daughter.

Something calculating and dangerous.

Ronnie mentally shook herself. What was wrong with her that she was seeing enemies everywhere? All she wanted was to know that Shana was all right.

“We’re trying to get ahold of Shana but she’s not answering her phone. Evan Caldwell suggested we check with you,” said Sloan.

Nadia’s veined hand strayed self-protectively to her neck. “I haven’t talked to her today.”

“When was the last time you did?”

“Would you like to come in? I can give her a call. It sounds … important?” She directed her conversation to Sloan. Ronnie had the impression she would like to slam the door in her face instead of invite her in.

“Yes, call her. Thank you,” answered Ronnie.

Nadia was in the act of opening the door wider and Ronnie could tell she didn’t appreciate being dictated to. Sloan could probably get away with it, but not a female stranger.

Nadia picked up a cell phone as Ronnie and Sloan stood in the dark living room of the home. Since Sloan hadn’t known where she lived, Ronnie took it that Nadia had moved since Shana was in high school. There were pictures of Nadia and Shana around the room. Nothing of Shana’s father.

“She’s not answering.” She clicked off and slid the phone into her pocket. A line formed between her brows. “We usually talk every day or two. She’ll call when she’s not busy.”

Ronnie concentrated on the vision she’d seen of Shana. It had seemed true. From the same well of information as Mel … She shuddered involuntarily and Sloan looked at her. “Cold?” he asked.

“It’s warm in here,” said Nadia, feathers ruffled as if Ronnie had deliberately maligned her hosting skills.

“Do you know where Shana could be?” Ronnie questioned.

“Well, she’s a grown woman. She has a life.” She hadn’t looked at Ronnie once, her gaze either on Sloan or somewhere else in the room. Now, she asked Sloan, “What’s so important?”

“I’m just worried about her well-being,” said Sloan.

“I’m sure she’s fine. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re back in her life. I confess, I’ve prayed for this. It’s been too long and she’s been lost without you.”

Sloan kept his face expressionless, but Ronnie felt a jolt of her own heart. She’d brought Shana’s problems to Sloan, setting up Nadia’s current expectations. “When was the last time you talked to her?” She repeated the question.

“I don’t know. Thursday? Maybe Wednesday? Middle of last week.” Her attention was still on Sloan. “Give me your phone number and I’ll have her call you.”

Sloan complied and Nadia put his number into her phone. She tried to keep the conversation going, clearly wanting Sloan to stick around, but there was nothing more they could learn from her so they said their goodbyes.

At his Bronco, Ronnie looked up to find Sloan staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

The rain had momentarily stopped and he squinted up at a watery sun peeking through the clouds. “It’s Saturday. I could probably get Amy Deggars’s number if I went to the department.”

At that moment Ronnie felt her cell buzz. Marian Langdorf, or Detective Haynes, or her father, or who knew who else. Whoever it was, she didn’t want to have a conversation in front of Sloan Hart.

And she was starting to lose confidence in her vision of Shana. It had been so visceral, and yet there’d been no sign of her at her apartment.

Still … “If we could get her number I would feel better.”

“I’ll take you home.”

“Are you going to call her? I want to be a part of that.”

“I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

Pursing her lips, she leveled her gaze at him. “You don’t believe Shana’s in trouble.”

He didn’t answer as he climbed into the Bronco. He didn’t have to. She could read his disbelief. Well, fine. She’d been down this road before. In the passenger seat she maintained a stony silence back to her place.

But almost the moment Sloan’s SUV’s taillights disappeared around the main building of her apartment complex, Ronnie’s phone rang again. Marian Langdorf. Holy God, the woman was persistent.

“Hi, Marian,” she answered.

“You’ve been putting me off,” the older woman huffed. “Come by this evening. We’ll have dinner. I have some questions for you.”

Psychic questions? “I know you don’t believe me, but I probably can’t help you, Marian.”

“Just come by. Six o’clock.”

“Okay. I’ll be there,” she said firmly. And I’ll put an end to her obsession about me living with her.

She walked toward her front door, shooting a glance at her mat.

No bat, vermin or other warning lay there.

At least that was something. She was glad she hadn’t mentioned the bat to Sloan.

He already thought she was strange, or deluded, or lying, or just a pain in the ass.

Until she had an inkling of what that disturbing message meant, or even if it was a message— though she didn’t see how it could be anything else …

an accidental bat death on her doorstep?

Come on. Still, until she knew who left it for her and why it was left, she was keeping its existence to herself.

Once inside her apartment, she listened to her voice mail messages as she examined her texts.

Afterward, she texted Detective Haynes that she was free to talk after three if he wanted to call.

Then she locked the front door behind her, sank into her favorite chair, grabbed the fuzzy television blanket slung over its back and turned on the TV.

She fell asleep as if drugged and was lost in vaguely threatening dreams where she couldn’t open any door in a long, crooked hallway of doors that seemed to stretch to infinity.

Though she tried to open each door she came to, the knobs kept twisting and twisting in her hands and gaining no purchase.

Harley Whelan Woodward pressed an ear to her mother’s and Cooper’s bedroom door and listened hard. Cooper had brought Mom a late lunch and they were quietly talking.

Twinkletoes, the tuxedo cat, usually as quiet as a tomb, started purring and rubbing herself around Harley’s legs the moment Harley pressed her ear to the door panel, that purr sounding like a jet engine.

She tried to push the cat away, but Twink was having none of it.

She started meowing loudly and Harley was forced to tiptoe down the stairs to avoid being caught.

She hated resorting to this kind of subterfuge, but Cooper hadn’t really confided in her like he’d promised. Kinda promised. In any case, he was only telling her half of the story … that half being that Mary Jo, Mom’s surrogate, was on a sabbatical of sorts. Really? This close to the big day?

It sure seemed like a stinking, big pile of bullshit.

So, something was wrong with Mary Jo.

Harley’s pulse fluttered. God, she hoped it wasn’t the baby.

They were all so excited about the impending births.

Emma, especially, who had once offered to be Jamie’s surrogate, but no one ever felt that was a good idea.

Emma was great, but she was unpredictable.

But then, look at Mary Jo. What the hell was she doing?

Harley had checked Cooper’s phone when he’d left it on the counter for a time the night before, like he always did when he went upstairs to see Mom.

She knew his password and had casually taken a peek at whoever he’d been texting.

No name, but she now had the number. She’d been debating about calling whoever was on the other end, but that would be a big risk.

Whoever it was would undoubtedly alert Cooper that she had called, and then her stepfather—the stepfather she loved and respected—would lose all trust in her.

So, no. That couldn’t happen. She needed Cooper to tell her who was on the other end of the text. Then she could follow up on her own and wouldn’t have to relate how she’d gotten the number.

And if he doesn’t tell you?

As if hearing her unspoken thoughts, Cooper’s phone, back on the counter, buzzed softly. Another text. She glanced at the screen and saw it was from the same number, saying Cooper could call at three. Well, okay. She could be hovering in the background somewhere when that call was placed.

The things they make me do.

If they were just honest with her …

Yeah? And whose fault is it that they fear you’ll take matters into your own hands?

There was that. She wasn’t known for sitting back and waiting.

But as far as she could see, that was never the right choice anyway. All it did was delay, delay, delay and there was no time to lose if Mary Jo was wandering around looking for some meaning in life while carrying Harley’s half-sister or -brother.

She could wait for Cooper, or … live dangerously.

After a moment of thought, she pulled out her own phone and texted the number she’d gotten from Cooper’s.

Cooper Haynes, here. New phone. Can we meet at two-thirty?

She bit her lip in anticipation, knowing she was crossing a line. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

After a few moments, the message came back. Okay. Where?

She shivered. Was she being hypersensitive, or did that response sound wary? Too bad. She was committed now. How about Bean There, Done That on Lincoln?

See you then was the reply.