Page 48 of The Psychic

“This is what a prosecutor would say, if you were ever on the stand, which you can’t be, because psychic phenomena don’t count in court.

So, when I state a fact, like I just did, look at it from outside of yourself.

Think like a juror would. If it was anyone but you, would you believe they got psychic messages? ”

She hated to admit that he was right. “I’m not the only one.”

“Yes, you are,” he said simply, and for a moment she wasn’t sure they were still on the same topic.

They finished their meal and Sloan insisted on paying, quickly overriding Ronnie’s protests to put in half, and they headed for his SUV. Maybe she was being unfair, trying to root out his ingrained beliefs in one fell swoop. She just wanted him to believe in her.

Celebrate how far he’s come, not how far he has to go.

Easier said than done …

“Someone killed Shana, and Melissa McNulty, and it’s all happening around you,” Sloan said as he turned the corner and Ronnie’s apartment building loomed within sight.

Well … hell … he was right about that, too.

He found a spot near the stairs in the parking lot and seemed intent on walking her up to her unit, saying, “I’ll come back after I see Nadia and before I call on Hugh Mc—”

“I’ll just call Brandy and go from there.”

“The more I think about it, it’s dangerous for you to—”

“You said yourself that you don’t think Clint could hurt Mel.”

“Stop interrupting, Quick. We’re talking homicide. Police business. I don’t want—”

“ You stop interrupting,” she said. “And last night you called me Ronnie.”

“—anything to happen to you.” He stopped. Then added, “That was personal.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “And this isn’t? What’s the difference?”

“We’ve got two homicides by strangulation. Less and less I’m liking your involvement in this.”

“ I came to you with my vision. I’ve been in this from the start. And by the way, that’s not how this works. You don’t get to decide when I’m in or out. My gift doesn’t work on your timetable.”

He almost laughed. “I got that. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Noted. And I don’t want you to get hurt, either.”

He’d gotten out of the car and tiny drifting flakes of white were settling on his hair, shoulders and lashes. The snow had lessened, but still hadn’t gone away entirely.

“I’m good,” she said, holding up a hand to let him know he didn’t have to follow her upstairs.

“Yes. You are.”

Even though it sounded like a joke, he looked very serious. Ronnie half wanted to give him a hug, or kiss, or something, but it felt awkward. After last night everything should be natural and loving … but instead she felt like there was something missing.

He doesn’t trust you.

She gave him a wave and then hurried up the stairs, glancing back to see his Bronco reverse out of the lot, leaving two tracks through the building snow.

Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw Angel, leaning against the rail to his apartment, but when she turned fully to look, there was no one there.

A lot like when she’d seen Jesse Taft’s sister, Helene, except that her image had lasted more than an instant. Or, maybe she hadn’t seen Angel? Maybe she just wanted to see him.

She stopped outside his apartment door, hesitating.

Throwing off her misgivings, she gave the panels a few good hard knocks, but once again no one answered.

For someone who’d been hanging around a lot before, he was sure MIA now.

Okay, the weather had changed, but it hadn’t been exactly warm and toasty before.

She withdrew her cell from her purse and texted his number. You around?

Maybe he was just busy, she thought, and watched as a man walking his dog, the pug in a red and green sweater, crossed the street, then seeing no return text from Angel, she found her key. He’d text when he was ready.

Inside her own place, she stamped snow off her boots and hung her jacket on the hook behind the door.

She was tired … and sore … and kind of giddy, even with Sloan and her awkward goodbye just now.

And she was also filled with that twisting worry that was going to be with her until she learned who had killed both Mel and Shana, whether the perpetrator was one and the same or not.

Maybe the two deaths were unrelated, but it sure as hell didn’t feel that way.

She wondered if she should contact Evan.

She and Sloan hadn’t really discussed whether Caldwell, with all his information resources, had been at least peripherally involved in Shana’s killing, maybe telling the wrong person something key.

She suspected Sloan planned to check in with Evan on his own, but Ronnie wanted to be part of that, too.

She carried her cell into her bedroom, her eyes sliding to the bed that they’d straightened but that sparked her imagination again, remembering the tossed covers, questing hands, hot mouths and tongues, hard muscles, deep rhythm.

Had that really happened? Yes, of course it had!

She could feel it in every movement in a good, somewhat breath-catching way.

But breakfast had been so normal , a world apart from a night she already wanted to repeat. And now …

You should have gone with him to see Nadia.

He wouldn’t have had it.

She sank onto the end of the bed. She was torn between laughing and crying. Didn’t know which. There was the joy she’d reveled in with Sloan, and the horror of Shana’s death, and Mel’s …

Shaking herself back to the present, she screwed up her courage to text Brandy: Could we talk? Neither Sloan or I think Clint would harm Mel. I just want

She stopped. What did she want?

To be with Sloan. Happy. Without these questions and worries and visions.

Well, that wasn’t going to happen. She thought hard for several minutes then gave up on texting completely, placing a call to Brandy instead, heart rate speeding with nerves.

Texts were too impersonal, or they sounded like nothing she wanted to convey.

Know-it-all and cold. She needed to talk to Brandy, leave her a message.

She didn’t expect Brandy to answer. For all Ronnie knew, Brandy could be shunning her calls, at work, busy in some other regard, so she was prepared when the call went to voice mail.

As soon as she heard the beep, she said, “Brandy, I never thought Clint had anything to do with Mel’s death.

I just want to help prove his innocence.

Would you call me?” Her throat grew hot and her last, “Please?” came out in a strangled gasp.

She clicked off and tossed the phone onto the bed.

Ugh. Shit! She sounded so desperate. Not how she wanted to be at all.

“Get over yourself,” she advised as she walked into the bathroom and stared at her reflection, expecting the events of the past hours to have somehow changed her, but she looked utterly the same.

Pale. A few damp spots in her hair where snowflakes had melted.

A bit anxious, maybe, but that was how she’d felt for days.

In the mirror, a shadow passed behind her.

What?

She whipped around, heart thumping. “Hello?” she demanded.

No answer.

Cautiously, she stuck her head out of the bathroom door, her gaze scouring the bedroom. Nothing. No one. Quickly she searched the rest of her apartment, throwing open closets, testing the locks on the front and balcony doors, checking the back deck itself.

Again, nothing.

This had never happened before.

This was new.

And she didn’t like it.

Nerves tight, she peered out the windows and checked the latches on the door. Had she imagined the whole thing? But no, her rapidly beating heart and prickled skin convinced her that she’d seen something.

And it wasn’t good.

When she had a vision, it sometimes took her over but generally only when she was sleeping.

She’d stumbled outside her front door when she’d had the vision about Shana, and that first vision of Mel she’d been standing in the kitchen, but usually she was aware of her surroundings.

Now, all bets were off. And she was seeing things.

Ghosts. She cocked an ear, half expected to hear the dog barking again, but apart from the soft rumbling of the unit’s furnace, and the hum of the refrigerator, the rooms remained quiet.

Something had changed, but what?

She felt it, a slight charge in the atmosphere.

Your mother saw things at the end.

Slowly, throat dry, she walked back into the bedroom, listening hard, looking around the room. What had she seen in the mirror? Movement … someone walking by? A trick of light?

It had been something, hadn’t it?

Her gaze swept across the top of her small bureau. A picture of her mother, a secret smile curving her lips as she stared back at Ronnie. A shot taken from before Ronnie was born. Before Winnie’s own gift had grown into a monster.

Her heart clutched. Was this how it started?

Beside her mother’s picture was Ronnie’s jewelry box.

Nothing fancy. Something her father had given her, obviously picked out by Aunt Kat, a silver rectangle with two tiers when you opened the lid.

She lifted the top, pulling out the upper, black velvety insert, which held earrings and costume jewelry.

Beneath it was another level where she’d put the diamond rings Galen had given her.

She needed to give them back to him. Was kind of surprised he hadn’t asked for them already.

They weren’t horribly expensive; that wasn’t Galen’s way, and it wasn’t hers, either, but she suddenly wanted them out of her apartment.

She dug her fingers inside for the rings and encountered a silver chain. What? Slowly she lifted it up and suppressed a surprised little cry as she discovered her third of the BFF necklace she’d shared with Brandy and Mel.

Her chest ached and she crushed the necklace in her fist, its sharp edges digging into her flesh. Mel now gone and Brandy angry with her.

Friendship … long ago friendship …