Page 53 of The Psychic

Sloan’s eyes cut to Ronnie as he strode into the ER waiting room. Brandy didn’t look up from where she sat, elbows on her knees, hands over her face. She hadn’t made a sound since she’d spied Sloan.

“How’s Clint?” he asked tersely.

Ronnie looked to Brandy, who didn’t move. “He’s awake. Head injury.”

“What happened?”

“We, uh, found him at Erik Wetherly’s house, one of Mel’s—”

“I know who he is.”

Ronnie nodded shortly. “They were fighting and Wetherly hit him with a hand weight.”

“They were fighting about Melissa McNulty,” he clarified, glancing at the double doors leading to the examination rooms.

“It appears that way.”

She wanted to tell him a whole lot more about what Clint had said, how he’d taken the blame for Mel’s death … and how his ghost had risen up, saying how sorry he was. But it wouldn’t go over well in front of Brandy.

As if reading her mind, Brandy said from behind her palms, “Tell him. Go ahead. But Clint didn’t kill Mel. He loved her too much. That’s his crime.”

Sloan’s attention slipped to Brandy, then he looked at Ronnie once more.

“Let’s go outside,” she said, seeing a weak sun peeking through the clouds.

Sloan followed her back out to the parking lot, where they stood on the sidewalk that bisected the rows of designated parking spots.

Ronnie’s gaze settled on the thin layer of snow that was currently puddling on the tarmac.

Though it was no longer snowing, the air was still cold, a bitter wind cutting through the parked vehicles as Ronnie explained, “He said that we didn’t need the stuff from his truck to prove he was at the shed. ”

“He admitted he was there?” Sloan frowned.

“Yes.” As he absorbed that, she added heavily, “Maybe we were wrong about him.” She looked back toward the hospital windows to the ER waiting room. Brandy had moved from her chair and was nowhere in sight.

“I’m going to talk to the officers that were there.”

“We gave them short statements,” she said, rubbing her hands and wishing she’d thought to wear gloves. “I think they were taking Wetherly to the station. We left when the ambulance did and followed it here.”

He nodded. “Did Mercer say anything else?”

SHE WAS A CHEATER … but that was from her dream.

I didn’t mean to hurt her … and that was from his … ghost.

Ronnie shook her head.

“You sure?” he asked in a softer voice that sent shivers across her skin, memories of last night swirling.

“I don’t want to think he did it,” she managed.

“Neither do I.”

His cell phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket, looked down at the screen. His face grew set. “Hart,” he said in a cold tone.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Abel Townsend’s voice sounded loud enough for Ronnie to identify him.

“Sounds like you heard about Clint,” he said, and as he listened to Townsend’s diatribe, Ronnie signaled that she was going back inside the hospital to find Brandy and check on Clint.

“… breathing normally … MRI clean … but lost consciousness … transferring to ICU … animal bite on the leg …”

Ronnie caught most of what the doctor, a woman with smooth, mocha-colored skin and rimless glasses, had been telling Brandy as she reached her friend, but Brandy ignored her, repeating back to the doctor, “Animal bite on the leg.”

“Definitely canine. Tooth marks are distinctive. I’ve started rabies protocol—he’s had the first shot—but you will need to have the animal tested and—”

“We don’t have the dog,” Brandy cut in.

“—reported to the state. Okay.” She stopped talking as Brandy turned away and brushed past Ronnie with as much regard as if she were an inanimate object.

The doctor—Dr. Shaw, by her name tag—asked Ronnie, “Are you a relative?”

“No.”

Sloan came back through the sliding entrance doors at that moment and caught sight of the two of them. He strode forward and Dr. Shaw’s eyebrows drew together. Ronnie could tell she was about to ask Sloan the same question, but Sloan pulled out his identification with the RGPD.

Dr. Shaw clearly looked unhappy that she might be obliged to talk to him.

She refused to discuss what, if anything, Clint had said about the fight that had caused him to end up in the ER but did reveal that Clint had lapsed into unconsciousness fairly quickly after allowing the rabies vaccination to be administered.

“He was bitten by a dog?” asked Sloan.

“Mr. Mercer was bitten by some kind of canine and from the bruising near the teeth marks, I assume it was a few days ago.”

Sloan clarified, “It didn’t happen in the fight today?”

“No,” Ronnie answered for her, then asked the doctor, “Did he say where it happened?”

She shot a look toward Ronnie, clearly wondering what her role was in all this. But after a long moment, Dr. Shaw sighed and admitted grudgingly, “He said that he was trying to save her, but the dog misinterpreted. Whatever that means. Mr. Mercer didn’t elaborate.”

“‘Her’?” repeated Sloan.

“Yes, but I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, Detective. We do have a protocol here when it comes to patient confidentiality.” She left them abruptly, slipping back behind the closed doors to the ER examination rooms. Ronnie sensed Dr. Shaw was sorry she’d said as much as she had.

“The dog was with Mel,” said Ronnie.

“This is the dog you’ve been … hearing bark?”

“I think so. Yes.”

It was still tricky talking about her gift with Sloan. If she pushed too hard, said too much, he retreated.

“Can we go back to my place?” she asked.

His attention, which she’d felt she was losing, snapped back to her. “Yes?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Let me text Brandy and see if she needs a ride as she came to the hospital with me,” Ronnie said, already punching in the message. Within seconds Brandy replied she planned to stay longer and could catch a ride back from one of her coworkers, and Ronnie walked with Sloan to the parking lot.

Once she’d driven home and was at the entrance to her apartment, Ronnie glanced toward Angel’s door again. She didn’t see any hint of him, couldn’t feel him. Had she really seen that flash of him leaning against the rail the other night?

Did you really see that shadow in the mirror?

Or is your mind playing tricks on you?

She shivered as she unlocked her door, glancing back to the parking lot, glad to notice Sloan’s Bronco pulling into a spot not far from her SUV.

When she turned back around Angel was standing in her living room, right in front of her.

She cried out, startled.

And then he, or more likely his image, poofed away.

She froze in place, a hand over her barreling heart. It’s not real, she told herself, taking in a shuddering breath. It’s not real. But what, then? Why did she keep seeing him? Her mind raced wildly with her thoughts.

When Sloan came in behind her she hadn’t moved.

“What?” he asked, his tone tense.

“I saw Angel,” she answered in an unsteady voice. “Or—I saw his image. Here in this room.” She tried to keep the panic from her words. “I think … he’s trying to tell me something. But …” Her throat grew so thick she could barely get the words out. “I think … he might be dead.”

Emma Whelan stood outside Theo’s Thrift Shop.

It wasn’t four o’clock yet, but the new woman, Annette Brown, who was in charge today, had decided it was time to close down anyway.

Annette had flyaway gray hair and a frown that took over her whole face.

She was a “temporary hire for the holidays” Theo had told her, and then Harley snorted and said she was “not a people person.”

“We’ve sold everything at the sale,” Annette had explained to Emma.

Emma hadn’t agreed. “I see clothes. I see shoes … and a lamp.”

That made Annette suck her pale lips into a tight line and say, “The Christmas decorations went right away, and anything in really good shape went next. This stuff isn’t good.”

“It is good,” argued Emma.

“Not for today. They can come by tomorrow and shop. Or Tuesday, or any day of the week.”

“I don’t have a ride till four.”

“Well, call them.”

When Emma didn’t respond, Annette let out a puff of disgust. “What?” she demanded. “Can’t you call your ride and get whoever it is to come for you?”

Emma had a cell phone. Harley said it was “basic,” which meant it was different from hers. Emma had Harley’s number, but Harley was coming at four, so there was no need to call her.

Emma waited outside the thrift store while gray-haired not-a-people-person Annette locked the door behind her and pulled down the shades.

Emma knew Annette would go out the back way to where her car was parked.

She also knew that the thrift store was not in a good area of town and she shouldn’t stand outside too long.

She looked up at the sky. No snow now. She wondered if she should call Harley.

You weren’t supposed to talk on cell phones when you drove the car.

Harley tried to be good, but sometimes she said she had to use her phone.

She scolded herself about it, but Harley did it anyway.

Emma didn’t want her to. She didn’t want her to get arrested and go to jail.

But she was pretty sure Harley was already on her way to the thrift shop to pick her up, so Emma decided to wait to call. Harley would be here soon.

She heard a scuffle and turned, just as a guy stumbled out of the side alley. Nearly falling over, he squinted at Emma. He caught himself. He looked dirty. He had dirty hair and dirty boots. He started coming her way. He didn’t walk straight.

Emma wasn’t sure if he was bad or not. It was hard to tell. Maybe she should call Harley.

She reached inside her pocket for her phone and that’s when the bus with the handprints and the yellow sunshine turned down the street. It was going to go on by without stopping, but the dirty man raised a hand and the bus ssscccrrreeeeched to a stop right in front of her.

Emma wasn’t supposed to get on the bus. Harley had told her not to. She was to wait for Harley.