Page 61 of The Psychic

“He’s still on leave. But I could be out of a job soon, after having two for a while,” he said ironically and pushed his chair back.

“Be careful,” she said suddenly, following him to the doorway.

He was putting on his coat and stopped to eye her for a brief moment. “You know something I don’t, or is that just a general warning?”

“A general warning, but it feels like you’re getting close. Maybe I should go with you.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea, with the day you’ve had,” he said dryly. “I’ll be back soon.

And then he was gone.

Harley trailed after Cooper and Emma as they walked into their house. Emma was immediately swarmed by Duchess, while Twink was nowhere in sight. Probably with Mom.

Harley couldn’t take her eyes off her aunt. Emma was always surprising, but the deal with the knife? Would she have really attacked Atticus Symons? Harley and Cooper had traded looks on the way home and Harley was pretty sure he was wondering the same thing.

Well, there was one way to find out. Once inside the kitchen Harley asked, “Emma, would you have really stabbed Atticus Symons?”

“He was not their father.” Emma found the bag of dog food for Duchess in the pantry, while the dog pranced eagerly about her legs.

“I know that, but, I mean, actually stabbing with a knife … that’s bold.”

“Cooper arrested him.”

Cooper put in, “I held him for the police, and it may be short-lived unless the women of the church bring evidence against him. File charges.”

Emma said, “They don’t like him.”

“Some of them seemed to,” Harley argued. “But I’m still glad you didn’t stab him. I don’t want you to be in trouble.”

“They would rather be on the bus,” Emma explained while pouring kibble into Duchess’s bowl. “That’s where God’s love is found.”

“Not sure about that, but okay,” muttered Harley. “At least that fucker’s in jail now.”

“The f-word will cost you a dollar,” Emma pointed out, then set Duchess’s bowl on the floor.

Cooper said, “I’ll be upstairs with Jamie,” and bounded up the steps two at a time.

Harley fought back a shiver. Reaction, she decided. There was nothing to fear any longer. The bad guy had been rounded up. “Mom should be relieved now. Mary Jo’s back home and the church is shut down.”

As long as the women complained about Symons. Some of them had been fierce, but some of them seemed to backslide in their resolve when they saw Symons being led away by the police.

And there was the very real possibility that Cooper’s “citizen’s arrest” would be challenged because he wasn’t really an instated officer right now.

“Don’t borrow trouble,” she told herself as she went to find the dollar bills she kept in her dresser drawer, a stash started since the summer when the shit that started at the camp had changed the f-word from a now-and-again thing to a staple of her vocabulary.

It was almost eleven p.m. when Sloan banged on Amy Deggars’s door. She was reluctant to answer. It took three series of loud knocks despite light burning bright in the apartment’s windows.

Under threat that he would call for backup, more cops, she cracked open the door, just as far as a security chain would allow. Through the gap, he noticed a packed bag tucked near a hall tree in the entryway.

“Go away! I know who you are!” she said, auburn hair pulled into a tight topknot.

“I just want to talk to you.”

“And I don’t want to talk to you. I—I know my rights,” she argued, refusing to budge.

“Okay, then we’ll do it your way,” and he raised his voice, loud enough to disturb anyone in a nearby apartment. “What do you know about Shana Lloyd’s—”

“Stop!” She scrambled to remove the chain and let him into the tiny entry hall, but when he tried to question her deeper about Shana, Amy—a compact, wiry woman—fell back on Shana’s supposed declaration that he was at fault, and wouldn’t budge.

“Why are you talking to me, then, if you think that’s true?” he demanded.

“You’re the police!”

Sloan said, “You know I didn’t strangle Shana.”

“I don’t know that!”

“Yes, you do. You know I wasn’t even in Shana’s life,” he pressed.

“She said you were,” she argued, her pointed chin jutting out.

“That’s a fiction on her part. I can tell you know it.”

“I don’t care what’s true, okay? I’m leaving! She’s dead. He … you killed her.”

“He?” Sloan shot back.

She shook her head, desperate to dismiss her own slip. “I don’t know! I don’t know!”

“Because she planted fake evidence at a crime scene.”

Her mouth dropped open. “No … no …”

“Did you drive her or lend her your car?” Sloan asked.

“I just told you no!”

Sloan fixed her with a glare. “Shana Lloyd is dead. There’s a reason someone killed her. You can tell me now, or tell me down at the station.”

“I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING! Yes! Yes! She borrowed my car and it came back muddy … and that’s when she got scared. I washed the car, but we were both scared. She said she was going away, so I drove her home.”

“When did she take your car? What day?” he barked at her.

“Thursday … no, Friday morning, really early. It was still dark out. I was pissed. I had to take Uber to work at the firm. I called her on the phone and gave her hell when she got back, but she didn’t care.

She was scared, scared of you, she said.

I took her home. That’s all I know. That’s really all I know.

Now please,” she wheedled, “just leave. If you arrest me, they’ll find me and kill me. Just let me go!”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m telling you!” She was wild-eyed and desperate, more fragile than she’d first appeared.

He sensed she’d given him everything she knew. It was Shana who’d gone to her grave with information on who had killed Melissa McNulty. “You’d be safe at the station,” he told her more calmly.

“Yeah? For how long? Once you’re done grilling me, you’ll kick me out. And he’ll … they’ll find me!”

“If you’re not involved, you should be safe.”

“And end up like Shana?” She looked panicked, glanced down at the packed bag, obviously wishing she could leave.

“Did she ever mention where she was going?”

“NO.” Picking up the bag, she slung the strap over her shoulder.

Sloan suddenly wished he’d brought Quick with him. After everything that had happened, Ronnie was frustrated and scared and teetering back and forth into hysteria, but she knew people. Even beyond the psychic abilities.

“Take my number,” he said, gesturing to the phone she was gripping in one hand.

The truth was, Amy was right that she would be interviewed at the station and then left to her own devices.

Maybe she’d infected him with her paranoia, but he thought she might also be right about getting the hell out of Dodge. “Where are you going?”

“No plans. Driving south. California. Maybe Arizona … maybe somewhere else entirely.” She gave a half laugh. “Everything’s blowing up at the law firm anyway. Sofia’s been fucking around with one of the other lawyers and hasn’t been discreet about it. Sofia Waters. The boss’s wife. Heads will roll.”

That’s right. Amy worked at the Bernard K. Waters Law Firm. Along with Galen Hillyard, Ronnie’s ex-husband. A small, small world was River Glen.

They both stepped outside and Amy locked the door behind them.

He memorized the license plate of the silver Subaru Outback as she drove away. Maybe it was a fool’s move on his part, but he let her go. He only hoped he wouldn’t end up regretting it.

Stay calm. Don’t move. Deep breaths.

Close your eyes.

Listen to your own heartbeat.

Ronnie tried the tricks her childhood therapist, Patrice, had used to get her to relax during a session. She stayed silent in her chair, willing herself to remain immobile, letting her mind do the moving.

What first? she asked herself.

The betrayal from Dear Old Dad and Aunt Kat.

Is it betrayal?

She looked at the clock. Midnight? God, how had it gotten so late?

The soft knocking on her door an hour later sent her nerves abuzz.

Then her phone dinged with a text.

I’m at your door.

Sloan.

She flew to answer it and this time she did throw herself into his arms. He squeezed her tightly as if he couldn’t bear to let her go. They stumbled as one into her bedroom and said not a word as they stripped down and wrapped themselves around each other.