off to jail.
“HOLD ON TO YOUR HATS, FOLKS. There’s another tropical storm brewing in the Atlantic. This one has affectionately been named Kandace, and she’s packing winds of seventy-five miles per hour. She could reach hurricane status by week’s end—”
Adelaide pushed the off button on the TV remote and tossed it onto the coffee table. Two storms were her limit. One packed wind and rain, the other packed a badge and a gun, and enough sex appeal to brew his own weather system.
Why he hadn’t blown down her door yet, she didn’t know, but she was sure he’d roar in much sooner than Kandace.
The department was abuzz with details about the girl they’d found murdered in Bucktown. Normally it would have been internalized, but the fact that she’d been posed and circled with salt seemed to give everyone permission to speculate on the dark magic details.
She owed her own certainty to some of the telltale details. The victim’s pointing finger on her right hand, the fan of hair spread out around her head, eyes wide open. All details she’d been compelled to sketch over and over again.
Buzzed with the jitters, she got up off the sofa and went into the kitchen to make a cup of herbal tea.
Detective Royce Beckett was an intelligent man, a good cop. He’d no doubt done a comparison between the victims in her sketch and the body found this morning.
Adelaide turned on the burner under the kettle, pulled her favorite smiley face mug out of the cupboard and opened the tea canister on the counter, selecting chamomile.
She wasn’t an investigator, but she had enough sense to know things weren’t going to get better. Not for her…and certainly not for the women in the sketches.
The front doorbell chimed.
Dropping the tea bag into the mug, she braced herself for the grilling ahead. She’d probably do the same thing if she were in his official capacity.
A knot of tension sat heavy in her stomach by the time she reached the front door and glimpsed the shadow of his imposing silhouette outlined through the filmy glass flanking either side of the door.
Hesitation stringed through her, and she went up onto her tiptoes to stare through the peephole, confirming what she already knew. Detective Royce Beckett was here, holding a rolled-up sketch in one hand, and he wasn’t happy.
Pulling in a cleansing breath, she stepped back and opened the door.
“Detective.” She smiled, even though he didn’t.
“We need to talk.”
In the background the shrill whistle of the kettle at full boil saved her from the intensity of the moment. “Tea?” she asked over her shoulder as she hurried down the long hallway to the kitchen, hearing the front door close behind him.
“No, thanks. This isn’t a social call.”
Worry jumbled her nerves as she turned off the stove, lifted the kettle and bathed the tea bag in scalding water. The comparison between the steaming cup and what was coming was just too unsettling, and she set the kettle down on the back burner.
Chair legs raked against the kitchen floor, and she turned around, prepared for the only line of questioning he’d be able to follow.
“I heard about the murdered woman they found out in Bucktown. I’m sorry for the tragedy her family is suffering—”
“Cut the niceties, Adelaide. I’ve got this.” He unrolled the sketch, grabbed a couple of apples out of the dish on the bar where he sat and positioned them on the sketch so it wouldn’t roll back up.
Next, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photo.
She didn’t have to ask what it was, she already knew, and for an instant she wanted to curl up along with the sketch, if she could only get the apples off it.
“It’s a perfect match, Adelaide.” He stared at her across the bar. Her throat tightened. There was sorrow in his dark eyes. Sorrow, remorse…and pain? She wanted to reach out for him. To feel his arms come around her shoulders, to feel his proximity soothe her fear.
“I don’t want to arrest you as an accessory, but if you leave me no choice, I’ll do it. I need an explanation, and I need it now.”
Her gaze locked with his, her knees wobbling as she leaned against the counter for support. “I lied to you when I said I didn’t know what the word behold meant.”
“The one we found carved into the wood under you studio window, presumably by Clay Franklin?”
“Yes.” She hesitated, considering the ramification of the revelation. It was a secret she protected, didn’t share and certainly hadn’t told Clay Franklin about, but Royce needed to know the truth about her.
She pushed back and moved around the counter toward him, feeling the need to be closer. The need to convince him of her innocence. “But he didn’t complete the word. It’s Beholder.” She stopped next to him. “I’m what was once known by the now-extinct Materia voodoo sect as a Beholder. I see pictures of assailants coming directly from the mind’s eye of the victims I help, and I sketch them.”
If her revelation sparked any sort of understanding in Royce, it didn’t register on his face. His features were masked, unreadable…hostile?
“Hold on just a minute. You expect me to believe, what? That you see images coming from inside a victim’s head, and you can draw them?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever sign on to mumbo jumbo that outrageous. It doesn’t hold an ounce of tangibility, and if it did, then why are these drawings being seen from a killer’s point of view?” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’m going to act like this bizarre conversation never transpired. I’d like you to do the same.”
Disappointment piqued her nerve endings and slammed into her brain with a force that shook her resolve. What had she expected? That her secret talent would be revered? That Royce would accept her revelation and welcome it?
“Please.” She reached out for him, laying her hand on his forearm.
Heat arced into her palm and zipped up her arm. Transfixed by the sensation, she stared up at him.
His eyes narrowed for an instant, confirming her belief that he’d felt it, too, she was sure of it, but he nonchalantly pulled back with conviction he didn’t feel.
“Someone circled Missy Stuart with a ring of salt. The claim is it has voodoo connotations. If I find out you’re involved…”
Fire burned inside Royce as he stared into her luminous green eyes. What the hell was happening to him? He wanted to kiss her, wanted to feel her body tangled up with his, for no other reason than an insatiable desire to touch her.
“There’s enough circumstantial evidence to haul you in, but you’d make bail before morning.”
Her chin came up, her eyes trained on him, and he found a quality of determination in their green depths.
“I’ll
