forecast called for rain across the entire region for the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours. An extensive line of slow-moving thunderstorms, some possibly severe, was headed their way. The night before, Marvel had told them all to hold on to their butts, it looked like this one was going to be a doozy. For the first time in a decade, he’d ordered an early teardown. Depending on how the weather played out, they would either batten down the hatches and sit tight or pick up and try to outrun the weather.
Either way, the next few hours were going to be a real bitch.
“Chance!” Skye ran toward him, eyes wide. “Did you hear about the weather? A twister touched down in Fulton!” She skidded to a halt, then fell into step with him. “I can’t believe it.”
He cut her an amused glance from the corner of his eye. “You’re awfully charged up this morning.”
“It’s just so exciting! That twister touching down and all.”
“You’re right,” he teased, “we could all be killed in the blink of an eye. That is exciting.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, she skipped out in front of him. “Do you think Marvel’s going to have us haul out early?”
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Chance shook his head. “All these trailers on the road? No way. I think we’re here for the duration.”
As they walked the rest of the way to her and her mother’s trailer, Skye kept up a constant flow of excited chatter. Her mother was making her favorite for breakfast, French toast; she mentioned that damned twister three more times and shared some gossip she’d heard about Len and a girl back in Florida. Then she mentioned that her mother had had a nightmare the night before.
“A nightmare?” he repeated. “What about?”
“I don’t know, but she screamed. And when I ran in to check on her, she was all sweaty and out of breath.” Skye pursed her lips. “She has nightmares a lot, but lately…lately they seem to be worse.”
Chance wanted to ask Skye more, but they had arrived at the trailer. They stepped inside just as Claire set a heaping plate of French toast in the middle of the table.
“’Morning,” she said, turning back to the range. “Get it while it’s hot. You know where the coffee is.”
Skye didn’t need to be told twice; she grabbed a plate, piled on several pieces of toast and drowned them in Aunt Jemima’s. Chance took his time. He poured himself a cup of coffee—a taste he had acquired in the past two months—took a seat at the table and filled his plate.
“So,” Claire asked, “what do you think? Are we going today or staying?”
“Skye asked me the same thing.” He poured syrup over his toast. “Staying, I’m certain of it. It would be too dangerous to be on the road.”
“I agree.” Claire sat across from him. “Better safe than sorry.”
She speared a piece of toast with her fork; Chance noticed that her hand shook. He shifted his gaze to her face, and made a sound of concern. She looked like hell.
He told her so, and Claire laid her napkin in her lap. “I’m fine. I just haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.”
“I told him about your nightmares,” Skye said around a mouthful of food. “I told him you had one last night.”
“It’s no big deal. Really.”
Claire met his eyes, then motioned toward Skye and shook her head. He nodded, understanding that she didn’t want to talk in front of Skye.
Twenty minutes later, after sending Skye out for an updated weather report, Claire turned to Chance. “I need a favor.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I need you to watch Skye for a while. Tonight, after she’s gone to sleep.”
“After she’s gone to sleep?” he repeated, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Right.”
“No, really. It’s nothing, I just—”
He caught her hand and looked down at her nails. They were raw, bitten to the quick. He met her eyes. “You practically jump out of your skin every time someone speaks. You’re constantly looking over your shoulder, and you’re not sleeping. I don’t have to be a fortune-teller to know something’s wrong.”
She snatched her hand away. “You’re not a fortune-teller.”
“Exactly my point. You want to tell me what’s going on? Maybe I can help.”
For a moment he thought she was going to feed him the same line of bullshit she usually did. She opened her mouth, then shut it again. Turning away from him, she crossed to the sink and stared out the small window above it.
“I wish you could help,” she said softly. “But you can’t.” She swung to face him. “I have to go into town. I have to make a…phone call, and I…I don’t want to leave her alone. Especially with the storm.”
“Why can’t you take her with you, Claire? Who’re you calling? Skye’s father?”
“No!” She shook her head for emphasis. “No.”
“Last time, that night you disappeared, is that where you were? Making a call?” She shifted her gaze, and he had his answer. He held out a hand to her. “I know you’re in some sort of trouble, Claire. And I’m pretty sure it has something to do with Skye’s father.”
“Well, you’re wrong. It has nothing to do with him.” She caught his hands. Hers were like ice. “I need your help. I need you to do this for me. Will you? Yes or no?”
“Claire—”
“Yes or no? It’s important, Chance.”
He hesitated, not at all certain he was doing the right thing, then nodded. “What time do you want me here?”
Chapter Fourteen
Claire had asked Chance to come at ten-thirty. She checked her watch, thankful to see it was almost that now. She could hardly think for the terrible sense of urgency, of impending disaster, pressing in on her. She had to call Dorothy. Now, tonight. She had no more time, she felt that keenly, with every bit of psychic ability she possessed. She and Skye had run out of time.
Shuddering, Claire glanced toward the back of the trailer, at the closed bedroom door. Skye was asleep and had been for better than a half hour. Still, Claire worried about her waking, worried about how she would explain where she was going if she did.
The wind buffeted the camper, rocking it; several particularly strong gusts seemed to actually lift it off the ground. She crossed to the door and peered out, struggling to see through the driving rain, feeling suffocated in the tiny trailer. She thought back to her last call to Dorothy, to the way she had sounded—distracted and nervous. Guilty, even.
Claire
