made the mistake of taking that question at face value. Everyone in the room was familiar with Chief Cutter’s habit of setting conversational traps for unwary subordinates, and well aware of from whence the order to involve the psychic had originated.
So it was that Wade addressed an audience perhaps more respectfully attentive than it might otherwise have been. “Ah…well, sir, so far she seems…” He coughed, hoping to gain time for his brain to find a word that wouldn’t get him in trouble with his boss and make him the butt of department humor for the foreseeable future. When the word failed to appear, he started again. “From the crime scene this morning, she did pick up that the, uh, latest victim didn’t know her killer.” He paused while everyone nodded gravely, then continued with an absolutely straight face. “Oh, yeah—and the killer doesn’t like uniforms.”
There was a snuffle of poorly stifled laughter from someone—probably Styles. Nola put one long-boned hand over the lower part of her face and became suddenly interested in a large spill of something on her desk blotter.
Chief Cutter pushed abruptly to his feet and favored each person in the room individually with two seconds of jaw-jutting scowl. If it hadn’t been for the city-wide smoking ban, Wade knew, there would have been a cigar clamped between his teeth. “I expect everyone in this department to give the gal some time. She’s done a good job for other departments, and Lord knows this one, and this city needs all the help it can get.” He took a step toward the door, then jerked around to stab two fingers—holding the invisible cigar between them, of course—at the room in general. “I don’t need to tell you, we need this sicko caught. I want this thing wrapped up before the Rose Festival begins. That clear?”
Amid three mumbled Yes, sirs, the chief of police made his exit.
Tee placed the bowl of thick chicken-and-barley soup in front of her grandmother and the spoon alongside it, then unfolded a dish towel and draped it over her grandmother’s lap. “There you are, Jennie, just the way you like it.”
Jeannette, thankfully in one of her sweet moods, smiled up at her. “That’s very kind of you, dear. Such a lovely lass…my, but you remind me of my daughter. Her name is…” A look of stark distress wiped away her smile.
“Isabella,” Tee said quickly, before the distress could blossom into panic.
The old lady’s face brightened, although her eyes remained vague…unfocused. “Oh—you know my daughter? Are you one of her little friends? I used to know all her friends. Boyfriends, too. She always has boyfriends, my Isabella. Well, she’s such a pretty thing,’ tis no wonder…”
Tee picked up the spoon and gently curled her grandmother’s fingers around it. “Here, Jennie, dear, try the soup. It’s barley—you like barley.”
Jeannette obediently dug into the soup bowl and slurped a noisy spoonful, making humming sounds of approval as she worked it around in her mouth. She swallowed, then gave a trill of musical laughter. It sounded poignantly young. “Izzy always brings her young men home to meet me, you know. She hasn’t The Gift herself—doesn’t like mine much, either, except when it suits her. Like when she wants to know what’s in a boy’s heart. Then she doesn’t mind it, not a bit…” She scooped up another bite of soup, still chuckling to herself.
Tee leaned her chin on her hand as she watched her grandmother attack the bowl of soup with gusto, crooning and mumbling to it as she ate. “I wish you could help me know what’s in this one’s heart, because I sure can’t,” she said, knowing Jeannette wouldn’t really hear her, that she was years away, now. A lifetime away.
“Wade Callahan…that’s his name—the detective I’m working with now. You said he’s lost, Jennie, and I think he is, but only parts of him. He’s like…a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing.” She sighed. “I can’t read him.”
Jeannette paused with the spoon on its downward arc. “I could never read my Tommy, either.”
“Tommy?” Tee felt excitement vibrate through her breastbone. Her grandmother’s voice had taken on a different timbre…a younger, lighter pitch, with a definite Irish brogue. Softly she asked, “Was he your boyfriend, Jennie?”
“Boyfriend? Oh, well, I s’pose he was to begin with, before I married him.” She chuckled. “Tommy was my husband, of course.”
Tee felt her grandmother’s emotions fill her head, warm and sweet, at first, like spring breezes wafting through orchards of apple trees. Then just as quickly they changed to hot, sultry winds, blowing gusts that smelled of passion and storms.
“I never knew you were married,” she said in a wondering voice. She’d always assumed single parenthood was the norm in her family.
“Not for long, I’m afraid,” Jeannette said in the gently wistful manner of one reliving an old, old tragedy. “My Tommy was killed, you see, only weeks after we married, when I was already carrying his daughter. My lovely Isabella—looked just like him, she did, and took after him in other ways, as well. Reckless, he was. Always takin’ risks. Went off to Belfast to fight the British. And I couldna’ stop it…” Her accent seemed to thicken as a tear trickled down her cheek. “I saw. I did. But I wouldna’ believe.”
Tee couldn’t answer. One hand covered her mouth; the other groped blindly for her grandmother’s as waves of inconsolable grief washed over her.
Later, after the effects of the impression had faded, she remembered the words. I saw, but I wouldna’ believe.
And felt a chill of an altogether different kind.
In a motel room on the outskirts of Portland, a private investigator named Holt Kincaid took out his cell phone and punched a number on his speed dial. A woman answered, a voice he knew well. It sounded sleepy.
“Hey, Sam,” he said with momentary qualms of guilt, “did I wake you?”
“Hey, Holt,” his employer’s wife muttered in her mild Georgia drawl. “’S okay. What’s up?”
“Sorry—keep forgetting about the time difference. It’s pretty late there, right?”
“Yeah, but never mind, I’m up now.” Her voice sounded less grumpy and more alert, so he figured she hadn’t missed the burr of excitement in his. “So, give. You wouldn’t be calling this late if you hadn’t found something.”
“Uh, is Cory around? He ought to be the first one to hear this.”
“He’s on assignment. He’ll be checking in, though, so tell me. And, Holt?”
“Yeah.”
“If you don’t spill it to me this minute, I swear I will send a very large, very muscular—”
“Okay, okay. I’ve found something, all right. Not something, actually—someone.” He paused, surprised to find a constriction in his throat. Damn, but this case had gotten personal. Too personal. He coughed and said, “It’s…Wade. I’ve found Wade.”
There was silence, then a rustling sound, as if his listener had sat down rather abruptly. The voice, barely audible, said, “You…found him? You’re sure? Honest to—”
“Swear to God.” Holt couldn’t hold back elated laughter. “His name’s Callahan,
