back alive.
McBride picked up Abby’s photo, his expression softening at the sight of her gap-toothed grin. “Where are you, baby?”
She wasn’t really a pretty child, all knees, elbows and freckles, but in the picture, the sheer joy of life danced in her bright blue eyes. People would notice a kid like Abby Walters. Even in the photo, she had a way about her.
Her picture had certainly affected Lily Browning, though not how McBride had expected. When he’d shown Abby’s picture to others at the school, the grinning child immediately brought smiles to their faces. But Lily had looked ill from the start.
She was keeping secrets.
About Abby Walters? McBride couldn’t say for sure, but sixteen years as a cop had honed his suspicious nature to a fine edge. He knew she couldn’t have been in on the kidnapping; witness testimony had narrowed down Debra Walters’s time of death to sometime between seven-twenty and eight-thirty in the morning. According to Carmen Herrera, Lily Browning had been in a meeting at six-thirty and hadn’t left it until seven-forty, when students started trickling in. She’d been in class after that.
But he couldn’t forget her odd reaction to Abby’s photo.
On a hunch, McBride pulled up the DMV database on his computer and punched in Lily Browning’s name. While he waited for the response, he mentally replayed his meeting with her.
He’d noticed her eyes first. Large, more gold than brown, framed by long, dark lashes. Behind those eyes lay mysteries. Of that much, McBride was certain.
She was in her twenties—mid to late, he guessed. With clear, unblemished skin as pale as milk, maybe due to the headache. Or was she naturally that fair? In stark contrast, her hair was almost black, worn shoulder-length and loose, with a natural wave that danced when she moved.
She was beautiful in the way that wild things were beautiful. He got the impression of a woman apart, alone, always on the fringes. Never quite fitting in.
A loner with secrets. Never a good combination.
The file came up finally, and McBride took a look. Lily Browning, no middle initial given. Twenty-nine years old, brown hair, brown eyes—gold eyes, he amended mentally. An address on Okmulgee Road, not far from the school. McBride knew the area. Older bungalow-style homes, quiet neighborhood, modest property values. Which told him exactly nothing.
Lily Browning wasn’t a suspect. She was just a strange woman with honey-colored eyes whose skin had felt like warm velvet beneath his fingers.
Irritated, he checked the clock. Almost four. Walters’s plane would have touched down by now and Baker would be with him, calming his fears. Baker was good at that.
McBride wasn’t.
He was a bit of a loner with secrets himself.
As he started to close the computer file, his phone rang again. He stared at it for a moment, dread creeping up on him.
Abby Walters’s photo stared up at him from the desk.
He grabbed the receiver. “McBride,” he growled.
Silence.
He sensed someone on the other end. “Hello?” he said.
“Detective McBride?” A hesitant voice came over the line, resonating with apprehension. Lily Browning’s voice.
“Ms. Browning.”
He heard a soft intake of breath, but she didn’t speak.
“This is Lily Browning, right?” He knew he sounded impatient. He didn’t care.
“Yes.”
Subconsciously, he’d been waiting for her call. Tamping down growing apprehension, he schooled his voice, kept it low and soothing. “Do you know something about Abby?”
“Not exactly.” She sounded reluctant and afraid.
He tightened his grip on the phone. “Then why’d you call?”
“You asked if I’d seen Abby this morning. I said no.” A soft sigh whispered over the phone. “That wasn’t exactly true.”
McBride’s muscles bunched as a burst of adrenaline flushed through his system. “You saw her this morning at school?”
“No, not at the school.” Her voice faded.
“Then where? Away from school?” Had Ms. Herrera been wrong? Had Lily slipped away from the meeting, after all?
The silence on Lily Browning’s end of the line dragged on for several seconds. McBride stifled the urge to throw the phone across the room. “Ms. Browning, where did you see Abby Walters?”
He heard a deep, quivery breath. “In my mind,” she said.
McBride slumped in his chair, caught flat-footed by her answer. It wasn’t at all what he’d expected.
A witness, sure. A suspect—even better. But a psychic?
Bloody hell.
CHAPTER TWO
HEAVY SILENCE GREETED Lily’s answer.
“Are you there?” She clutched the phone, her stomach cramping.
“I’m here.” His tight voice rumbled over the phone. “And you should know we don’t pay psychics for information.”
“Pay?”
“That’s why you’re calling, isn’t it?” His words were clipped and diamond hard. “What’s your usual fee, a hundred an hour? Two hundred?”
“I don’t have a fee,” she responded, horrified.
“So you’re in it for the publicity.”
“No!” She slammed down the phone, pain blooming like a poisonous flower behind her eyes.
The couch cushion shifted beside her and a furry head bumped against her elbow. Lily dropped one hand to stroke the cat’s brown head. “Oh, Delilah, that was a mistake.”
The Siamese cat made a soft prrrupp sound and butted her head against Lily’s chin. Jezebel joined them on the sofa, poking her nose into Lily’s ribs. Groaning, she nudged the cats off her lap and staggered to her feet. Half-blinded by the migraine, she made her way down the hall to her bedroom.
The headaches had never been as bad back home in Willow Grove, with her sister Iris always around to brew up a cup of buckbean tea and work her healing magic. But Willow Grove was one hour and a million light-years away.
The phone rang. Lily started to let the answering machine get it when she saw Iris’s face float across the blackness of her mind. She fumbled for the phone. “Iris?”
Her sister’s warm voice trembled with laughter.
