Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
The door opens, and I hold my breath, anticipating—well, I don’t know what. The man who appears a moment later is, on the surface, normal enough. He’s a rugged-looking guy, wearing jeans and boots, his hair sun-bleached and his skin baked bronze to the point where his age is indefinable. He’s probably thirty-something, but age is irrelevant. What stands out is the fact that he isn’t wearing a coat. In the Colorado mountains. In the winter.
“This is Detective Mike Ryker,” Oliver announces, doing the formal introduction thing despite the obvious.
“Sorry to intrude on you, Ms. Thorne,” the detective chimes in. “But I’m in urgent need of your assistance on a case.”
I study him, waiting for something to happen—an explosion of my senses, an icy ripple down my spine—but all I have going on right now is more of that ominous, foreboding feeling that has my toes curling in my own boots.
Apparently, I’m silent too long. He swipes a finger toward the couch, an impatient energy to him. “If I can sit down, I’m happy to explain why I’m here.”
I suppose he expected me to stand up and offer a cordial greeting. I prefer the greeting that allows my hand to feel the cold steel comfort against my palm. I stay where I’m at. “You can sit,” I reply, but I don’t sound like I really want him to sit, and with good reason. I don’t want him to sit. I want him to leave.
He sits down.
Oliver joins him on the couch.
My eyes are on Ryker—just him. He’s the enemy. “So, why did you come all the way from Texas to talk to me?”
“You seem to want to get to the point.” He shrugs. “Works for me. We have three dead women, and in my assessment of the date, all have links to one of your clients named Jeremy Gibson.”
My heart explodes in my chest, and really, truly, I think I might be having a heart attack. “Ex-client,” I whisper. I don’t mean to whisper, to show how affected I am, but the truth of the matter is that I’m just trying not to hyperventilate. I swallow and force myself into the courtroom medley I made up years ago—the song in my head that drowns out the bad and leaves the logical and nothing else. “How long ago were they killed?” I ask.
“Two in the past week,” he says. “In case you need help with the math, that makes two since your client was acquitted.”
“Ex-client,” I correct again, barely able to breathe for the guilt assailing me.
“Right.” He smirks. “Your ex-client. Either way, any insight into the suspect would be helpful. Oliver assures me I can trust you to keep this whole thing under wraps. We don’t want a public panic on our hands.”
“You did your job, Ember,” Oliver consoles, clearly reading my discomfort. How could he not? I might as well be laid out on a stretcher in total cardiac arrest. “He’s damn good at covering his tracks.”
If I look at Oliver right now, I’m pretty sure that I’ll lose my cool, so I focus on the file in Ryker’s hand, trying to hear that medley and detach myself emotionally from the murders. The file is thick, and I know—I just know—it’s filled with the kind of horrors that nightmares are made of—the kind my visions are made of.
“He was good at covering it up,” I murmur softly.
“Then Oliver’s right,” Ryker assumes. “You changed your mind about him after the acquittal.”
My gaze shoots to Oliver, and his chin lowers, his body angling toward me and me alone. “It was obvious when we were standing beside the ambulance. Something happened to change your mind.”
“What happened?” Ryker pushes. “Did he admit the murders after the acquittal?”
My gaze lifts to his, and I wait for a jolt of evil to overcome me, but it does not, which is why I attempt a reasonable answer. Did he admit his crimes? I guess he did, but not in a way admissible in court, so I settle on, “Nothing you can use,” reaching for what works in this situation. “It was a feeling. The way he changed. Like he was a different person, no longer meek and sensitive. He let me see that person, but only for a few moments.”
“I see,” Ryker says, though he can’t see. No one can see from my eyes. He offers the file to me. “I thought you could review the cases. See if anything stands out that might help us bring him in.”
The very idea of touching that folder nauseates me. Oliver was wrong when he said, or rather, implied, that I’m not responsible for what I would discover inside. I got Jeremy off. I allowed him to kill again. And I have to help put him away. This is the opportunity that I need—that I was looking for. I reach for the file, and I don’t even try to hide how my hand shakes when it touches my skin.