When the girl’s breath hitched, she felt the drag inside her own lungs, a terrifying, perfect sync. Her body jerked in reaction, making the swing lurch beneath her. The connection with her snapped hard as the collar slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the porch. The cat startled, tail puffed, but Erica barely registered the movement.
Urgency took hold, rooted in the need to help, even without knowing where, when, or how.
The vision was already fraying, fading fast, like all the others, and too quick to fully grasp. It was too little to take to the police.
With a life at stake, frustration gnawed at her. Most days, her supposed gift felt more like a curse.
The cat meowed as it wound around her ankles, indifferent to what had just torn through her.
“What now, kitty?” she asked, as if she had the answers.
The collar lay near her feet. Unwilling to touch it again, she nudged it with her shoe into a shaft of moonlight. Squinting at the engraved tag, she saw the cat’s name, Whiskers. There was also a number to call if found.
She could do that, at least.
“I bet your family has been worried about you,” she said, already dialing.
The call went straight to voicemail. A cheerful teenage girl’s voice, “You’ve reached Cheyenne! You know what to do.”
Fingers shaking, she nearly dropped her phone as she ended the call. The face in the mirror tugged at her. Eyes that might have been familiar in another light. The bruising and swelling made it hard to tell.
Her focus shifted to the house catty-corner across the street. From here, she could only make out the driveway. She stood and walked to the end of the porch. Debra and Thomas Wilson’s two-story colonial came into view. She couldn’t even call them acquaintances; she knew them by sight, nothing else, except that they had a teenage daughter named Cheyenne.
When had she last seen a lamp on over there? The porch light? The glow of the TV through the curtains? Headlights in the driveway?
Nothing came to mind.
Her gaze cut to Whiskers, crouched at the edge of the porch, watching her.
Three nights of unclear visions. Three nights of the cat appearing—Cheyenne Wilson’s cat. Was Whiskers trying to reach her when the girl could not?
She huffed softly. “Right, Erica. Now, you’re Dr. Dolittle.”
But something wasn’t quite right across the street. She searched her phone for the police department. After a moment of indecision, she dialed the non-emergency number. They answered on the third ring.
“Leon Valley Police.”
“I’d like to request a welfare check.”
“Yes, ma’am. What’s the address?”
She gave it, listening to the clack of keys as the dispatcher typed. “Is there someone elderly at the residence? Anyone with a medical condition?”
“I don’t know.”
The typing stopped. “What’s the concern?”
Erica hesitated. The fear she’d felt was real, but revealing her gift came with the risk of being dismissed as a crackpot. She weighed the chance of being ignored against her responsibility to help and stuck to facts the police might believe.
“The house has been dark for days. No one has come or gone that I’ve seen. I found their cat wandering outside. That’s unusual. I wanted to make sure everything’s all right.”
“Can I have your name?”
“I’d… rather not say.”
A pause. “Ma’am—”
“Please, send someone to check it out.”
