“You’re late, Anderson!” someone yelled. “Choke up!”
Third pitch. Contact. But the ball sliced toward the blankets and chairs along the first-base line. Erica ducked instinctively, covering her head as it skipped off a lawn chair and rolled to a stop near her knee.
Heat rose in her cheeks as she reached for it. A real psychic would’ve seen that coming.
Another spectator reached for the scuffed yellow ball along with her. Their fingers brushed, and a jolt went through her.
She saw a man’s hand clamped around a slender wrist. His square-cut diamond ring caught the light as his grip tightened, deliberately cruel. The walls closed in, no way out. Helplessness that wasn’t hers slammed into her all the same.
And maybe the most chilling of all—mint. Cool, crisp, too close, and too familiar.
It was the same mint broadcast from Cheyenne, and on the money bag.
This woman, a stranger, was connected to the same man. The same violence. The same danger. Was this a new nightmare starting, or a continuation of the last?
Dear heavens! She’d barely had a minute to breathe.
Suddenly lightheaded, she tore her hand away.
The ball dropped to the grass. The distant roar in her head ended with the connection, replaced with music, laughter, and someone calling for another beer. Beside her stood a young blonde with glossy pink lipstick and sun-flushed cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—” She stopped mid-sentence, concern cutting through. “Are you hurt? Did it hit you?”
She couldn’t answer. The ring. The mint. That crushing grip. They looped in her mind with the same wrongness as before, like a warning she wasn’t supposed to ignore.
“I… um, excuse me…” Her voice sounded distant. “I just need something cold to drink.”
A worried crease formed between the blonde’s brows. “Yeah, it’s hot.”
She stood on unsteady legs.
“Let me help you,” the woman offered.
“No!” Erica snapped, pulling away. If she touched her again, no telling what she might see.
She moved carefully, each step deliberate, toward the house. The noise dimmed with every yard she put between herself and the game.
Inside, she found the bathroom and locked the door. She braced against the sink, dragging in gulps of air. Time blurred. Seconds, maybe minutes, passed as she slowly steadied enough to look up.
Her reflection was colorless. Not sick, shaken, like she’d seen a ghost.
But had she? The images were disjointed, but they didn’t seem to be in the past. The grip in her vision had been hard enough to bruise. But when their hands collided reaching for the ball, the blonde’s wrist was smooth and unmarked.
Maybe what she’d seen hadn’t happened yet, which meant there was still time to save her.
A knock sounded. Coop’s voice came through the door, urgent. “Erica? Someone said you were sick. Is everything all right?”
Before he could knock again, she yanked the door open. “We have to find her.”
His brows drew together. “Find who? What happened?”
“A young woman at the softball game. She’s terrified.”
He studied her face carefully. “You saw something.”
Erica nodded, swallowing hard. “She’s in danger.”
“From who?”
