Over my dead body, she sent back.
That would take approximately three SWAT teams, so good enough for me
She snorted. She’d call him in a minute. She sent Reece a text he’d see when he parked, and checked for flights from Seattle to Juneau. There was still a seat on an eleven-thirty direct. Perfect.
She heard the rumble of engines as she bought the ticket, and her gaze went back to the marina’s entrance just in time to see the first local news van pull up.
“Circus is starting,” Taylor said.
“And there goes Nolan.” She pointed to the FBI agent, who was trudging up toward the barrier. “How long ’til he tells them I’m a disgrace to the force?”
Taylor snorted. “Guy’s a prick. The same people who freak out over empathy and privacy don’t think twice about letting their phones and internet browsers record every detail of their lives. Everyone sane knows empaths can’t hurt anyone.”
Jamey’s gaze stole down to the marina, to the bobbing yacht with its bloody bodies. “Right,” she said slowly. “What you said.”
Chapter Four
Name: John Doe
Source of referral: self (walk-in)
Presenting concerns: nightmares
Assessment:
[This section intentionally left blank]
—Seattle Veterans Medical Complex patient records,
filed by empath therapist Cora Falcon
Call Liam the instant you park, asshole.
Reece huffed at his sister’s text, but it’d be a lie to say he didn’t deserve the insult. He would know.
Whether he deserved the missed call and waiting text from the unknown number—well. He cut the Smart car’s engine but reached for the radio, turning it up until the bass was thumping loud enough to drown out any thoughts he might have about that.
He ran a thumb over the phone like a worry stone as his gaze stole out the windshield. The dawn was breaking behind him, illuminating the boardwalk across Alaskan Way. At this hour, and this temperature, the touristy space was deserted save for a pair of hardy seagulls, and beyond the wooden rails, the choppy ocean was as gray as the lightening sky. He focused on the water, on the colorless waves that were so reassuringly not red.
The radio crackled as the music faded.“—breaking news sending shocks through Seattle this morning, with Washington Senator Hannah Hathaway found dead overnight at a local marina. Law enforcement has not yet released a statement, but the senator’s death is reportedly part of a multiple homicide—”
He turned the key with a violent twist, plunging the car into abrupt silence. He wasn’t calling Liam, not yet.
He was calling Cora.
He chewed on his thumb as the phone rang. He and Cora were the only two empaths in Seattle, and that kind of solidarity would have made them friends regardless. But Cora was one of the kindest people Reece had ever met, a therapist who worked with veterans with PTSD. And after March, and the months of violent nightmares that made him sick, he’d finally reached out to her for help.
But it was as the EMT had said: the other empath wasn’t answering her phone. It rang and rang until her voicemail picked up.“Hi, you’ve reached Cora Falcon. I’m so sorry I missed you! Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”
“Hey, it’s Reece.” He bit his lip. “Sorry to bother you. After yesterday I’m probably the last person you want to hear from.”
There was a very good chance she’d never forgive him for coming in. After all, reading him had been so terrible it had made herfaint. He could only hope she was too kind for grudges.
He cleared his throat. “Anyway, the nightmares I told you about—the eyes—something happened this morning that makes me think—well. Just call me? When you can?”
He hung up, stomach still roiling. It wasn’t like he could tell her about the strange lies he’d heard himself say this morning. He couldn’t tell her he was hearing lies at all. That was too big a secret to ask her to keep.
But what part of him could possibly believe he was telling a lie when he saidempathy can’t hurt him?
