“Lieutenant Cranky,” I correct.
“More like Lieutenant Smartass.” She chuckles, sounding more like herself. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Will do. Get some sleep. Give Zozo a kiss from her favorite uncle.”
“Only uncle. Love you, skippy.”
I internally groan at my childhood nickname, which our father called me because when I was young, I walked on my toes. I was so traumatized by the nickname that I learned to not do it, but the name stuck.
The line goes dead, and man, am I thankful for that small miracle.
Jackie could talk all night about whatever you’ll indulge her in. She’s fifteen years younger than me, but some days it feels like forty.
The shit I see every day ages a man. How can it not?
She’s still young and naive. Not that she believes that. At thirty, married and with baby number one, she somehow thinks she’s veteran enough to offer advice on everything regarding relationships and life in general. It makes her an epic pain in my ass most days. Tonight, I can’t even indulge her like I typically would.
I’m just relieved that my change of topic stopped her from prying into my feelings. This month represents the single worst time of my life.
Pain.
Heartache.
Loss.
Six years ago, Isla died. She was thirty-five years old. A call came over the scanner while I was out in the field that assistance was needed at Knox Harbor Elementary School, where she taught third grade. I was already promoted to Detective Lieutenant, but that wasn’t going to stop me from hauling ass to the school. When I got there, my former partner was already on the scene. He tried to distract me while they wheeled out a stretcher, and that’s when I knew.
It was her on that gurney.
A ruptured aortic aneurysm.
She didn’t even make it to the hospital.
That day changed my life in so many ways. The strength I thought I possessed abandoned me and I collapsed in on myself. I couldn’t handle any reminder of her for a long time. Her personal items were dropped off to her mother. The house we owned together was sold. I’ve always been surrounded by death, but hers, I would never have been prepared for. It took almost a year before I could even visit her grave.
Time hasn’t healed my wounds, but it has made it easier to cope. But I have no plans to put myself in the position to feel loss like that again.
Garrett’s death made those feelings so raw. I knew what Alyssa was going through only a few feet away, and there was nothing I could do for her.
Her remark tonight about hardly knowing her is true. But something has shifted in the past two weeks and the urge to get to know her increases every time I’m in her presence.
There’s just something about her that draws me in. Beauty aside, she’s witty and easy to be around. I don’t know if our sharedgrief is any factor, but having someone who gets it without having to discuss the specifics is somehow comforting.
Some deep knowing tells me that having and losing someone like Alyssa would truly kill me, and that’s reason enough to keep my distance.
I won’t cross a line, but I will keep her safe from whatever motives her source has.
Jackie’s comment about departments using psychics comes back to mind and curiosity gets the better of me. I grab my laptop and queue up Google. The search results are mind-blowing. Over ten million results in an instant. I type inSylvia Browne cold case filesand aNewsweekarticle jumps out at me. Apparently, Jackie was on to something.
Not that I buy into this stuff. It’s impossible.
Right?
Thunder cracks and the house rattles as a storm rages outside. It’s supposed to be like this all night as a line of strong storms blows through New England. I shut down my computer and fall back into bed. For most, this would be yet another obstacle in the way of sleep. Not for me. It’s just what I need to finally pull me under, chasing away all thoughts of psychics knowing things they shouldn’t. But it doesn’t stop the dreams of strawberry-blond hair splayed over my pillow, the beautiful woman wrapped in my arms fitting perfectly against me.
?I’VE BEEN SITTINGat my desk for the past two hours, searching through what information I can find on Jackson Moore’s accident. It’s not typical for me to work on a Saturday, but Captain strongly suggested I be here with him until the Cruz case is closed. It’s seven o’clock when I look up from the computer, and all the hours I’ve spent researching have provided exactly zero signs pointing to foul play.
My mind continues to wander to the events of last night and all that I’ve learned today about psychic abilities. On my lunch break, I continued my investigation into this phenomenon, and despite my skepticism, there are thousands of accounts that psychic visions have led to cold cases being solved. I’m not about to admit I’m a converted believer, but it does raise some questions.
