Page 58 of Sight of Fate

Startled, she rushes to grab her purse and keys. “Let’s go.”

Thankfully, she takes the elevator, not the stairs, and when we reach the basement, she points to the blue truck in the corner. “Hop in.”

I pull my phone out of my pocket. Good thing I always keep it on me. “9:07. How long will it take to get there?”

She grimaces. “This time of day? Thirty minutes.”

Flipping to a clean page, I ignore the past and concentrate on the room with the phone. Details flow onto the page, and the scene takes shape. An old metal desk. Black desk phone. Calendar with a beach on it. Computer. Monitor. I tap the pencil against my teeth as I sift through the details. There. The paper on the desk. Then I painstakingly draw her. Bruises on her wrists and neck. Tears on her cheeks. Blue eyes that have lost their sparkle. Fear stamped on her beautiful face.

We jerk to a stop, and I look up. Surprised to see The Fork in front of me, I turn toward Sam. “What are we doing here?”

She points to a small house on the left. “I live there with my mate. He’s the chef at The Fork. I gave Covey the number to the ranch because that’s where we lived when we first moved out here.” Getting out of the car, she slams the door and starts running toward the right.

Confused, I scramble out of the truck. I haven’t run in…like forever. Maybe as a kid? Clutching the notebook, I hunch my shoulders against the cold wind and turn toward the restaurant doors, but Sam shouts for me to stop. When I look up, I see she’s past the restaurant on the other side. She disappears, and I pick up speed, wondering where the hell she’s going.

Turning the corner, I find her sitting in a golf cart, phone glued to her ear. With a harsh exhale, I flop down on the seat beside her and grab the handle above when it lurches forward. Wind whips my blond hair into my eyes, but I don’t dare let go for fear of falling out. These little carts always seem so cute. Who knew they could go this fast.

There’s a tug in my chest. Teague. My phone rings. It’s him. I slip the notebook under my sweater, so it doesn’t fall off the cart, and shiver as the cold metal rings press against me.

“Hello.”

“Did you have a vision?” he asks, his voice tight with tension.

“How did you know?” The cart jerks to a halt. “I’ve got to go. It’s Sam’s niece.” I hang up and uncurl my frozen fingers from the handle. My phone rings again, but I ignore it. This is more important. I pull the notebook out of my shirt, gripping it tightly. The phone stops, then starts again.

Four minutes. We hit the door running. Sam cuts to the left, and I slide on the hardwoods, but manage to make the turn. Someone shouts, and she yells back. There’s a stampede of footsteps from above us. The phone in the house rings. It rings again.

“I’m here,” Sam says, her chest heaving as she picks up the receiver of an old phone and cradles it to her ear. “I’m here, sweet girl.” She listens for a minute. “I’ll be ready.” She hangs up. Fat tears roll down her cheeks as she sinks to the floor.

“What’s going on?” a low voice asks from the doorway, and I glance up. A tall man, with tousled brown hair and the most beautiful golden-brown eyes I’ve ever seen, wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt darts a curious glance at me, then quickly shifts his focus to Sam. He strides over in bare feet and kneels in front of her. “What happened?”

Chapter Twenty-Five

CHARLI

Sam sobs, and I search the large kitchen, finally spotting a roll of paper towels in their holder. I walk over and pull two off. Dampening one, I wring it out, then pass both to Sam.

“Thanks, Charli.” She blows out a shaky breath and looks at the man in front of her. “Covey needs our help.” In halting words, she tells him about her visit last week.

My phone rings. Teague. I silence it.

Apparently, she went to see her niece, but the whole time she was there, her boyfriend Shane refused to leave them alone. Insisted on taking them both out to dinner. She tried to ask Covey questions about her life, but her niece only wanted to talk about Shane. His promotion. How he takes care of her. Supports her.

“When I asked about her art, she told me it was a silly hobby she’d given up. She’s been drawing since she could hold a pencil,” she wails. “She knew I could feel her desperation. I opened my mouth to tell her to pack her bags, but she pulled me into her arms and gave me a hug. Whispered ‘don’t’ and thanked me for coming.”

Her voice breaks. “Her spirit’s damaged.”

My phone rings for the millionth time, and with an apologetic glance at Sam, I answer.

“Damn it, Charli. Don’t hang up.”

Moving away from the two of them, I grab a paper towel and wipe away the tears falling down my cheeks.

“Are you crying?” He says something to someone in the background. “You’re killing me, sweetheart. Are you hurt? Sad? Say something. Please.”

“Sad,” I murmur, unable to explain why. Visions are private. If Sam wants to tell him, she can. “Why didn’t you have a shirt on?”

“What?” he asks, his voice rising.