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"Nothing.” She hesitated. “There was one prom that was somewhat tragic."
"In what way?"
"Two girls got drunk and leapt from the roof of the hall."
"Any idea why?"
"No."
"How did the alcohol get into the hall then?"
"No idea."
This was getting him nowhere fast. If Seline was checking the records, she'd undoubtedly find mention of this incident. He'd talk to her later this morning.
He crossed his arms and stared at the window for a moment. “Did these three girls do anything unusual during the evening?"
"Nothing different from the rest of us."
"And nothing else happened?"
"No."
He released his hold on her mind, and she blinked. “Now, what was I saying?"
"It's not me who needs to talk to Jake,” he said, giving her the prompt. “But you.” And knew the irony of the words even as he said them.
"We have talked. I talk, he talks, and still we get nowhere. I think we've both grown more selfish over the years, and it's me who's cracked first."
"You've spent too long together to simply walk away now." She sighed. “It's the only reason either of us is still here." He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. In that instant, he was slammed by the rush of fear running through the link.
Nikki. In trouble. He thrust upwards. “I'll be back in a moment." Mary smiled gently. “Don't worry. I've grown used to men running out on me of late." He hurriedly kissed her cheek, then ran out of the dining room. He didn't wait for the elevator, but blurred his form and raced up the stairs.
A heartbeat later he reached their room and shoved open the door. Nikki spun as he entered, hand raised, energy dancing in sparks across her fingertips. She relaxed the instant she saw him. What's wrong? He quickly looked around the room but could see or feel no immediate threat. We have a visitor.
Who?
She nodded toward the bedroom behind her. He strode to her side, sliding his hand down her arm until his fingers were twined through the warmth of hers. In the center of the bedroom stood a man. He was ordinary looking—short, plumpish, with thinning red hair and pale blue eyes. His face was pockmarked, leftover evidence of the acne he must have suffered as a teenager. He was dressed in black boots, faded jeans, a black T-shirt and a leather jacket.
But he wasn't real.
Wasn't actually there.
His image rippled, sparked, and energy caressed the air, raising the hairs along Michael's arm. Have you talked to him?
She shook her head. I was about to, when you came in.
Then do so. He released her fingers. I'll remain silent, so he doesn't sense I'm here. She walked into the room and stopped in front of the flickering image. “Who are you?" The man jerked, like a mannequin brought to life. Michael very much suspected that this wasn't the true form of the man behind the murders. And if the marks on the image's neck were anything to go by, he was also very dead.
"I'm sending you a warning. Leave this city now, or I will destroy you." The image's lips didn't move. The voice was disembodied but familiar. It was the man he'd talked to last night.
"And why would you want to do that?” She circled the image, studying him from all angles. She paused when she saw the man's neck and glanced across at Michael. This man is dead. By several hours, I'd say. He crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the door frame. But he didn't entirely relax. This image might well be the forerunner of another attack.
"What I do is nothing more than justice,” the voice said. “You have no right to stop me."
"What you're doing has nothing to do with justice, and everything to do with revenge. Don't lie to me or yourself."
The image's mouth slid into the gruesome replica of a smile. “You are more intuitive than I'd originally thought."
