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??But mostly the latter. It’s not fun to be treated like some sort of witch.”
Leilah made another sound of disgust. “That’s sheer ignorance. I think spirituality is more grounding than reality.”
Claire looked surprised. “I didn’t realize you felt that way.”
“Well, I do. I believe there’s a world of power in things you can’t actually see or touch. So, please, share whatever you’re comfortable sharing. I’d love to learn more about your gift.”
There was something about Leilah that encouraged Claire to do just that—an open, nonjudgmental quality that was very rare.
Claire began with the basics. “Well, to start with, there are four metaphysical senses. Claircognizance, or clear knowing, is just one of them. Clairvoyance, or clear seeing, is another. Then there’s clairaudience, which is clear hearing, and finally, clairsentience, which is clear feeling. With claircognizance, your conscious mind is not in control of your thoughts. Those thoughts come to you at random. I don’t know how or why.”
Leilah seemed fascinated. “When did you discover you had this gift?”
“I was young,” Claire said. “In kindergarten. It’s hard to explain but I became attuned to things—things I’d have no way of knowing. It was a kind of inner awareness that told me what was happening or was about to happen. It scared me and it fascinated me, but I didn’t really understand it—not then. When I got older, I did some research and found a group of kindred spirits in upstate New York. We corresponded. They taught me how to channel my thoughts through meditation. Not only did my abilities become clearer, but the meditation made it easier for my thoughts to come through without all the noise surrounding them.”
“Wow. That’s amazing.” Leilah had propped her elbow on the bar and was leaning against her hand, hanging on to Claire’s words. “What about your family? How did they react?”
“Not well.” Claire felt that all-too-familiar twinge. Somehow the pain of rejection never really went away. “I’m an only child. I come from a well-respected, very visible family. They’re well-known in the community, and as traditional as they come. Their image is important to them. I didn’t fit that image. I tried. They tried. It didn’t work.”
Leilah was studying Claire’s face. “Old money,” she deduced aloud. “Your ancestors probably came over on the Mayflower.”
“Something like that, yes.”
“That must have been terrible for you.” Leilah’s tone was rife with sympathy. “I come from a big, huggy-kissy family. They supported my dreams even during the endless months when I couldn’t get a single acting role. I don’t know what I would have done without them.”
“You would have become totally self-reliant,” Claire told her. “That’s what I did. But you didn’t have to. You’re fortunate.”
“I know.” Leilah traced the stem of her wineglass with one finger. “I admire you. You’re strong and independent. It’s no wonder everyone at Forensic Instincts thinks so highly of you.”
Claire was about to respond, when a dark, eerie wave swept over her, nearly knocking the breath from her chest. Her wineglass slipped from her fingers, crashing to the floor and spilling merlot everywhere.
She never noticed. She was inside herself, trying to focus on the cause of her awareness. It wasn’t another murder. But it was creepy and it was ugly. A prelude to something sinister.
“Claire?” Leilah’s voice seemed to come from far away. “Are you all right?”
“I...I don’t know.” Claire had one foot in each reality. “Something’s going on. Our killer is preparing, like an animal circling its prey. He’s chosen his next victim. He’s looking at her, making plans. Dammit!” Claire dragged a frustrated hand through her hair. “Why can’t I see his face? Why can’t I get inside his head and wrap my mind around the identity of his next victim? I never connect until the murder is actually under way. And by then, it’s too late.”
“Should we tell someone?” Leilah asked, visibly shaken.
“Yes.” Claire nodded. “Let’s go back to the brownstone. The team needs to know.”
* * *
Jack shut his apartment door, and opened the envelope he’d just picked up from the Duane Reade photo center. He removed the prints he’d made, sifting through them one at a time.
Wow. This girl was beautiful. He would have really enjoyed this job.
Too bad it wasn’t meant to be. She wasn’t his for the taking.
His uncle Glen had dibs on that.
Chapter Twenty-One
The building on West 116th Street was becoming way too familiar for Ryan. At this point, the thought of smelling meat and fat scraps made him want to puke.
He and Marc approached the building. Through the front window, Ryan pointed the blue-green light of his argon laser at the alarm keypad inside. He could see a concentration of oils from the owner’s fingers on the number keys “3,” “4,” “7” and “9.” The last four digits of the meat market’s phone number was 4-7-3-9. Not even a challenge, Ryan thought in disgust. Human beings were too damned predictable.
Marc fiddled with the lock, releasing the last pin, and manipulated the bolt back inside the door. Depressing the plunger on the handle, he opened the door and they entered the dimly lit market.
