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Laura was viewing the scene from the same doorway, but above, hovering somewhere near the ceiling. The door had been removed at some point. The table and fridge were gone, and the stove had been stripped out. The other cupboards hung rotten.
There was graffiti on the walls, and a strong smell rising to her nose. Urine, smoke. Laura wrinkled her eyes and tried to squint. The picture was so unclear, like she was watching through dirty water. It swirled around her, leaving her unable to see the whole scene at once.
She listened but heard nothing, only the traffic on the street outside. Then something: yes! She found herself drawn closer to it, the vision taking her just where she had wanted to go, down, down to the floor level, to a pile of trash heaped in a corner—
And a rat shot out of it, running toward her with some morsel clamped in its jaws, a bit of old vegetable matter that was long past decay, right at her…
Laura blinked and opened her eyes on the kitchen again, whole and still a crime scene. She took a breath against the flash of the headache that sent her roiling, then slipped her glove back on. The pain wasn’t bad at all; she could handle it. That must have been years from now.
No one wanted to live in an apartment where someone was murdered after a break-in, she figured. All too easy for it to happen to the next tenant as well. This place would fall into disrepair in the future, and if there were any lingering clues, there would be no one to find them.
It didn’t tell her anything useful. Sometimes the visions were like that. She couldn’t control them, except by creating the optimal
conditions for them to come. That meant putting herself more into the path of the killer. If she got connected to him strongly enough, she might be able to see his next move—like she had with the scumbag who kidnapped Amy.
Once she was close enough to crossing his path, touching anything could trigger it—her gun, Nate’s gun, her own arm if they were going to end up directly linked. But for now, she was getting nothing. Even the sense of déjà vu she’d felt was gone. Maybe it had her imagination, or some lingering shadow of the vision of the broken apartment that she’d been about to have. It wasn’t as though she always understood why her visions came, or how they worked. Maybe she was starting to feel them before they came now, too.
Either way, one thing was clear. They needed to get closer. She wasn’t going to get any useful visions until they did.
“We should talk to the victim’s relatives next,” Laura said, turning to join Nate again. “What was her name? Caroline?”
“Good plan,” Nate said, looking to the sheriff. “You good to drive us over there?”
“Sure thing.” The sheriff nodded. “We’ve got one of our boys down there right now, sitting with them and providing some comfort, you know the drill. I’ll give him a call to expect us and we’ll be on our way.”
Laura glanced around one more time and then nodded firmly, gesturing for Nate to head to the door first. They were done here, and the quicker they moved on, the better. There was, after all, the possibility that someone else could die tonight.
And going to talk to Caroline’s family would be the first step toward a vision that might help her stop that from happening.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Laura stood by as Nate knocked loudly on the door, staring up and waiting for it to open. There was always that awkward moment between knocking and being answered. When you weren’t sure if you were just waiting outside an empty house. When you tried to rearrange your face to something that would be friendly and open, and then hold it until someone got there.
Laura hated this part of the job sometimes. Having to talk to people who’d lost family members. Sometimes having to be the one to break the news. It was just another layer of separation: always turning up at the worst point in people’s lives.
“Hello?” The woman who answered the door was easily recognizable from the photograph of Caroline that she’d seen. There was no mistaking the family resemblance between them: the same thin-lipped mouth, the same long nose.
“Hi, Mrs. Howard? I’m Agent Nathaniel Lavoie, and this is Agent Laura Frost. I’m sorry to have to do this at such a sad time for you and your family, but do you mind if we come in and ask you a few questions?” Nate had the polite voice down pat, along with his polite smile and his politely relaxed body posture. As a six-two Black man who spent a lot of time at the gym, Nate knew he had to keep the intimidation levels down as low as possible when dealing with grieving white people. They’d even spoken about it, back when they were first partners. It was another level that Laura didn’t have to deal with, and she was grateful for that privilege.
“Please,” Caroline’s sister said, stepping aside to allow them in her home. She was pale and her eyes were red; as they passed by her, Laura noticed how she pulled her thin cardigan closer around herself.
Caroline’s apartment had been small and cramped, and almost entirely without personality. Like it was a temporary home, even though she had been there for years. Here, though, there were signs of life. The sister had framed photographs on the walls of herself with a man and a few small children—her family. There were toys scattered around as they walking into a cozy living room, where the same man from the pictures was seated on a worn sofa cradling a cup of something steaming.
“Take a seat,” Mrs. Howard said, gesturing with a jerky and awkward movement to the dining chairs that had been brought into the room from elsewhere before sitting next to her husband.
“Would you like something to drink?” he offered, his eyes flicking between their faces and their FBI-approved suits. “Tea, coffee, water?”
“I’ll take a coffee, thanks,” Nate said. He glanced at Laura as he sat down, prompting her to take his cue.
“Same for me, thanks,” she said. “Just black, for both of them.”
“Got it.” The husband stood, squeezing his wife’s hand and mouthing something to her—Laura guessed it was something like “you okay?”—before disappearing back into the hall.
“I’ll help with that.” That was a voice from the sole armchair: the young deputy who had been sitting with the family. He stood and nodded to both Nate and Laura before leaving, allowing the sheriff to sit down in his place.
“So, Mrs. Howard,” Nate said, his tone light and gentle.
“Oh—Tara, please,” she said, tucking a strand of dirty-blonde hair quickly behind her ear.
