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He sensed a spark of anger.
At a woman.
Rebecca?
Megan?
Someone else?
Jaw tight, he squeezed for a few more minutes but got nothing more, nothing solid. Only wisps of feelings.
This wasn’t getting him very much. Setting the ball on the counter, he eyed it as he finished his Heineken. Jennifer Korpi, despite her protestations, hadn’t completely gotten over James Cahill. So why lie about it?
Pride?
Embarrassment?
Or something more?
With no answer, he stretched his fingers, then reached for the ballpoint pen that he’d swiped from Rebecca Travers.
He felt nothing.
He closed his eyes.
Concentrated.
Felt a little sizzle.
A tingle of emotion.
What was it?
Anger?
Sadness?
Disgust?
He rolled the pen between his index finger and thumb.
The images were faint.
An argument?
Pain.
He saw Rebecca’s face and then another . . . Megan’s visage, pale and watery, came into view. She’d held this pen, if only once, because he saw her only faintly. His throat closed for a second. Could this have been the utensil she’d used to write her hastily scratched note to James? He felt his heart thud in anticipation. Had Rebecca been there? In her apartment? Did Rebecca Travers know a lot more about the night her sister had disappeared than she’d admitted?
He sensed the presence of a man—James Cahill?—but couldn’t call up his face.
“Come on. Come on,” he whispered, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. “What were you doing?”
But the image faded, just the hint of deep emotion lingering a second. The rift between the two sisters ran deeper than Rebecca was saying. Was she here searching for Megan out of genuine concern, or were her demands that her sibling be found just an act? His eyes narrowed as he eyed the pen. Her feelings for her sister were mixed.
And those for James Cahill?
Hate?
