“Possible, yes, as a type of psychic transference,” Orlinda said, “But doubtful. It isn’t unusual for multiple psychics to have similar readings. You’re picking up on facts, on feelings. Those are unchangeable.”
“Could it have been telepathy?” Dr. Paul asked. “Maybe one of the three of us unconsciously sent Lucy the images?”
“Again, possible,” Orlinda said, “but doubtful.”
“Well, I’m doubtful,” Graham said loudly, pushing his chair back. He shoved his pad of paper into a messenger bag and draped it over his shoulder.
“Big surprise,” Preston said drily.
He threw her a withering look and said to Orlinda, “I need to get going.”
“Me, too,” Annie said, standing. I could have sworn I heard a suction sound as her breasts lifted from the table.
“I, as well,” Dr. Paul piped in. “I have patients to see.” He glanced at Preston. “Are you ready?”
She reached for her tape recorder and shut it off. “Hold your horses.”
I held in a smile. Preston was shadowing Dr. Paul today, Graham tomorrow, and Annie on Friday for her Mad Blotter article. I didn’t know who to feel most sorry for—them or her. She was an acquired taste, but they were meanies.
“Well, go,” Orlinda said, dismissing them all with a wave of a hand.
Graham said, “Are we still on for Sunday?”
“Noon, at my office,” Orlinda said. “Do not be late.”
Other than Preston, none of them said goodbye to me as they trooped from the room.
“I need to be on my way as well,” Orlinda said, packing her knapsack. “I have to catch the water taxi to Logan.”
I continued to hold the bear. The electricity in my palms had vanished. I felt nothing.
Nothing at all.
I handed the teddy back to her.
“No, no,” she said. “Keep it. Practice. You’re on the cusp, Lucy. More than anything, you need to trust and believe in yourself.”
I tucked the bear back into its pouch but didn’t say anything. My emotions were all over the map. Up, down, around. Inside out.
I’d been looking through the girl’s eyes. Even now, I was starting to pick out more of what I’d seen in my vision. But I was also worried that I wouldn’t be able to recapture the process—and that I didn’t have enough information to find where she was now.
Orlinda spun her wheelchair around and rolled toward the door. “Noon. Sunday.”
I followed her to the door. “I’ll be there.”
“Do not let the others get to you,” she warned over her shoulder.
“I won’t,” I assured her. “If they get out of hand, I’ll just sic Preston on them.”
Amused, Orlinda nodded. “Good plan. You don’t have to see me out, Lucy.”
“Okay, but let me know if you have trouble with the elevator.” It was the only elevator in the building and could be a little tricky.
“I will.”
She was halfway down the short hallway leading to the reception area when I called out to her.
She stopped and swiveled her chair so she could see me.
“Her name is Bethany,” I said, my voice cracking. “It was on her backpack.”
The corners of Orlinda’s eyes crinkled as she gave me a knowing smile. “Very good, Lucy Valentine. Very good.”
Chapter Two
I had just turned to go back into my office, when I heard a happy squeal from the reception area.
My curiosity piqued, I headed down the hallway to see what the commotion was all about.
In the reception area, Valentine, Inc.’s go-to gal, Suz Ruggieri, sat behind her desk, her eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappeared into her dark chestnut hairline. She knew all my family’s secrets, including the biggies like the fact that my father used his psychic ability to find his clients true love, that I used my psychic gift to reunite lost loves and help solve missing person cases for the Massachusetts State Police, and that I had an illegitimate brother the public didn’t yet know about.
She gave a quizzical shrug about the scene playing out before us.
A man was bent over Orlinda’s wheelchair, and she appeared to be squeezing the life out of him.
But on closer look, it was just a hug.
“Can’t breathe,” the man gasped.
Orlinda laughed, a loud barking sound. “Oh you,” she said, playfully pushing him away.
When he stood, I tried not to be taken aback. He was six feet of striking man. Long, lean, and muscled in all the right places. Brown hair, grass green eyes. He wore nicely-fitting dark jeans and a black T-shirt. There was a dangerous edge about him that had me easily picturing him as special ops...or career criminal. His presence screamed “bad boy.” Especially with the deep scar that ran along his jawline.
I noticed he had a black gym bag on the love seat and wondered what was in it. Machine guns? Grenades?
“Lucy,” Orlinda said, whirling around, “have you met Jeremy Cross?”
The name triggered recognition. I’d never met the man, but he was my newest Lost Loves client. “Not yet,” I said, inwardly cringing as I reached out to shake his hand.
“Lucy and Suz, this is Jeremy,” Orlinda said.
His rough, calloused hand grasped mine in a firm quick shake. I saw nothing, and let out the breath I was holding.
Suz gave him a finger wave. I noticed a newspaper was spread open on her desk. She’d been reading about the biggest story around—the serial arsonist who was on a fiery spree. Really, everyone in the city had been reading the story. Three weeks, four fires—all set after midnight. The last one had almost claimed the life of an elderly man. So far, there had been no link found between the cases, and the randomness had put everyone on edge.
“We’ve met,” he said, smiling at Suz. “Informally.”
Suz, a happily married woman, giggled like a school girl.
His smile. His voice. Either one could make a girl’s knees weak. And had, obviously, with Suz, since she remained seated. What was it about women loving bad boys?
I, thankfully, was somewhat immune. I had Sean.
“Jeremy, I’m surprised to run into you here,” Orlinda said.
He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Are you really?”
Ah. So he knew about Orlinda’s psychic abilities. I gave him another once-over (someone had to do it). Was it possible he was psychic as well? There was no way for me to know unless someone enlightened me.
“Lucy, Jeremy is a former student of mine.”
Someone like Orlinda. I had no doubt she had tapped into my thoughts. Better mine than Suz’s—I could only imagine with the goo-goo look in her eyes what she was thinking.
Jeremy sat down on the couch, so he was at eye level with Orlinda—a nice gesture, I thought. She once mentioned how she hated craning her neck to look up at people.
“A student like me?” I walked over and sat in the chair opposite Jeremy. Eyeing his bag, I was dying to know what was in it and hoped it was something more interesting than gym clothes.
The reception area wasn’t nearly as hot as the back offices. Suz had window fans in place to help stir the stale air. Sidewalk noises drifted up. People talking, horns honking. Traffic along Charles Street.
From up here on the second floor, I had a clear view of the Public Garden and some of Boston Common. The heat wave had brought out tourists in droves.
Orlinda said, “Exactly like you.”
“Really?” I glanced at him and wondered what kind of abilities he had.
Suz said, “You mean, he’s psychic, too?”
Orlinda nodded.
Suz threw her hands in the air. “Psychics here, psychics there, psychics everywhere. I can’t escape you people.” Her voice warmed. “Would you like some iced coffee, Jeremy? I made coffee cake, too. From scratch.”
Jeremy said, “Maybe some iced coffee. Thank you.”
As soon as Suz’s foot hit the hallway, Orlinda said with a touch of pride, “J
eremy graduated from my class with flying colors.”
I glanced at Orlinda. “Did you know he’d be here today?”
Orlinda smiled and rolled toward the open doorway leading to the stairs and elevator. “Hadn’t a clue.”
By her grin, I suspected she was lying.
She said, “I have to go—I’m pushing my luck as it is. Jeremy, it’s always a pleasure. Be nice to Lucy. And Lucy, don’t forget Sunday.” She gave us a wave as she rolled away.
Be nice?
What did that mean, exactly? Now I glanced at him with less appreciation and more caution.
“Shall we go into your office?” He picked up a clipboard with his registration information and his black bag.
His tone had shifted to no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners.
It made the hair rise at the back of my neck. For some reason, I was now very uncomfortable with Jeremy Cross—despite Orlinda’s obvious affection for him—and was eager to get rid of him. I’d make this meeting a quick one.
“All right,” I said grudgingly.
Suz came back and handed Jeremy a tall glass of iced coffee. He smiled as her, and she nearly melted on the spot.
Oh brother.
“Shall we?” Jeremy said again to me. His gaze was steady, never wavering.
Not really, no, I wanted to say. But he was a client, so I nodded. The sooner I knew his background and he revealed the lost love he was looking for, the sooner he could be on his un-merry way.
Jeremy walked ahead of me as if he knew already knew which was my office—and maybe with his type of psychic gift he did. Reluctantly I followed behind, eyeing the black bag he carried at his side. He went straight to my office, set his bag on the ground, and sat in the chair I’d occupied during the meeting with Orlinda.
“Sorry about the disarray,” I said, gathering up loose pens and collecting the images of Bethany into a neat pile on one side of the table.
Jeremy picked up the baggie holding the pink bear, looked at it for a long second, flinched, and then handed it to me.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know why he flinched, but I couldn’t help asking, “Did you pick up a reading on the bear?”
“I don’t do missing persons cases anymore,” he said.
That hadn’t been my question, but I thought his answer was rather telling. He obviously knew the case revolved around a missing person—had he seen Bethany? Did he know what happened to her? And if so, how could he not get involved?
I tucked the bear into my tote bag to take home with me and sat across from him. “Why not?”
His jaw set and his eyes narrowed. “Because I don’t.”
All-righty then. I picked up a pen and grabbed a fresh pad of paper. Better to get this meeting over with. The sooner, the better. His dark energy was making me extremely uneasy.
I reached for his client questionnaire and was more than a little surprised to see all the lines blank. He hadn’t filled it in.
Glancing at him, I found him studying me intently.
It ramped up that uncomfortable feeling. “Why are you here?” I held up the clipboard. “It’s not to find a lost love, is it?”
“Not really. It’s more a favor.”
“Did Orlinda send you?” Was she testing me yet again?
His clasped hands rested on the table and continued to look me over. “Not to my knowledge.”
Two could play his game. I studied him right back. There were random sparkly silver strands in his short hair, but not too many lines around his eyes. I guessed his age to be late-thirties. A healthy natural tan told me he spent a lot of time outdoors—but probably used sunscreen. No stubble on his jaw; however, his sideburns were a bit long—which hinted that beneath his rigid exterior there might lurk a bit of a rebel.
His clothes were newer, unwrinkled, and clean. Short trimmed fingernails. Calloused hands. No visible tattoos. No wedding ring.
When I met his stare, he quirked an eyebrow acknowledging my inspection, but he remained silent.
“Why are you here?” I asked again.
The heat in the room—and in my irritated gaze—didn’t seem to bother him in the least. He looked cool, calm, collected, and completely detached.
“I was told to come here.”
“By whom?” Not Orlinda—we’d already covered that.
“You’ll see soon enough.”
“You like to be in control, don’t you?” I said, abandoning my pen. This appointment clearly was going to be unlike any other.
My division of Valentine, Inc. specialized in reuniting lost loves. Usually a client would come in, questionnaire already filled out, and we’d go over the specifics of the case: who the client wanted to reconnect with, and all the when-where-whys. Then I’d collect all contact info, ask if the client if he or she had ever given the lost love a gift, and try to get a psychic reading on that gift’s energy to pinpoint a location. If that failed, Sean and I would tackle the case using traditional tracking methods.
We had a strong success rate of finding lost loves, and we’d already been invited to two weddings this summer of couples we’d reunited.
Jeremy Cross was proving to be quite the anomaly, however. I couldn’t help but feel that something was off. Way off.
A hint of a smile pulled at the corner of mouth. “What I want, and what I have, are two entirely different matters.”
“Do you always dance around direct answers?”
This time, he did smile. “Why do you ask?”
I rolled my eyes and wiped at my brow with a tissue. My sundress was starting to stick to my back again. “You don’t seem the type to let someone boss you around, yet you say someone told you to come here—and you came. Unwillingly, apparently, but still… you’re here.”
I noticed he squeezed his hands together—the only indication I’d seen so far that he was the least bit uncomfortable.
A truck rumbled in the service alley below my windows, rattling the steel fire escape. The scent of diesel fuel wafted into the office, but I didn’t dare close the windows. The risk of my office becoming a furnace was too great.
“There are times,” he said, “when it is best just to do as someone wants than deal with the consequences.”
It was logic I wanted to argue but couldn’t. I often capitulated to my parents and my grandmother for that very same reason. It was easier to give in.
I had drawn the line with my grandmother Dovie, however, when it came to her constant nagging that Sean and I have babies as soon as possible. She didn’t care that we weren’t married—or even engaged. She was desperate for a great-grandchild, and though I was desperate for her to leave me alone, I was not giving in.
Which meant I was dealing with the consequences.
This week, I discovered a beautiful bassinet on my front porch.
My grandmother was anything but subtle.
“Did your grandmother send you here?” I asked.
His brows dipped. “My grandmother? No.”
“Mom?”
His face darkened like a stormy sky. “I don’t have any family.”
There was a story behind his words—I could tell by his tight tone. “None?”
“Are you always this nosy?”
“With clients, yes.” After a brief second, I added, “Actually, always.”
“It’s annoying.”
I smiled, enjoying our repartee despite of myself. “You can feel free to leave. I certainly didn’t tell you to come here.”
Again, he squeezed his hands.
I was starting to like him a little more since realizing he wasn’t as cool, calm, and collected as he seemed. “Maybe you should go?”
A noise came from the bag on the floor. I looked under the table, then back up at him. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“It sounded like...” I wasn’t sure. Familiar, though. I shook my head. I couldn’t place it.
His jaw was clenched again, and I would bet he grinds his teeth while sleeping.
/> He shoved his chair back, and for a hopeful second I thought he was leaving, but instead he picked up the bag and put it on the table. I realized it wasn’t a normal duffel at all—it was a pet carrier.
Through a mesh side panel, two glittering green eyes stared at me.
Jeremy stood, unzipped the top panel, and reached inside. He pulled out a small black fluff ball and set it on the table.
The long-haired cat continued to stare at me.
I glanced between it and Jeremy, wondering where the hell this meeting was going. “Anomaly” was starting to look like a huge understatement.
Jeremy set the carrier back on the floor and sat down. He gestured to the cat. “This is Ebbie.”
“I don’t understand,” I finally said.
His fists clenched, unclenched. “She’s the one who told me to come here today.”
Chapter Three
The cat flicked her tail.
I didn’t quite know where to begin. “What kind of cat is she?”
He shrugged. “She was a stray that Orlinda found and brought to my farm a little before Christmas.”
“You have a farm?” I asked.
“I have a few acres in Marshfield.”
That wasn’t too far from where I lived in Cohasset, on Massachusetts’s South Shore. “What kind of farm?” I mostly asked because I was still a bit stunned about the cat sitting on my conference table, and I needed time to process that information.
“It’s a small hobby farm.”
“What kind of hobby farm?”
He glared. “Nosy.”
“Evasive,” I countered.
The cat continued to flick her tail.
“Ebbie’s been quite adamant I come to see you,” he said.
Just to keep my hands busy, I picked up my pen again. She was young, maybe a year or two old, and hadn’t taken her gaze off me. “She talks?”
“Not aloud,” he said simply. “But I hear her just fine.”
She twitched a whisker.
Ah. “You’re a cat whisperer?”
“I’m an animal communicator,” he corrected.
Orlinda had told my little soothsaying group about animal communicators, and Annie even claimed to have a few conversations with a local squirrel (he was probably looking for a nut and found a big one), but I’d never met a full-fledged communicator personally. Until now.