Page 227 of Hidden Nature

“Yes, ah, yes. Sloan. This is Sloan.”

“Sergeant Cooper, sorry to wake you. Detective O’Hara.”

“Detective.” With a hand pressed to her burning chest, she sat up. Beside her, Nash switched on the light on his side of the bed.

She blinked against it, fighting her way out of the dream and into the now.

“There’s been another?” she asked.

“It looks that way. I can be at your place in about fifteen. I’d like to brief you in person.”

“Yes, of course. Do you need directions?”

“I’ve got them. Fifteen.”

She set the phone aside, rubbed at her eyes. “Detective O’Hara’s coming here. Someone else was taken. He’s… God, I’m slow. He said fifteen minutes. It’s someone in Heron’s Rest. I have to get dressed.”

“I’ll put coffee on, then I can head back to my place.”

“You don’t have to leave. If it is someone from here, word will be out tomorrow. Today,” she amended, as the clock said one-fifty. But if you want to get some sleep—”

“I’d say that’s off the table for a while.” He yanked on jeans. “You were dreaming. When the phone rang, I could tell you were back there.”

“Yeah.” She pulled on jeans of her own and decided a sweatshirt would do. “But that’s over. This isn’t.”

“I’ll make coffee.”

“Thanks.”

She took time to go across the hall, splash water on her face, run a brush through her hair. The eyes looking back at her in the mirror were haunted. By the dream, and by whatever was coming.

When she went out, Nash handed her coffee.

“You’re afraid you know them. Whoever’s missing.”

“Odds are. If I don’t, someone in my family probably does.”

Chilled, not only because April nights ran cool, she gulped down coffee before walking over to start a fire.

“Medical records,” she continued, “HIPAA. You can’t just GoogleHey, who died and came back to life in Heron’s Rest.”

“You did. And this is too fucking close to home.”

“I won’t argue with that. But those taken weren’t trained, weren’t aware.”

Training and awareness hadn’t helped her on that night in November. But, she thought, that was over. This wasn’t.

She saw the wash of headlights. “That’s O’Hara.”

She opened the door as he got out of his car.

Stocky guy of about five-ten, boxer’s build. Around fifty. As hestepped onto the porch, she wondered if the broken nose had happened in the ring or on the job.

As he stepped into the light, ruddy complexion, sharp green eyes, he held out a hand.

“Sergeant.”

“Detective. It’s Sloan,” she added as they shook.

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