Page 47 of It takes a Psychic

When Burt had opened his windbreaker to show off the mag-rez pistol, the top two buttons of his shirt had been undone. A pendant on a steel chain had been nestled in his chest hair—a pendant inscribed with a familiar phrase and a colorless crystal.

“It’s just like the one Astrid Todd was wearing when I found her body,” Leona said. “What is going on in this town?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “But I think we can once again rule out coincidence.”

Chapter Twenty

Leona rezzed the lock onthe door of room number 203 and led the way inside. She set the unfinished pizza on the small table near the window and released Roxy, who bounced up onto the room’s one and only chair and then hopped to the table.

“I wonder how the honeymooners are doing,” Leona said. “I’ll bet they never expected to spend the wedding night from hell here in Lost Creek.”

Oliver stopped in the doorway. “What makes you so sure the other two guests are honeymooners?”

“Pure speculation. But what if I’m right? Think about it. A couple takes a wrong turn and ends up in a remote mountain town that has a very weird vibe. Night is falling fast. They check into an almost-empty inn that is rumored to be haunted. There is an ominous feeling about the small town. A storm strikes. Doesn’t that sound like the setup to a honeymoon from hell?”

“Or the plot of a Gothic novel.”

“Or that.”

“Or us,” Oliver said, “except that we didn’t take a wrong turn. We’re here on purpose. Hang on, I’ll be right back. I’m going to pick up a few things in my room.”

He disappeared into room 204. When he returned he was carrying his messenger bag, a glass, and a bottle of whiskey.

She watched, intrigued, as he closed and locked the door. “Where did you get the booze?”

“I packed it.”

“Very wise of you.” She glanced atAchieving Inner Resonanceon the nightstand. “I packed a self-help book. In hindsight, that may have been a mistake.”

“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of whiskey for both of us.”

“I’ll get the glass in the bathroom.”

She emerged a moment later, glass in hand, and found Oliver ensconced in the room’s one and only chair. Roxy was eating a slice of pizza.

She sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I’ve been thinking about your theory that the other guests are honeymooners,” Oliver said, pouring two glasses of whiskey. “Sounds like you’re the romantic type.”

“Me?” She picked up the glass and took a fortifying swallow. The whiskey burned, quite pleasantly, all the way down. “Nope, not in the least. Just ask anyone who knows me. They’ll tell you I’m an overachiever. Very goal-oriented. Driven. To a fault, according to some.” She hesitated, remembering the scene in the lab with Matt. “I’ve been told I’ve got ice in my veins. But no one has ever indicated that I’m the romantic type.”

Oliver’s brows rose. “Who told you that you have ice in your veins?”

“Matt Fullerton, my most recent ex. To be honest, he wasn’t the first man to make that observation.”

“Got a lot of exes?”

“A few. What about you?” She regretted the question instantly. Hisannulment had to be a painful subject. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to go there. Your personal history is absolutely none of my business.”

“True,” he agreed.

She knew she should take the conversational off-ramp and change the subject, but curiosity got the better of her. As usual.

“Were you matched?” she asked.

“Yes.” He gave her a thin smile. “We were an almost-perfect couple. Just ask the matchmaker.”

“Think you’ll register with a matchmaking agency again?” she asked.

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