Page 8 of In Her Eyes

“Where and when did this murder happen?”

“I don’t know.” I have to force the words out. I look more and more like an idiot with each question.

He grabs a pen and twirls it on his fingers. “Did you see this happen?”

“Not exactly.”

“Did you overhear someone talking about it?”

I fist my hands in my lap to stop them from trembling. “Not exactly.”

He drops the pen to the desk and leans back with an exasperated huff. “What do you know?”

“I know that a woman was murdered. She was kidnapped, dragged through the woods, beaten, and then strangled.”

He leans into the desk and braces his arms on it. “How do you know this?”

“I saw it.”

He drops back to the chair again. “You just said that you didn’t see it. Now you’re saying you saw it. Which is it? Did you see, or did you not see what happened?” Hardness coats his voice.

“I saw it, but not with my eyes.”

His head tilts to the side, not unlike a confused dog.

“I saw it with my mind. I can see things, and I saw this young woman being killed.” Did I seriously just blurt that out? I sound like one of those side-show psychics.Someone close to you whose name starts with either A or M wants you to know they’re okay.I could punch myself.

He stands up. “So, you’re a psychic. Thank you for stopping by, but as you can see”—he points to the pile of yellow folders on his desk, which tilts precariously close to the edge—“I’m swamped, and I don’t have time to chase after the visions of psychics. I work with facts and evidence.” He points at the door—a clear command for us to leave. Lynn starts to get up, but I press her hand back into the chair arm.

“Please, sit, Detective. I understand this may be hard to believe, but I have proof. Or evidence, as you call it.” He stands for another ten seconds. Then sits, elbows on the desk, hands stippled partially blocking his face, lips pressed into a thin line.

“What’s the evidence?” His tone is dry and challenging.

I reach into my bag, and he stiffens. I slow down my movements and take out the small navy-blue box the antique owner gave me less than an hour ago. How can so much happen in such a short time? I place the closed box on his desk, making sure the loose top stays on. He looks at me.

“This belonged to the murder victim.” I nod toward the box. “Open it.”

He pushes the box back with the tip of the pen, glances back at me for several seconds, and then uses the pen to nudge the cover off the small box as if it were full of snakes.

He looks at it, and all color drains from his face. He pulls his sunglasses off, lays them on the corner of his desk, and they drop to the floor. He’s on his feet, fumbling through the pile of folders. Half of them slide across his desk, and a few follow the sunglasses to the floor like a paper waterfall. He pulls a folder from the remaining pile and sets it on the desk next to the box. The typed name on the sticker faces him, but it’s big enough that I can read it upside down.

ALICE THOMPSON

He opens the folder with a slight tremble, shuffles through the papers, and finds a large picture. It’s the same young woman from my vision. Same brown hair with pink streaks. She’s wearing a black T-shirt, and very visible against it is the necklace. The one-of-a-kind necklace because it is made of natural stones. He places the picture next to the box and spends what seems like an eternity looking back and forth between the two items. “Where did you find this?”

When he looks at me, I see his eyes for the first time. Two different colors—one green like the sea and one blue like the sky.

Journal

There’s nothing like that first slice. The giving away of the flesh when I make the first cut. No matter how sharp the knife, there’s always resistance...then the blade slides in. It’s...intimate.

Chapter3

Avalon

Green and blue.The detective’s eyes are green and blue. My brain rearranges his features into a much younger one. Everything snaps into place like a Rubik’s cube when all the colors are in their correct position. I stare at him, and instantly I’m back at that beach in North Carolina, so far away from here. I’m thirteen again. I’m drowning. The taste of salt coats my tongue, the touch of his lips, the pressure of air being pushed into my lungs. My throat dries and constricts. My mouth moves, but I’m incapable of sound. I choke on unspoken words. It’s him. The boy from my teenage dreams. The boy who saved me.

Lynn grabs my arm, and I force myself to turn to her. Every cell in my body fights to stay locked on his face. I drag my gaze away from him and finally meet hers. Her eyes are wide, and they quickly slide to the detective before turning back to me. Her face speaks to me with the language of a friendship so deeply rooted in a lifetime of knowing each other that words are not needed. She’s asking all the questions I’m already asking myself.Did you see his eyes? Is that him?

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