Carol Ericson - Intuition

“Me? Perfect? You’ve got the wrong guy.”

Did she? He seemed so right in so many ways.

“We keep getting off topic.” He crumpled his napkin and tossed it on the table. “Whether or not you see the police report, what’s your next move?”

“I need something in my possession that belonged to the victim.”

“What did Mrs. Harris give you?”

Kylie unzipped her bag and pulled out a red scarf with gold thread woven through it. “This was Bree’s.”

Skimming his hand across the diaphanous fabric, Matt, said, “I take it you can’t just hold the thing in your hand and the victim whispers in your ear or something.”

“Not exactly.” She balled up the scarf and shoved it back into her bag. “I don’t see dead people and they don’t talk to me. Rather, I sense a situation or I see scenes flash in my head. Sometimes I feel what the victim feels, and sometimes…” She gripped her upper arms and shivered.

“Sometimes what?”

“Sometimes I’m in the killer’s head.”

Matt tipped his chair back and cocked his head. “You’re kidding.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not kidding.”

“That’s gotta be creepy as hell.”

“I think that’s what…” She trailed off again. Matt didn’t want to hear her wild assumptions about Mom. He already thought she was creepy. “Your turn.”

Matt squinted at the bill the waitress had just dropped at their table. “Huh?”

“What do you have, and why did Mr. Harris hire you? Did he find you on the internet? Portland’s a long way from L.A.”

“It was a referral, and I don’t have much on the case. Just what Harris gave me and going through old news stories—Bree was on summer break from the University of Oregon and drove down solo for the concert, hooking up with some locals while she was here.”

Kylie nodded. “She hung out in Coral Cove, stayed with the local kids and they attended the first two days of the concert together.”

“And then on the third and last day of the concert—” Matt snapped his fingers “—poof, Bree disappeared.”

“I never read anything more about those friends, did you?” She snatched the check from his hand. “I’ll get this.”

“Do you have an expense account?”

“No. Do you?”

“You’re on a job, right?”

“Well, yes.”

“You’re not doing this pro bono, are you?”

“Of course not. Mrs. Harris is paying me.”

“But you’re paying your own expenses.”

“And you’re not?”

“It’s a business, sweetheart.” He plucked the check from her fingers. “And I have an expense account.”

“So you’re doing this for the money.” Just when she thought Matt had changed. This talk of money and expense accounts left a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Look.” He stacked some bills on top of the check and anchored it with a salt shaker. “I want to find out what happened to Bree. I want to give that family some peace and closure. But I also want to get paid.”

“Then we need to get our hands on that police report.”

“That’s the first thing on my list.” Matt pushed back from the table. “Do you want to wait here or meet me outside? I have to use the men’s room.”

“I’ll meet you outside because I need to use the ladies’ room.”

Kylie slipped into the bathroom, cranked on the water and studied herself in the mirror. So Mr. Harris was paying Matt more money than Mrs. Harris was paying her. Why hadn’t the couple made a decision together?

She had never talked to Mr. Harris. She’d figured he was handling his grief differently. But since he’d hired Matt to do the same job, maybe Mr. Harris didn’t have any faith in psychics.

She’d have to prove him wrong.

Straightening her shoulders, she tossed the paper towel in the trash bin. She poked her head into the crowded dining room of the restaurant where the clink of dishes and silverware set her on edge.

Matt had to be outside already. As she crossed the room, she dodged waiters and waitresses balancing plates in their hands and up their arms. She pushed out the front door and Matt shrugged off the side of the building.

“Ready to tackle that police report?”

“Yep.” Kylie took two steps, and the door of the restaurant swung open behind them.

“Excuse me?” Their waitress, her foot propping open the door, was holding out a card or piece of paper. Did Matt stiff her on the tip?

“You left this on the table.”

Since Kylie was closer to the waitress, she took what she now saw was a photo, from her hand. “We didn’t leave…”

Kylie’s mouth went dry as she stared at the picture pinched between her shaky fingers. Matt hovered behind her. “What is it?”

She held up the photo, facing him. “It’s a picture—a picture of Bree. Where did it come from?”

Kylie swiveled her head toward the door of the restaurant, but the waitress had already gone back to her other customers.

Matt plucked it from her hand and turned it over. “Just great. This is more than a picture, Kylie.”

He shoved the photo beneath her nose and Kylie gasped at the block letters on the back of the picture. Another day, another message.

She’s dead.

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