Carol Ericson - The Sheriff of Silverhill

Dana stepped into the room. The heavy perfume of the wilting roses by the window saturated the air, and Dana massaged her temple against a sudden pain. She hoped her allergy to cats wasn’t kicking in.

Photos lined the edge of the dresser mirror, and she bent forward to study the smiling faces. Holly had a lot of friends, and a lot of those friends included men. If they planned to track down all of these guys, they had a huge task in front of them. But they could start with Brice.

Mrs. Thompson backed out of the room. “You two can look around. I’ll start working on that list.”

Dana noticed her empty glass and figured Mrs. Thompson probably needed a refill, or maybe she just couldn’t face her daughter’s bedroom.

“Are you surprised that Brice was seeing Holly?”

“Not really, but I’m surprised he didn’t mention it. I’ll be having a conversation with Brice about his relationship with Holly and about police protocol.”

Rafe straddled the chair in front of the computer and brought up Holly’s e-mail. “It’ll take a while to go through these. I suppose Mrs. Thompson will let us take the computer with us, or we’ll get a court order to confiscate it.”

“I’m sure she’ll let us have it without a court order.” Dana flipped up the lid of a small pink box on the dresser and a tiny ballerina sprang to life, spinning to Tchaikovsky. A warm flush spread across Dana’s skin, and she lifted the back of her hair and fanned herself. Where’d that cat go?

Rafe tapped a few keys on the keyboard and said, “I wonder if she has one of those My Space pages. Your cyber crimes unit could probably get us a password.”

“Mmm.” Dana smoothed her palm along Holly’s bedspread, and her hand tingled. Must be a little static electricity in the room .

She sat on the edge of the bed and rummaged through the nightstand. Didn’t look like Holly kept a diary, but she did have a variety of sex toys and a few condoms. Dana picked up a decorative hairbrush with strands of long, dark hair clinging to the bristles.

Running her fingers across the bristles, she closed her eyes. Her breathing deepened, and Rafe’s voice sounded as if it were coming from miles away.

An unseen force jolted her body and her hand curled around the carved handle of the brush as an explosion of lights flared behind her closed eyelids. The roaring in her ears blocked out all her other senses. Her body went rigid and then floated, weightless, timeless.

Then the vision took control of her mind.

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