6. Chapter 6
Rocco
Ithanked Loralee before leaving her booth. Two words delivered while my shirt was caught on my shoulder and my body was still reacting to the feel of her hands. They were technically sufficient. She provided a service. The service helped. I expressed gratitude.
The fact that I am still thinking about it proves the words were not enough.
I cross the nearly empty festival grounds while my team completes the final sweep. The temperature has dropped into the low forties. Cold usually works its way beneath the scar tissue within minutes, tightening the muscles around my shoulder until turning my head becomes difficult.
Tonight, the joint moves without catching. Loralee did that.
Not the crystals she agreed to keep away from me. Not energy, intuition, or the other things she claims to sense. Training did it. Knowledge. Her hands moving across my back with enough skill to find the exact places where old injuries force healthy muscles to compensate.
Her hands.
I shut down that line of thought before my body follows it somewhere inconvenient.
At the eastern gate, I sign the closing report. Two employees remain on the overnight rotation. The local deputies will patrol the perimeter every hour, and motion-triggered cameras cover the storage entrance, stage, and vendor lanes. Everything is accounted for.
I drive to the cabin rented as Blackridge’s temporary operations base. It sits ten minutes outside town, far enough from the road that the surrounding pines absorb most sound. Two of my employees occupy the larger cabin downhill. I chose the smaller one because I sleep better alone … usually.
Inside, I lock the door, check the windows, and place my keys, phone, and wallet on the kitchen counter.
The routine takes less than a minute. I have performed some version of it in hotel rooms, rental houses, temporary quarters, and buildings where sleep was less important than remaining ready to move.
The shower heats slowly. By the time steam fills the bathroom, the stiffness in my shoulder has eased further. I remove my shirt and examine the joint in the mirror.
No swelling. No redness beyond what I would expect after massage. I raise my arm cautiously. It’s moving higher than this morning.
Loralee’s voice returns with unwanted clarity.
Your body has forgotten how to believe the danger is over.
She agreed not to interpret my reactions. Then she did it anyway.
She also apologized when she crossed the line. She identified what she had done, stopped, and gave control back to me.
Most people defend themselves before deciding whether they were wrong. Loralee appears to do the opposite. That makes being angry with her inconvenient.
I shower, review the incident reports, and answer emails until after midnight.
When I finally lie down, I expect the familiar sequence of my shoulder against the mattress, pain beneath the blade, and making adjustments.
Normally, it’s at least one more adjustment, then an hour of staring into darkness while my mind continues working.
Instead, I close my eyes.
When I open them again, pale morning light is visible around the curtains. I reach for the clock. Six twelve.
For several seconds, I assume the display is wrong. I check my phone. Three routine overnight reports wait for review, but there were no calls, perimeter breaches, or incidents requiring escalation.
I slept for nearly six uninterrupted hours.
My shoulder is sore, but the pain is dull rather than sharp. I rotate it carefully. The movement remains smoother than it was yesterday.
Loralee did that too.
I arrive at the festival later than planned and find my team fully operational. No one comments because I am still twenty minutes earlier than required. That does not prevent me from feeling as though I have neglected something.
The morning sweep reveals an unsecured trash enclosure, moisture near one electrical connection, and nothing that justifies the unease.
At seven forty-three, I reach Loralee’s booth.
Loralee stands on a folding stool fastening a strand of artificial autumn leaves across the front beam. Today she wears a dark green dress beneath a long brown cardigan. Boots rise to just below her knees, and her hair is gathered into a loose braid over one shoulder.
She looks down when my shadow crosses the booth.
“You came back.”
“I work here.”
“You also work in sixty-three other booths.”
“Sixty-two. One vendor withdrew before opening.”
She smiles. “Good morning, Rocco.”
“Good morning.”
Her gaze moves over my face, my shoulders, and the hand carrying coffee. The inspection is so obvious that I should object. Instead, I wait.
“You slept,” she says.
“That is generally what people do at night.”
“You slept well.”
“You don’t know that.”
“The tension around your eyes is different.”
I look toward the shelves rather than respond. “You’re standing on something not designed as a ladder.”
“It is designed to support more than twice my weight.”
“It doesn’t have a locking spreader.”
“It’s eighteen inches tall.”
“A fall can occur from any height.”
Loralee steps down. “I’m beginning to understand how you avoid personal conversations.”
“I came to check your western screen weight.”
“No, you didn’t.”
I walk behind the display and test it anyway, finding it secure.
“Rocco.”
I straighten. Loralee waits near the center table, giving me enough distance to choose whether to approach. She does not mention my energy or ask what I dreamed. She merely stands there, patient and more difficult to evade because of it.
“My shoulder is better. Considerably better,” I add. “I slept almost six hours without waking.”
“That’s good.”
“It is.”
The response is quiet. No celebration. No reminder that she predicted the treatment would help. She accepts the information without turning it into proof of anything beyond her professional ability.
I move closer.
“What you did last night helped more than I expected,” I tell her. “I didn’t acknowledge that properly before I left.”
“You were shaken.”
“That isn’t an excuse.”
“No. But it is a reason.”
I study her face. “Thank you, Loralee.”
“You’re welcome, Rocco.”
This time, the words feel complete.
Her eyes remain on mine. I remember sitting on the edge of her massage table with her wrist in my hand. The rapid beat of her pulse beneath my thumb. Her lips parted slightly as she looked at me.
If I had stayed another minute, I would have kissed her.
Part of me resents the restraint. The rest knows it was the only acceptable decision. She was treating an injury. Whatever existed between us before I removed my shirt became complicated the moment I became her client.
I glance toward the privacy screens. “What happened near the end of the session? You reached across me,” I continue. “I reacted.”
“You mean before that.”
“Yes.”
She looks toward the main path, where vendors are beginning to arrive. “I received an impression.”
“Of what?”
“You told me not to read you.”
“I’m asking now.”
Her hands settle lightly against the edge of the table. “Permission given after the fact doesn’t mean I understood what I saw.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Darkness. Metal collapsing. A restraint pulling hard across my chest. Dust. Someone shouting.”
The booth seems quieter despite the activity around us.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
She does not ask whether it happened. I appreciate the restraint and dislike the reason she needs it.
“It was the rollover,” I say.
“I thought it might be.”
“You didn’t see anything else?”
“No.”
“A location?”
“No.”
“Another person?”
“I heard a voice, but I couldn’t understand the name.”
My shoulder tightens for reasons that have nothing to do with the injury. Loralee notices. She does not say so.
“Does that happen often?” I ask.
“Receiving impressions through touch?”
“Yes.”
“Not often. They’re more likely when the other person is emotionally open or physically relaxed.”
“I wasn’t emotionally open.”
“No,” she agrees. “You were almost physically relaxed.”
The distinction unsettles me.
“Can you control it?”
“Sometimes. Not always. I can control what I do with it.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You asked for no readings and no surprises. A fragment of an experience you had no intention of sharing belonged to you, not me.”
The explanation is logical. I still don’t believe touching someone allows access to memory.
There are other possibilities. My muscles reacted to an old injury.
Loralee knew it resulted from a rollover and unconsciously built images around that information.
She may have noticed changes in my breathing when she reached certain areas.
None of that explains the restraint.
I had been strapped into the rear seat when the vehicle rolled. The belt locked across my chest and held while metal collapsed around us. I never told her that.
Before I can question her further, a customer enters the booth carrying two candles from another vendor. Loralee steps behind her sales table.
“We can talk later,” she says.
I nod and return to the main path.
The festival opens at nine. Within minutes, crowd density increases around the food vendors and children’s area.
My team reports no significant problems, but the scattered inconveniences begin on schedule.
A lost child is reunited with his parents.
A customer trips over an unsecured extension cord without injury.
Two vendors disagree over storage space until one of my employees separates them.
Routine incidents. Predictable and solvable.
At ten forty, I notice a man studying the rear of a jewelry booth.
He appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Gray cap, dark jacket, worn jeans. Nothing distinctive enough to draw attention. He stands near a display of handmade bracelets but watches the vendor each time she opens the cash box.
I alter my route without looking directly at him. The man moves toward a pottery booth. He touches nothing, speaks to no one, and positions himself where he can see behind the sales counter. When the vendor turns to assist another customer, he raises his phone.
The camera points toward the lock securing the rear canvas panel.
I approach from his left.
“Can I help you?”
His phone lowers. “Just taking pictures.”
“Of the pottery?”
“Yeah.”
“You were photographing the back of the booth.”
He gives me an easy smile. “My girlfriend sells crafts. She wants ideas for displays.”
“Where is she?”
“Home.”
“What does she sell?”
The smile remains, but his eyes move briefly toward the nearest exit.
“Different things.”
“What kind?”
“Jewelry. Decorations. Stuff like that.”
I hold out my hand. “May I see the photograph?”
His expression changes. “You a cop?”
“Private security.”
“Then you can’t search my phone.”
“That’s correct. I asked for your cooperation.”
“I don’t have to give it.”
“No.”
He puts the phone into his pocket. “Then I’m leaving.”
“You’re free to.”
I step aside.
He walks toward the southern exit without stopping at another booth. I memorize his clothing, approximate height, gait, and the small geometric tattoo behind his left ear. Then I radio my team with the description and request a review of the entrance footage.
The man has not committed a crime. Photographing a booth is not illegal.
Refusing to show me his phone proves nothing.
But Loralee was right about one thing. Observation is not exclusive to security specialists.
Sometimes a collection of ordinary details creates an answer before evidence can prove it.
I pass Booth 37 shortly before noon. Loralee is helping two women compare candles. Her color is better today, and a bottle of water sits within reach. She looks up as I approach, her attention finding me through the crowd with the same unsettling certainty she displayed the first afternoon.
“Problem?” she asks.
“Possibly. Nothing you need to act on.”
Her attention sharpens. “That is a very carefully constructed answer.”
“I’ll speak with you later.”
One of the women hides a smile behind an amber candle jar. I leave before Loralee reads anything else from my face.
By midafternoon, my team has tracked the man through the security footage. He entered with no visible companion. He spent thirty-six minutes inside the grounds, stopping only at booths selling jewelry, handcrafted knives, and higher-priced artwork. He purchased nothing.
We circulate his image among security personnel and increase coverage near vendor storage areas. Without evidence of an actual offense, there is nothing more to do.
I return to Loralee’s booth at four twenty. She sits alone behind the counter, writing in a leather-bound notebook. The small rose quartz she offered me yesterday rests beside her hand.
“You were right,” I say.
She looks up. “About?”
“Ordinary observations becoming something more.”
“That could refer to many things.”
“There was a man photographing locks and cash-handling procedures.”
Her eyes lose their warmth. “Is he still here?”
“No. We’re watching for him.”
“Do you believe he intends to steal something?”
“I believe his behavior warrants attention.”
She closes the notebook. “That sounds carefully phrased.”
“It is.”
“Are the vendors in danger?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer does not reassure her, but false reassurance would be worse.
“I need you to follow every closing procedure exactly,” I continue. “Do not remain alone after the other vendors leave. If you see him or anyone behaving unusually, contact security rather than approaching them.”
“I understand.”
“And keep your phone accessible.”
“I said I understand.”
Her tone is calm, but the air around her feels different. I cannot explain how I know that. Perhaps I have spent too much time listening to her describe energy as if it is observable.
Loralee picks up the rose quartz and rolls it between her fingers.
“Take this.”
“No.”
“It’s not for emotional healing.”
“That was its purpose yesterday.”
“Today it’s for protection.”
“I have protection.”
Her gaze moves toward the equipment on my belt. “Yes, you appear adequately supplied.” She considers me, then places it on the counter between us.
“Think of it as a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That observation and intuition are not enemies.”
“I don’t need an object to remember a conversation.”
“Then leaving it in your pocket will cost you nothing.”
“I’m not putting it in my pocket.”
“Fine.”
Loralee returns to her notebook. She does not press the stone into my hand or tell me the universe will punish my refusal. She leaves it on the counter and directs her attention elsewhere.
I should walk away. Instead, I look down at the pale pink stone. The stone is small enough to disappear inside my palm and harmless enough to carry without consequence. I am less certain about the woman offering it.
I pick it up. Loralee does not raise her head, but one corner of her mouth tightens as she suppresses a smile.
“This changes nothing,” I say.
“Of course not.”
I place the rose quartz in my pocket. The weight is almost imperceptible. I feel it for the rest of the day.