8. Chapter 8
Rocco
I cross the aisle before the nearest customer realizes anything is wrong.
Coins roll beneath my boots as I enter the booth. Loralee is on the ground beside the fallen cash box, staring at her hands as though they belong to someone else. Her face has lost all color, and each breath catches before it fully reaches her lungs.
I drop beside her.
“Loralee.”
She doesn’t respond.
One hand closes around her shoulder while I brace the back of her neck with the other. Her skin feels cold despite the warmth trapped beneath the canopy.
“What happened?”
Her mouth moves, but no sound comes. She grips the front of my shirt with both hands and stares into my face.
“Rocco.”
“I’m here.”
“There’s going to be a gun.”
Every part of me becomes still.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see someone carrying it?”
Her fingers tighten in my shirt. “I saw blood.”
I reach for the radio at my shoulder.
Loralee catches my wrist. “Yours.”
The booth noise recedes. I hear the festival beyond it — the music, conversations, a child laughing somewhere near the main path. But my attention remains fixed on the woman kneeling in front of me.
“What do you mean, mine?”
“Your blood was on my hands.”
I look down. Her palms are clean.
Loralee follows my gaze. “I know it isn’t there now.”
Her body sways. I move closer and hold her upright before her shoulder strikes the counter.
“Medical to booth 37,” I say into the radio. “Discreet response.”
“No.”
“That isn’t optional.”
“I don’t need an ambulance.”
“I called the festival medic.”
“I’m not injured.”
“You nearly lost consciousness.”
Her eyes close.
“Loralee.”
“I’m still here.”
“Open your eyes.”
They open again, unfocused at first, then settling on me.
A customer appears at the front of the booth. I recognize the woman from a candle purchase earlier in the day.
“Is she all right?”
“She’s being evaluated. Please clear the entrance.”
Concern spreads across the woman’s face, but she steps back. One of my employees arrives before anyone else can enter. I instruct him to close the booth temporarily, secure the cash and merchandise, and notify me if anyone asks unusual questions.
Then the medic enters.
She kneels on Loralee’s opposite side and begins asking basic questions such as her name, location, date, pain, medical conditions. Loralee answers correctly, although irritation gradually replaces the dazed effect on her face. Strangely, I welcome her agitation as an improvement.
The medic checks her pulse and blood pressure, then asks whether she has eaten and had enough fluids. Loralee assures her she has. She describes the episode as an unusually intense intuitive vision accompanied by dizziness.
The medic glances at me. I keep my expression neutral.
After several minutes, she finds no sign of an immediate medical emergency. Loralee refuses transport and signs the appropriate form. The medic recommends rest, hydration, and follow-up care if the dizziness returns or any new symptoms develop.
“I can do all of that,” Loralee says.
“You’re not driving.”
The medic looks between us and packs away the blood-pressure cuff.
“I’ll make sure she gets somewhere safe,” I add.
Loralee waits until the woman leaves before turning toward me. “You made that sound like a professional security arrangement.”
“It is.”
“I have a place where I’m staying.”
“You’re not going there alone.”
“I rented it specifically for that purpose … to be alone.”
“You nearly blacked out.”
“I remained conscious.”
“Barely.”
Her chin lifts. Color has returned to her face, but her hands still tremble where they rest in her lap.
“Rocco, I appreciate your concern, but you do not get to relocate me because I experienced a vision.”
“I’m not relocating you because of the vision.”
“Good.”
“I’m relocating you because you cannot stand without assistance.”
Her eyes narrow. “I can stand.”
She places one hand on the counter and begins to rise. Her knees straighten, then weaken. I catch her beneath the arms.
Loralee closes her eyes against my chest. Neither of us comments. I move one arm around her waist and keep her upright. She is warm beneath the layers of her clothing but continues shivering.
“My command cabin is ten minutes away,” I say. “My team is based there. I can remain available to them, and you won’t be alone.”
“I have appointments.”
“Canceled.”
Her eyes open. “You canceled my appointments?”
“I closed the booth after you collapsed.”
“You had no right to cancel anything.”
“I instructed my employee to secure the area. Any waiting clients will be told that you became ill and need to reschedule.”
“That is not the same as canceled.”
“Then consider them postponed.”
Her stare should have more force behind it. Exhaustion weakens the effect.
I lower my voice. “Tell me what you need.”
The question interrupts her anger.
“I need a few minutes,” she says.
“You can have them.”
“And I need you to stop making decisions before asking me.”
The words hit with the quiet, solid weight of a truth neither of us could deny. I look toward the chair behind the reading table.
“May I help you sit there?”
“Yes.”
I guide her into the chair and crouch in front of her rather than standing over her. Her breathing has steadied, but she keeps rubbing her palms across her thighs as though trying to remove blood that was never there.
“May I arrange for your clients to reschedule?”
She takes a moment before answering. “Yes.”
“May I have my employee secure the booth?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe you can drive safely?”
Her mouth tightens. “No.”
“Will you come to the command cabin until you’re steady enough to decide what happens next?”
“That was almost diplomatic.”
“Answer the question.”
“Yes.”
I rise and radio the instructions. My employee will inventory the visible merchandise with Loralee present, lock the crystal cases, and place the cash box in my vehicle. Nothing will be removed from the booth without her approval.
While he works, I retrieve the key that slid near the entrance. Loralee watches every step, correcting the candle count once and reminding us that the carved wooden box beside the register contains appointment forms.
Within fifteen minutes, the booth is secure. Loralee attempts to carry her canvas bag. I hold out my hand.
“I can manage it.”
“I know. May I?”
She considers me, then gives it to me. Progress.
We leave through the restricted vendor lane to avoid the crowd. My hand remains at the center of her back without applying pressure. She does not need me to support her now, but I am close enough if that changes. At the vehicle, I open the passenger door.
Loralee stops. “You drive something other than a black truck?”
“It’s an SUV.”
“It’s still black.”
“Black is practical.”
“Black absorbs heat.”
“Useful in winter.”
“It also absorbs every other color.”
I place her bag behind the seat. “Get in.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“Please.”
“That must have hurt.”
“More than my shoulder.”
She smiles faintly and climbs inside. I wait until she fastens her seat belt before closing the door.
The drive takes nine minutes. Loralee remains quiet for the first five, watching the pines pass outside her window. The radio stays low enough for her to hear but not loud enough to overwhelm the silence.
My team reports no sighting of the man from yesterday. We have increased coverage around cash-heavy vendors and the children’s area without announcing a specific threat. There is no reason to create panic based on information I cannot verify. That does not mean I dismiss it.
“What exactly did you see?” I ask.
Loralee turns from the window. “Are you asking because you believe me?”
“I believe you experienced something.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
The look she gives me says she’s closing down the subject, at least for now. I keep my attention on the road.
“I cannot tell dozens of vendors and several thousand visitors that a weapon may appear because you saw blood that isn’t there.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You warned me.”
“Because it was your blood.”
Her words boomerang off the vehicle’s interior. I feel the rose quartz in my pocket.
“Tell me everything,” I say.
Loralee draws a slow breath. “Glass shattered in front of me. There was a flash of red, but I couldn’t tell whether it was fabric, clothing, or something else. Smoke. Cinnamon and scorched sugar. A child screaming.”
“What kind of glass?”
“I don’t know.”
“Window? Bottle? Display case?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where were you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Inside or outside?”
“Rocco …”
“Details matter.”
“I understand that.”
“Then think.”
She turns fully toward me. “You believe I’m withholding details?”
“I believe memory improves when questions create structure.”
“It wasn’t a memory.”
“What would you call it?”
“A warning.”
“Warnings contain information.”
“Not always in the order you want.”
I tighten my hands on the steering wheel. “A gun, a screaming child, and blood are not symbols I can treat casually.”
“I am not treating them casually.”
“You touched the cash box before it happened. That may connect the vision to the theft concern.”
“I know.”
“The red could be the candle vessel.”
“I know.”
“The smoke and cinnamon could come from the food-vendor lane.”
“I know.”
“And the crack you heard may not have been a gunshot.”
Her silence changes. I glance toward her.
“You didn’t see a gun,” I say.
“No.”
“You heard a loud crack and concluded it was gunfire.”
“I saw your blood.”
“That doesn’t make the sound a gun.”
Her face turns toward the window again. “You asked what I saw. I told you.”
“I’m trying to separate observation from interpretation.”
“And I’m trying to tell you that the two don’t always arrive separately.”
I pull into the gravel drive leading toward the cabins. “That makes it difficult to act on.”
“Yes, Rocco. It does.”
Pain edges her voice. Not physical pain.