12. Chapter 12
Loralee
“This is where it happens.” Rocco’s entire body changes. His hand closes around mine again, but the contact is no longer intimate. He draws me closer to his side while his gaze moves across the lodge entrance, the glass doors, and every person passing through them.
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
“Inside or outside?”
“I was near the entrance.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is the only one I have.”
He lifts the radio to his shoulder. “Wade, send two people to the main lodge. One inside, one on the lawn. Quietly.”
The response comes immediately.
Rocco moves us away from the center of the walkway without releasing me. His employee follows, positioning himself several feet behind us while continuing to scan the crowd.
“What makes you certain?” Rocco asks.
“The way the pieces fit here.”
“They fit at the cider station.”
“Not like this.”
I turn back toward the lodge. People move through the entrance in both directions, slowing beside the charity-auction display before joining the flow inside.
The case is taller than I realized from the lawn.
Glass covers its front and both sides, reflecting the lights, the red banner, and anyone who walks past.
A child in a red jacket darts ahead of her parents. Her image flashes across the glass before disappearing through the doors.
My fingers tighten around Rocco’s.
“Red,” I whisper.
“The jacket?”
“No. The reflection.”
Rocco follows my gaze. The banner also moves across the surface whenever the doors open, breaking into red fragments beneath the lights.
“The flash you saw could have been reflected,” he says.
“Yes.”
The certainty moves through me quietly this time. No pain. No darkness swallowing the festival. Only recognition settling into place.
Rocco lifts the radio again. “Wade, have someone locate the auction coordinator. I want that display moved away from the entrance.”
“Why?” I ask.
“It narrows the passage and encourages people to stop where others are trying to enter. If the glass breaks, it blocks one of the primary exits.”
Rocco doesn’t need to believe every detail of my vision to see the danger in front of him. He looks at what exists, measures what could happen, and acts on the part he can prove.
“The case matters,” I say.
“I know.”
“Not only because it blocks the doors.”
“What else?”
I close my eyes and let the festival move around me. Music. Voices. The snap of burning wood. Cinnamon carried from the cider station. Each sound remains separate from the others.
I reach for the vision without inviting it to take me again.
Glass explodes outward.
A child screams.
Red moves across the broken surface.
Someone reaches through the opening.
My eyes fly open.
“The case is broken intentionally.”
Rocco’s attention sharpens. “How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Shot?”
“Maybe. Or struck.”
“What happens after it breaks?”
“A hand reaches inside.”
His gaze lands on the jewelry arranged across the upper shelves. “The auction items.”
“I think so.”
The display contains a silver-and-turquoise necklace, several smaller pieces of jewelry, gift certificates, and carved figures. A sign attached to one side explains that proceeds will support the county’s volunteer rescue program.
“Is anything especially valuable?” I ask.
“The necklace was donated by a gallery in Aspen. It was appraised at twelve thousand dollars.”
“And it’s sitting inside a glass case near an exterior door?”
“The case was supposed to remain attended.”
A couple pauses in front of it while their young son presses both palms against the glass. There is no volunteer nearby.
Rocco’s jaw hardens.
Wade arrives with a woman wearing a festival badge and a burgundy sweater. Her face brightens with recognition when she sees Rocco, then turns uncertain when she notices me holding his hand.
“This is Marsha Bell, the auction coordinator,” Wade says.
Rocco releases my hand to step toward her. The loss is immediate, but I understand why he does it. Whatever exists between us cannot distract him from the people moving through those doors.
“Who is assigned to the display?” he asks.
Marsha glances inside. “A volunteer should be there.”
“There isn’t one.”
“She may have taken a break.”
“Without arranging coverage?”
Concern replaces confusion. “I’ll find her.”
“First, I need the case moved away from the entrance.”
Marsha looks at the display. “The lodge manager approved that location. We wanted people to see the auction items as soon as they entered.”
“It obstructs traffic and creates a hazard if the glass breaks.”
“The case is tempered glass.”
“That reduces the type of injury. It does not prevent the entrance from being blocked.”
Moving it will not be easy. The case is nearly six feet tall and filled with items that must be cataloged before anyone touches them.
Marsha begins explaining the difficulty, but Rocco does not argue.
He asks Wade for four employees, tells Marsha to bring the inventory record, and requests that a deputy remain nearby while the items are transferred.
Within minutes, the area changes.
A security employee redirects visitors toward the opposite door. Marsha and another volunteer remove each auction item and check it against a printed list. Rocco examines the case while it stands empty, testing the lock and studying the hinges.
I remain on the lawn where he placed me, watched by an employee who makes no attempt to pretend she is doing anything else.
The red banner hangs above the doors. Smoke drifts across the entrance. The location is right, but something is missing. Not from the vision. From the reason behind it.
If someone wants the necklace, breaking the glass during the busiest part of the evening is reckless.
The sound would draw attention. The crowd would slow an escape.
Even if the crack I heard was a gunshot, displaying a weapon in front of hundreds of witnesses would turn a theft into something far worse.
Unless the crowd is part of the plan.
Confusion. Screaming. People running toward the same exits.
A diversion at the parking area.
I look toward Rocco.
The false sighting pulled his attention to the south entrance. The person who reported it may have seen nothing more than a man in a dark jacket. Or someone may have counted on a vague description producing exactly the response it did.
Rocco turns in my direction as if he feels me watching. I walk toward him. The employee follows.
“The sighting,” I say when I reach him. “You wondered if it was intentional.”
“It may have been.”
“What if someone wanted to see how quickly your team moved? Which areas were left with less coverage?”
“We reassigned people without abandoning a post.”
“But someone watching would know where they went.”
His muscles visibly tighten. He lifts the radio. “Wade, preserve the original call reporting the south-entrance sighting. I want the time, the radio channel, and the identity of the person who made it.”
A brief pause follows.
“It came through the vendor assistance line,” Wade responds. “Female caller. She didn’t give a name.”
“Did the call originate from the festival phone system?”
“I’ll check.”
Rocco lowers the radio.
“Could the man who photographed the booths be studying your team too?” I ask.
“Yes.”
The answer contains none of his earlier effort to soften difficult possibilities for me.
“Then the auction case isn’t the only target.”
“No.”
“Cash-heavy vendors. Booth locks. Service entrances.”
“And response patterns.”
The danger expands around us. It is no longer a single person intending to steal jewelry from a poorly placed case. It may be someone planning to create enough disorder to reach several targets before security understands what is happening.
Rocco moves closer. “Do you sense more than one person?”
“I don’t know. I only saw one hand reach through the glass.”
“Male or female?”
“The sleeve was dark. The hand may have been gloved.”
“Which direction did it enter from?”
“I was facing the case. The arm came from my right.”
He turns toward the lodge and positions himself where I must have been standing. His gaze follows the angle to the right side of the display, near the exterior door.
“If the case remained here, the person could break the side panel from the doorway, reach inside, and be outside again within seconds.”
“The glass exploded toward me.”
“Then you were on the interior side.”
The understanding arrives with a chill.
I walk through the open door and stop inside the lodge. The case remains visible from this angle, though Wade’s team has begun preparing to move it. Reflections move across the glass. The red banner becomes a distorted streak above it.
Rocco joins me.
“Here,” I say. “I was standing here.”
He looks toward the case, then beyond it to the lawn. “And I was between you and the exterior door.”
Blood on my hands.
My breath shortens.
Rocco turns away from the display. “Loralee.”
“I’m all right.”
“You stopped breathing.”
“I remembered where you were.”
“Where?”
“In front of me.”
He watches my face.
“You were between me and whoever broke the glass,” I continue. “That’s why your blood was on my hands.”
The lodge noise fades beneath the pounding of my pulse. Rocco places both hands around mine, enclosing them completely.
“Look at me.”
I do.
“I know more now,” he says. “That makes the warning useful.”
“It means you were close enough to be hurt.”
“It also means the event can be changed.”
“But you’re still going to stand between me and the threat.”
“Yes.”
The answer arrives without hesitation.
“Rocco.”
“That is my job.”
“No. Your job is to protect the festival. You being directly in front of me is something else.”
His eyes hold mine. For one second, the security professional disappears, leaving only the man who carried me to his bed and left his own cabin because I needed to be alone.
“Then don’t stand where you were standing in the vision,” he says.
“How do I avoid that if I don’t know when it happens?”
“You won’t remain near this entrance.”
Neither will he if I have any influence over it. Before I can tell him that, Wade approaches.