Chapter 2
Cade Laurier paced the hallway near the conference rooms. He’d walked by, moving along with a group of people, just to get a glimpse inside. He had to be certain he wasn’t having some ill-timed flashback.
But it was her.
He didn’t want to think about Devyn Norris in Chicago. Definitely didn’t want to believe she was here, acting as if she belonged.
She didn’t.
She absolutely did not belong here.
This was his place. His house.
In more ways than one since tragedy upended his life six months ago.
The bullpen, his desk, the cases that called him out into the field were his safe zone.
This was where the world made sense. His apartment was just a sucking black hole of emotions he had officially processed, but would never get over.
He wasn’t sure which made him angrier—seeing her here or seeing her at all. If she really had some extra special psychic talents, if she was half as caring as she’d claimed, she would’ve warned him. It would’ve been the decent thing to do.
But she was a fraud. She’d gotten lucky when she’d intruded on his Pereda case. She’d used some insight from her previous association with the wife, not some woo-woo gift. Didn’t matter that she denied his theory. Psychics weren’t real.
They crafted lies and planted shady suggestions, leaving confusion and pain in their wake.
He waited at the bottom of the stairs, carefully distancing himself when an older couple walked by. Mr. and Mrs. Archer—Cade had gotten that much out of the sergeant at the front desk—were both looking relieved and a bit teary.
What nonsense had Norris sold as truth this time?
Whatever the story, Cade knew Hoffman wouldn’t tolerate any goofball sixth-sense kind of crap. She was smarter than that.
Smarter than him, especially these last few months. But he wasn’t giving up. Work was his salvation, even if it took him longer to process a scene or conduct an interview. He was closing cases. Because being here on the job was a hundred times better than being anywhere else.
The couple was long gone and Cade still hovered near the stairs. Where was she? She had to leave the building through this door to sign out and return her visitor’s pass. She could dawdle all she liked, he would have his say.
Something pulled him around. If he believed in anything psychic, he would’ve thought she’d given him some signal.
Impossible. Mind reading wasn’t a real thing.
Norris was just a woman with some sort of attention-seeking problem. Cade had looked her up, unimpressed that her website didn’t mention anything about the supernatural. According to her online profiles, she was a counselor—end of story.
Hardly. Calling herself a counselor was a disguise. The label she’d given him when she inserted herself into the Pereda case. Of course, the victim had used the “p” word frequently during the investigation as they gathered evidence for the prosecutor.
People could slap any kind of label they wanted on themselves, on a website, or a damn T-shirt. And maybe Norris deserved kudos for being smart enough to be discreet. Someone else would have to praise her. Cade only wanted to throttle her.
“You.” He marched toward her, his finger spearing the air as she approached the desk.
She visibly recoiled, but recovered quickly. “Detective Laurier. How nice to see you again.”
“Bull.”
“Is there a problem?” the desk sergeant asked him.
“Not for long.” Cade stepped in front of her when she tried to slip by. “Why are you here? Who are you harassing now?”
“My meeting’s over. I’m leaving.” She tried to dodge him again.
He blocked her, studied her dark eyes. “You’re not any happier to see me than I am to see you.”
“True enough.” Her sharp chin bobbed once. “May I go?”
“Yes. Straight to interrogation,” he said. He caught her elbow hard enough to stop another attempt to escape. A small voice in his head disagreed with his tactics, urging him to let her walk out. He ignored it.
Her eyes locked with his, resolute. “No.”
There was power humming under that one syllable. An air of authority. He felt his grip loosening, his hand suddenly chilled. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“No.” Cade shook his head and curled his fingers tightly around her arm. “You owe me answers.” She gazed up at him and damned if he didn’t see sympathy in her eyes. “Stop that.”
She shrugged, hard enough to dislodge his grip. “Maybe you’d get your answers if you asked politely?”
He snorted. “Should I set up something through your website?”
She tilted her head, as if the angle would give her insight as she studied him. “That isn’t what you want to do.” The conviction in her voice infuriated him all over again.
But he couldn’t hold on to it. Suddenly, he was too tired to fight. Weary. Exhausted to his soul. As if the hot rush of temper drained away his meager energy reserves. “What are you doing?”
“Talking to you.” This time she reached out, her fingertips a soothing warmth just above his elbow. “Do you have time to walk with me, detective? It’s a gorgeous day outside.”
He hadn’t noticed the weather. He turned to find she was right. Sunlight sparked off the cars in the lot, made the sky bluer. “You’ll answer my questions?”
“To the best of my ability,” she replied, waiting.
He resented her patience as much as her composure.
Why wasn’t she rattled? He held all the cards here.
All the power. If he wanted to, he could find a reason to dump her in a holding cell.
And yet, he found himself walking toward the door.
Without his jacket or sunglasses. His badge and gun were clipped to his belt, in clear view.
So much for law enforcement subtlety.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, squinting against the bright glare as they stepped outside.
“Mr. and Mrs. Archer asked me to join them for a meeting with Detective Hoffman. Their daughter, Charlene—”
“I know the case,” he interrupted. “Hoffman won’t put up with your nonsense.” That voice inside his head warned him to lighten up. This time he made a weak attempt to listen.
“Hoffman is a great detective,” she agreed. “But the Archer case had gone cold. The parents were distraught and frustrated. When they came to me, I did my part to help.”
Of course she did. Her part was likely platitudes and wild theories. “Did you give Hoffman the killer’s name and current location?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Her mouth tugged down on one side. “I did give the Archers some peace about their daughter. Now that the body is recovered, they can give her a proper burial and start healing.”
Healing. The word pissed him off. What did that even mean? When you lost everything that mattered was healing even within the realm of possibilities?
He glanced around, realizing he was following her away from the station and around the block like a lost puppy. She might’ve chosen the venue, but he needed to regain control of the conversation.
“How do you convince people?” he demanded. “Seriously. Are you that good or are people that dumb and gullible?”
“You’re a cop. You tell me,” she replied. “Are people dumb?”
“In a crisis, they sure can be.” That damned voice in his head was pointing the finger at him right now. He was not behaving like a professional. “And we both know you take advantage of that.”
“Why are you angry with me?” She didn’t even look at him, her gaze was fixed on the view in front of them.
For the entirety of his life, anger hadn’t been an issue. If he got mad, he got over it. Nothing dug in and festered. He wasn’t abusive or nasty. Hell, in general he didn’t get mad at all.
But life had changed.
He was a different man now. Admittedly, he’d become a man he didn’t like much.
Every day he woke up feeling mean and edgy, seeking a target for the rage that built up overnight.
Every night. He could barely look at his reflection long enough to shave in the mornings.
Uncomfortable, he shifted his attention back to her.
“I’m mad because you take advantage of people.
I bet folks find your website, inquire, and are quickly relieved of their money while you fill their heads with nonsense. ”
“Are you expecting me to convince you otherwise?”
“I am,” he snapped, earning her full attention.
Her eyebrows rose above her sunglasses. “That seems like a waste of energy.”
“You won’t even try to defend yourself?”
“To you?” She shook her head.
“Try,” he insisted.
She stopped and faced him, heedless of other people on the sidewalk. “Did you come to my website, use a fake name, inquire, send me money and get a head full of nonsense?”
“Hell no.” He would never. He’d been to the website, but never done more than skim the pages, searching for any possible claim he could pounce on. Not finding anything was one more reason to be angry. Surely, she’d make a mistake soon.
“Then why are you so sure I don’t help the people who come to me? Have you asked any of my clients? The Archers are pleased with the results.”
Her logic lit his temper, a match to dry tinder. “You’re a fake. A fraud!” He pushed his hands through his hair, ignoring the looks aimed at them. “I won’t let you hurt anyone else.”
“Detective Laurier, how did I hurt you?”
The gentleness of her voice had tears blurring his vision. Hadn’t he cried enough in recent months? The well should be dry, the emotions should be leveling out, not tossing him around like class five river rapids.
“You’re a fraud,” he repeated. “Any decent human being with an ounce of your self-proclaimed gift would’ve given me a warning.” He balled up his fists and pressed them to his churning gut. “You’re either a fraud or you hate me.”
“I don’t know you well enough for hate,” she murmured.
Gradually, the sunlight warmed his face, chased away the chill on his skin. A knot of tension around his heart eased. Baffled, he glanced down to see her hands resting on his fists. “Please take another deep breath,” she said.
He should pull away, but he didn’t want to. “What are you doing?”
“Being a decent human being.”
“You’re controlling me.” He couldn’t muster up the anger he’d felt just minutes ago.
“If only that were possible,” she muttered. “You’re exhausted and it’s catching up to you. Will you take a few minutes and walk with me? Please? I’m worried for you.”
Her earnest tone wasn’t enough to erase his suspicions. “For what? Where?”
“Let’s just go into the park.” She pointed toward an open bench along the path. “We’ll sit down for a minute and talk like normal people.”
“Normal?” He scoffed. “You owe me answers.”
“Maybe I do.” She sounded almost as irritated as he felt. “It’ll be easier to provide the answers I can if you aren’t passed out on the sidewalk,” she grumbled.
Giving in, he walked with her into the park, plopping down on the bench. “I am tired.”
“You haven’t been sleeping.”
“No.”
She swore and he thought he laughed. The day was too warm and his mind too hazy to sort it out for sure.