Chapter 21
She was probably going to forget the damn thing, but she definitely didn’t want to get water all over the nice hardwood floor of this place.
It wasn’t what she’d been expecting—everything anyone had ever told her about mediums and séances had led her to believe that she was going to somewhere draped in black velvet or maybe with beaded curtains and incense or something.
This place had massive windows letting in lots of natural light, wood floors, bright carpets, comfortable couches… It looked like a pleasant office space, not somewhere you went to talk to dead people.
It was honestly a relief.
She hated creepy things. She’d tried to avoid cemeteries most of her life, with the lone exception of her mother’s funeral. That’s why she was here.
Because the headstone of the grave where her mom had been buried had listed not one, but two husbands. One who had died when she was barely a year old.
And now she had a lot of questions.
I sighed, pushing the memories of the woman—I remembered her, as she’d had a million questions and had been very excited to make a second and even a preemptive third appointment to learn more about her previously-unknown biological father—aside as I took the umbrella out of the stand to put behind my desk with a little tag on it so that I remembered to give it back to her next week when she came in for that appointment.
I’d actually been getting better blocking out most thoughts and memories, especially those on everyday objects like pens and utensils. I’d just let my control slip on the umbrella because it had been almost a week since she’d been here, and I was tired.
It had been almost a week since we’d gone to Jennings’s house, but nobody had asked me to do anything else for the case.
Hart had stopped in to tell me they had enough to arrest Jennings, but they wanted to wait to do it until after they had enough for the other two men, too. For Dagget and Garraway.
And, most importantly, anyone else who might be a part of it.
I didn’t understand why or how, but, according to Hart, that meant they had to ‘slow play’ it. I didn’t really know what that meant in the grand scheme of things, but for me it meant that I had to go back to my normal job and pretend that nothing unusual was happening.
It was, honestly, far too easy to do. To pretend that the death of Yvonne Gates-Adams had little to no impact on my life. That I had no worries about what her killer was doing or whether he knew who I was.
Hart had been very clear that if I noticed anything suspicious—anyone hanging around Beyond the Veil or my apartment building who seemed weird or ‘off,’ in his words—I should call him immediately.
I hadn’t, even though he’d made me second-guess every slowing car or person walking behind me on the sidewalk on my way home or to work. As soon as I’d make it to where I was going, I’d feel paranoid and foolish.
I set the umbrella behind my desk, then packed up my backpack and headed out, locking up behind me. Ward and Mason had left early for yet another potential adoption meeting, and Beck had waved goodbye about ten minutes before.
I had leftovers waiting for me at home from a big pot of spaghetti I’d made the night before with mushrooms and meatballs, as well as some salad with tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers. My stomach growled in anticipation.
I was focused on what was in front of me, not what was behind me.
It was rush hour, and traffic was heavy, even on the side streets.
I didn’t see or hear them coming.
As I walked past an alley, one of them came up behind me, pushing me hard and slamming me into the sun-warmed brick, which scraped my cheek as the air rushed out of my lungs, keeping me from crying out.
A sweet-smelling rag was pushed into my face—
This little shit was going to get what was coming to him.
He was honestly surprised that anyone who came out of the old asylum had managed to put together what few brain cells they had to be able to hold down a job, even if it was something meaningless.
Somehow, this stupid little shit had managed to remember something that had led the FBI to Garraway. Or at least close enough that they needed to get rid of him sooner rather than later.
That was going to sign his death warrant.
Just as soon as they took his power from him.
Panic gave me enough of an adrenaline kick that I could push away the emotions that had soaked the cloth along with whatever chemical they were using to make me lightheaded and unable to fight back.
It didn’t knock me unconscious—just made me dizzy enough that there wasn’t much I could do to fight them off, my arms and legs limp and out of my control.
My heart was pounding so loud I couldn’t hear anything else, my breath short in my lungs and burning in the back of my throat.
It was a familiar feeling, this sickening panic. I’d experienced it every time they’d dragged me off for ‘treatment’ at Tranquil Brook. Every time they’d strapped me down and drained me of magic.
Except worse.
Because I was pretty sure that this time, they were also going to kill me.
I tried to focus enough to access my magic—death magic, magic I could use to protect myself, even if it meant killing the men (two of them? three? I wasn’t sure) who were dragging my uncooperative body away from the wall and toward a van.
At least… I thought it was a van.
It was hard to focus.
Hard to think.
“Shit!” someone said. “Hold him. Slippery little fucker.”
Something sharp bit into the side of my neck.
Then darkness.