Chapter 3
From her living room window, Erica watched Lieutenant Cooper cross the street, his long stride unhurried, as cool as the man himself.
Even with all the horror and drama swirling around her, she’d have had to be blind not to notice how handsome he was.
All tall, rugged Texas charm. And heaven help her, he wore his Wranglers as if they’d been made for him.
An officer, who looked too young to be out after dark, let alone carry a badge and wear a chest holster, emerged from the Wilsons’ house and met him halfway. His partner, she surmised.
They were discussing her. The younger man’s frequent glances toward her house and the way he threw his head back and laughed left no doubt about the topic.
They didn’t believe her.
Every investigation she’d ever been pulled into began the same way: doubt, suspicion, and that quiet calculation of whether she was lying or unstable. She should have been used to it by now. She wasn’t.
Why did this have to happen with him?
The moment the big Texas Ranger appeared on her porch, dodging smoking projectiles as if it were just another Tuesday, she felt a pull. She couldn’t say why. Romance had stopped being an option for her a long time ago.
Not that he wasn’t handsome. He was, with dark, wavy hair, deep-blue eyes, and a day’s worth of scruff shadowing his jaw. And tall, although compared to her, everyone was.
He wore a shirt and tie with his jeans and the requisite Stetson. The boots went without saying. She’d seen plenty of cowboys in Texas. This one was something else entirely.
But that wasn’t it either.
More likely, it was her lack of reaction when he grabbed her to keep her from tumbling off the rickety kitchen chair. She hadn’t been flooded with his emotions or memories. That alone made him different.
She thought he might have felt something—a hint of interest, a small glimmer of attraction—until she told him about her gift.
Didn’t that figure? The first man who’d sparked something within her in longer than she cared to remember, thought she was a nutcase. It wasn’t fair.
But when had life ever been fair to her?
With a sigh, she grabbed her purse, checked for her keys, set the alarm, and locked up.
Lt. Cooper waited by his SUV, leaning against it, arms folded.
She made it halfway down the steps then slowed.
She knew this scene. Knew exactly how it went. A few more questions. A few more skeptical looks. Having to prove herself before anyone took her seriously. It got old fast.
Her fingers tightened around her purse strap.
Cooper pushed off the SUV and opened the rear door, waiting. Like she had a choice.
She gritted her teeth and closed the distance.
“I’ll follow you in my car,” she suggested. “That way I won’t have to call a cab when we’re done.”
“I’ll bring you home.”
“It will be late. Won’t that be out of the way?”
“I’ll bring you home,” he repeated, his tone saying the discussion was over.
She narrowed a look at him. “Am I under arrest?”
“Do I have cause?”
“No. Unless dreaming is a crime.”
“It’s not. Get in, Miss Stevens.”
“And if I don’t want to go?”
“It’s your choice,” he said, keeping his voice even. “But suspicion might rise that you’ve got something to hide.”
Knowing this was going to be a long night, she muttered under her breath, “This is what I get for trying to be helpful.”
The SUV didn’t have running boards. In heeled boots and a flowing dress that caught on everything, getting inside wasn’t the graceful ascent she intended.
More of an awkward, determined scramble.
She braced a hand on the doorframe, hiked the dress out of the way, and tried to hoist herself up without giving the entire neighborhood a show.
“Need a hand?” Coop offered politely, though the amusement in his voice was impossible to miss.
“No. I’ve got it,” she grunted, one foot slipping on the gravel before she finally hauled her butt into the seat. She smoothed her dress as if that somehow restored her dignity.
“You good?” he asked, and she could practically hear the smile he was trying not to show.
“Yes, thank you,” she said through her teeth.
Avoiding eye contact, she settled into the seat, cheeks flushed as he shut the door and came around. Honestly. Did she really think he was attractive? Clearly, she needed to schedule an eye exam first thing in the morning.
“This is Ranger O’Reilly, my partner,” Lt. Cooper said as he slid behind the wheel.
She glanced at the other occupant of the front seat. The younger man put a finger to the brim of his hat. He didn’t say a word, but from his smile, he also found her amusing.
Erica folded her arms. This was going to be as much fun as a root canal.
The ride was silent except for the hum of the engine. Lt. Cooper focused on the road, hands steady on the wheel. She couldn’t read him, not intuitively or with her gift, and that unsettled her more than anything.
The quiet got to her. “I’ve told you all I know,” she said. “I’m not sure what going downtown will accomplish.”
“Just cooperate, and this will go quicker, ma’am,” O’Reilly drawled.
She frowned. His authority exceeded hers, but he was at least fifteen years her junior and more condescending than necessary. Determined to keep her mouth shut for the rest of the ride, she bit the inside of her lip and stared out the window.
It lasted two minutes.
“Why are the Texas Rangers investigating a local murder?” she asked. “I thought you guys handled major crimes and corruption cases.”
“We can’t discuss an ongoing investigation,” O’Reilly said.
“I wasn’t asking you to,” she muttered. “It was a general question.”
Lieutenant Cooper spoke for the first time since they’d left, meeting her eyes in the rearview. “Who said it was a murder?”
She froze. He’d used the word tragedy.
Great. Open mouth, insert foot, become a suspect in a capital crime.
Way to go, Erica.
“I assumed… with the coroner…” She shut her mouth with a click, wondering if she needed to ask for an attorney. Either way, she exercised her right to remain silent the rest of the way.
When they pulled into the Leon Valley police station ten minutes later, she sat forward in her seat. “I thought we were going to headquarters downtown.”
“Rangers go where the crimes happen and collaborate with local law enforcement, including using their facilities,” O’Reilly explained as he opened the door for her.
When she hopped down, her heel caught on a rock, and she wobbled. The young officer reached out to steady her.
The moment his fingers brushed her sleeve, sensation skimmed across her skin. It was light, quick, and more static than shock. Not danger or darkness but a wash of impatience, like the restless itch of someone who’d rather be anywhere else tonight. She knew the feeling.
Beneath it came an intimate thread, almost embarrassing in its clarity: anticipation, attraction, and the distracted warmth of a man thinking about a woman who wasn’t standing in this parking lot.
She jerked away. “Please don’t touch me,” she said, with more heat than she intended. But it was late, and on a normal night, she would have been in bed an hour ago, a place she’d much rather be.
O’Reilly held up his hands, taken aback. “Sorry. Only trying to help.”
Coop was there instantly. “Problem?”
“She jumped as if I scalded her,” O’Reilly said, confused and more than a little defensive.
“I’m sorry,” she said, gentling her tone. “I don’t like to be touched.”
The lieutenant scanned her face—questioning, calculating, seeing way too much. “Understood,” he said, gesturing toward the entrance. “This way, please.”
The men walked on either side of her, giving her a wide berth as they escorted her inside.
***
Erica had been a TV crime-show buff until her life turned into one. She’d watched everything from the old Dragnet reruns to all the CSIs, always wondering how much Hollywood got wrong.
Now, she knew.
The interrogation room was cold and gray, furnished with nothing but a metal table, two chairs, and lighting so harsh, it would make anyone look guilty. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see Sgt. Joe Friday stride in and start grilling her. Instead, she got Lt. Cooper.
He held the door for her, waved her toward a chair, and offered her a bottle of water. She declined. Then, without a single, “Just the facts, ma’am,” he left her alone.
Minutes dragged by. Her nerves prickled. She stared at the blank wall, trying not to imagine Cheyenne staring at one like it.
When the lieutenant returned, he carried a folder. She had a really bad feeling—not her gift, just her experience talking—about what was inside.
“How much longer are you going to keep me here, Lieutenant?” she asked.
“This won’t take long.” He spread several newspaper clippings across the table. Some were a decade old, some more recent. All familiar. “Tell me about these cases,” he said. “They say you’re a psychic.”
She sighed. “Some people call me that. Others say I’m sensitive. Most call me a whack job.”
Her attempt at humor fell flat. “What do you call it?” he asked.
“I prefer empath,” she said.
“Explain that to me.”
Erica clasped her hands together, taking a moment to steady herself.
“I experience other people’s memories and emotions.
Usually, when I touch them or items they’ve handled.
Sometimes I’ll sense them even without being near, but in those instances, it’s almost always connected to an emotional event. ”
“Like violence?”
“Yes. And trauma—pain, fear, loss.” She settled into the familiar rhythm of a speech she’d given too many times.
“Powerful emotions give off energy, and sometimes it finds me.” Actually, it often found her, but she didn’t share that.
She lifted her chin and went on. “Let me be clear. I don’t read minds.
I’m not a medium. Nor do I commune with the dead. Their emotions die with them.”
He took it all in, thankfully without mocking her. “Explain how it finds you?”