8. Chapter 8 #2
I have questioned witnesses after violent incidents.
People remember fragments. Sound distorts.
Time contracts. The mind fills missing spaces with whatever makes the experience coherent.
Pressing for detail is necessary, but there is a point when questions stop clarifying and begin sounding like disbelief.
I passed that point two miles ago.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong.”
“You aren’t saying I’m right.”
“I don’t know what happened.”
“Neither do I,” she says, softer now.
I park outside my cabin and turn off the engine. Loralee keeps her face angled toward the window.
“I believe you saw something that frightened you,” I say.
“That sounds like something people tell children after nightmares.”
“It isn’t meant that way.”
“How is it meant?”
“I don’t understand what happened to you. I do understand that you were on the ground, unable to speak, trying to wipe my blood off your hands.”
Her head turns.
“I didn’t see what you saw,” I continue. “I saw you.”
Some of the resistance leaves her face.
“That is the evidence I have,” I say. “It is enough for me to take this seriously.”
Loralee gazes at me for several seconds. “Even if you don’t believe it was a vision?”
“Yes.”
“That must be uncomfortable.”
“It is.”
“Good.”
I almost smile. “Can you walk?”
“I believe so.”
“I’ll remain nearby.”
“That was appropriately phrased.”
We enter the cabin together.
The main room contains a small kitchen, a table covered with equipment and incident reports, and a sofa facing a stone fireplace.
A narrow hallway leads to the bedroom and bathroom.
The space is functional rather than comfortable, although one of my employees stocked the kitchen before the festival.
Loralee stops near the door. I lock the door behind us.
“Sit wherever you’re comfortable.”
Loralee chooses the sofa and places both feet flat on the floor. Her hands rest over her knees. The posture matches the way she grounded herself after yesterday’s reading.
“Would quiet help?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to leave the room?”
She looks up quickly. “No.”
The answer emerges before she can soften it.
I place her canvas bag within reach and move toward the kitchen. “Tea?”
“What kind?”
“There are boxes.”
“That does not answer the question.”
I open the cabinet. “Black tea. Green tea. Chamomile. Something labeled Evening Restoration.”
“Evening Restoration?”
“One of my employees bought it.”
“I already like this employee of yours.”
I examine the label. “Chamomile, lemon balm, lavender, and passionflower.”
“That one.”
I fill the kettle and set it on the stove. Loralee watches me without speaking. Her color has improved, but fatigue still rests heavily around her eyes.
When the water heats, I make the tea according to the instructions instead of estimating. I carry the mug to her and place it on the table within reach.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She wraps both hands around it and closes her eyes as the steam rises toward her face.
I sit at the opposite end of the sofa, leaving space between us. For several minutes, the cabin remains quiet.
The radio on the kitchen table reports normal operations. A vehicle requires assistance near the north entrance. Two teenagers are arguing near the stage. My team handles both without escalation.
Loralee drinks half the tea. I notice she’s stopped shivering.
“What do you normally do after a vision like that?” I ask.
“I’ve never had one exactly like that.”
“What makes this different?”
“The force of it. The physical sensations. Usually, I receive images, emotions, or fragments of knowledge. This felt as though I was inside something that had already happened.”
“But you believe it hasn’t.”
“You’re sitting beside me without bleeding.”
“Valid point.”
“Visions aren’t always literal,” she continues. “I know that. Symbols overlap with ordinary things. The red flash could be my candle vessel. The smoke could come from a grill. The child may cry because she drops an ice cream.”
“And the blood?”
Her fingers tighten around the mug.
“I don’t know.”
I feel the stone in my pocket again. “Could it belong to someone else?”
“I knew it was yours.”
“How?”
“The same way I knew you were the man in my dream before I saw your face.”
The certainty in her answer should irritate me. It doesn’t. That may be more concerning than the stone in my pocket.
Loralee sets the mug on the table and leans back against the sofa. Her eyes close for several seconds, then open again.
“You need to rest.”
“I am resting.”
“You’re fighting sleep.”
“I don’t know this place.”
“You know me.”
The words leave my mouth before I think about it. Loralee looks at me.
We have known each other for three days. She knows my name, my profession, the location of an old injury, and fragments of an accident I did not describe.
I know the scents she puts into autumn candles, how many readings she can perform before becoming depleted, and the precise sound of her laughter when she thinks I am being unreasonable.
That is not enough to justify what I said. It feels true anyway.
“Yes,” she says. “I know you.”
Trust exists between us, fragile and more risky than attraction.
“You can use the bedroom,” I tell her.
“And you?”
“The sofa.”
“I’m not taking your bed.”
“You nearly collapsed.”
“That does not make me incapable of sleeping on a sofa.”
“I need access to the radio and equipment. You need quiet.”
She checks out the hallway. “How long am I staying?”
“Until you can drive safely.”
“That could be an hour.”
“It could.”
“Or morning.”
“If necessary.”
The awareness between us returns. Less sharp than it was inside her booth, but deeper.
“One bedroom,” she says.
“Yes.”
“One sofa.”
“Yes.”
“And an entire security team occupying the cabin downhill.”
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose my virtue is adequately protected.”
I look at her. Loralee’s tired smile contains the first trace of her usual humor.
“I wasn’t concerned about your virtue.”
“No?”
“I’m concerned about mine.”
Her lips part. The awareness between us deepens into something more intense. I should redirect the conversation, check the radio, or move to the opposite side of the cabin. Instead, I remain beside her while heat gathers beneath the restraint I have spent three days attempting to maintain.
Loralee’s gaze drops briefly to my mouth. But she allows exhaustion to win. Her head sinks against the back of the sofa, and her eyes close. The tension leaves her face by degrees.
I wait until her breathing becomes even before standing. She does not wake when I lift her into my arms.
Her body fits against mine with an ease that should not feel so familiar. One arm falls loosely around my neck. Her face turns into my chest, and her breath warms the skin above my collar.
I carry her into the bedroom and lower her onto the mattress. After removing her boots, I pull the blanket over her and place her bag near the bedside table.
As I straighten, her fingers close around my wrist.
“Rocco?”
“I’m here.”
Her eyes remain closed.
“Don’t let it happen.”
I know what she means. I also know promises are precarious when the outcome depends on things no one can control. I make this one anyway.
“I won’t.”