Chapter 6
The only thing more comforting than the Lantern House’s fireplace was the company of women who wouldn’t let Grace collapse into a puddle of her own panic.
The four of them, Grace, Caroline, Anna, and Olivia, clustered on the sofa, knees almost touching, mugs of cocoa and a bottle of cheap red wine splitting the difference on the low wooden coffee table.
Grace pressed her toes closer to the fire, soaking in its heat through two layers of thick socks, and wished her heart would stop feeling like it was about to punch its way through her ribs.
It wasn’t just the visions, though that played its part.
The electrocution scare at the tree lighting had taken something out of her, like a car battery run down by headlights left on overnight.
She tugged her blanket tighter, the plush tartan swallowing her like a burrito.
“I’ve never seen you so pale,” Olivia said, voice low but not unkind. She set her mug down with a practiced elegance. “It suits your coloring, if that’s any comfort.”
“I guess I should be thankful for the small things,” Grace said, followed by a humorless laugh.
Caroline refilled her own glass, sloshed a little into Grace’s abandoned mug, and grinned over the rim. “I’ll trade you my hangover for your psychic trauma. At least the wine wears off.”
Anna’s hand, cool and oddly strong, found Grace’s. “I think you’re heroic,” she said. “I would’ve frozen. Or worse, made a scene.”
Grace pictured herself on the news—Local Woman Saves Tree Lighting, Ruins Christmas—and groaned. “I did make a scene. I was a shrieking banshee.”
“Nobody remembers the shrieking,” Olivia said. “They only remember the saving everyone part.”
Caroline and Anna both laughed, and Grace let herself smile, a stitch at the edge of her panic unraveling.
The doorbell cut through the cozy din. All four women looked up, then at each other, then back to the door. Caroline finally rolled her eyes, and smiled as she muttered, “I’ll get it, even though it’s not my house,” and padded across the thick woven rug in slippers shaped like unicorns.
Grace already knew it was Bryant. She’d sensed his presence, the way his mood filled the room before he ever crossed the threshold.
She braced herself for his usual brand of stoic concern, and she was not disappointed.
Caroline opened the door, letting in a rush of cold and the scent of melting snow.
Bryant stood framed in the yellow porch light, hair and coat sprinkled with ice crystals, a set of folders clamped in his left hand.
He nodded to each woman in turn. Grace, then Olivia, then Anna, then Caroline, his eyes lingering on Grace a beat longer than necessary. He shrugged off his coat, shook it outside like a dog, and stepped in. “Ladies.”
“Bryant,” Olivia said, polite but never deferential.
He moved directly to the fireplace, nodded in approval, then turned to Grace. “You okay?”
Caroline snorted. “She’s alive, if that’s what you’re after. Could use a little more blood in her face, though.”
“I meant it,” Bryant said, looking at Grace, not Caroline. “You’re okay?”
Grace felt warmth creep up her neck, not from the fire. She nodded, unsure if she could trust her voice. “Just the usual. Visions, existential dread, and now a healthy fear of outdoor electrical infrastructure.”
Bryant let a rare smile flicker, then set the stack of manila folders on the coffee table with a purposeful slap. “Can’t say the same for the mayor’s ego. He’s upset that the tree lighting ceremony was interrupted, but you probably saved a dozen lives.”
Olivia made a noise between a snort and a huff. “Stupid mayor, not able to see the forest through the trees.”
Bryant ignored this. He surveyed the group, then took a seat at the far end of the sofa. His presence was never exactly relaxing in these situations. He was too much like a coiled spring, always ready to snap into action, but Grace found it soothing in its own way.
She eyed the folders. “What’s that?”
“Everyone who was on the stage,” Bryant said. “The official list from the Chamber, plus their background checks and statements.”
Grace let her gaze drift from the tan pile to Bryant’s face. “You think someone was specifically trying to kill someone on that stage?”
“I think it’s possible,” Bryant said. “Otherwise, someone was just killing to kill, which does happen, but I don’t think is happening right now.” He opened one of the folders, fanned out the photos and papers like a magician. “Whoever did this wanted to kill someone. Maybe more than one someone.”
Anna reached for a file, then paused, her hand hovering over the stack as if it might bite her. “Do you have a suspect?”
Bryant’s jaw worked. He ran a thumb down the edge of the first folder, tracing the manila as if it might yield a confession. “Not yet.”
Grace swallowed. The blanket felt suddenly heavier. “You want me to…what, touch the files and see if I get anything?”
His expression softened, a hair. “You’re the only one who’s been right so far.”
Olivia nudged the wine glass toward Grace with a manicured finger. “If you have to see the future, you might as well be drunk for it.”
Caroline plucked a folder from the stack, flipped it open, and slid it in front of Grace. “Start with Fire Chief Dalton. He’s probably upset some people in his long career.”
Grace hesitated. She’d never done it with so many eyes on her, or with the stakes so absurdly high. She remembered the sizzle of electricity, the ozone tang in her lungs, the vision of white-hot sparks dancing across the stage like evil snowflakes. She was already half-nauseous.
Anna squeezed her hand again. “You don’t have to if you’re not ready.”
Grace forced herself to sit up, shedding the blanket, letting the room’s chill bring her senses into sharper focus.
She reached for the folder, her fingers tingling before she even made contact.
The photo on top was the chief, a burly man with a gray-flecked beard and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
She let her hand rest on the glossy finish.
Nothing, at first.
Then: the stink of smoke, not the cozy fireplace kind but the choking, bitter stench of burning wiring and cheap insulation.
She was standing in a narrow hallway—no, a restaurant kitchen, with stainless counters and a ceramic tile floor slick with grease.
The walls were green. The floor had red tile.
The heat was unbearable. Alarms were shrieking, flames rolling up the far wall, and someone, Dalton, she guessed, was shouting for people to get out, get out now.
Her own breath grew shallow as the vision tunneled, showing her the chef’s panicked eyes as he realized there was no way out.
The door was blocked. He slammed against it with his shoulder, again and again, until the wood began to splinter.
She felt the blistering heat on her skin, the strange cold of her body knowing it was about to give up.
And then, nothing.
Grace yanked her hand away, gasping. The vision left a phantom taste of soot on her tongue, her fingers numb and trembling. She blinked and found her friends watching her with a mix of concern and awe.
“Dang,” Caroline said, voice barely above a whisper. “What did you see?”
Grace reached for the wine, took a shaky gulp, and described the kitchen, the fire, the panic. “He’s going to die in a fire. Or almost. I’m not sure.”
“Arson?” Bryant asked, already in detective mode.
“I don’t know.” Grace wiped her hand on her jeans, trying to shake off the residual chill. “Could be. I can’t be sure, but it’s suspicious that I’m having this vision about him after he nearly died on stage.”
Anna reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Grace’s ear. “Take a break. You look like you just got out of a steam bath.”
“I’m fine. I can do this.”
Grace managed a weak smile, but already Caroline had another folder open, Martha Lane’s name scrawled across the tab in bold blue ink. “Next up: Chamber of Commerce. Who doesn’t want to kill the person who schedules all the town meetings?”
Bryant cut in. “You sure you’re up for this?”
Grace nodded, though she didn’t trust her voice to hold up. She pressed her palm to Martha’s file.
A sterile whiteness enveloped her. The sharp scent of antiseptic, the beeping of medical monitors, the oppressive fluorescence of hospital lighting.
She was in a bed, her right arm swaddled in plaster and gauze, tubes snaking from her wrist. Martha Lane was there, tears in her eyes but smiling bravely for the nurse bustling at the foot of her bed.
Not dead. Not dying. Just broken.
Grace blinked out of the vision and exhaled, relief so profound she wanted to cry. “She’s going to break her arm. Maybe something worse, but she’s alive.”
Bryant wrote this down on a notepad with a little grunt. “Not fatal, then. Cross her off the murder list.”
Olivia poured herself more wine. “We’re two for two on local drama, but I’m not hearing a killer yet.”
“Third time’s the charm,” Caroline said, sliding the mayor’s file to Grace. “Try not to vomit on his face.”
Grace braced herself, then laid a hand on the glossy 8x10.
The vision hit instantly: a crowded room, laughter and music, people in suits and sequined dresses clinking champagne glasses.
The mayor was in the center of it all, holding court, grinning like a wolf with a chicken bone.
Suddenly, the lights dimmed, a hush swept the room, and a red spray, blood, splattered across a white tablecloth.
Voices rose in shock, a woman screamed, and the vision warped and spun out.
Grace pulled away, her stomach roiling. “He’s at a party. Someone gets hurt. Maybe killed.”
“Is it him?” Bryant asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. But there’s blood. Lots of it.”
Anna sighed. “This town is going to need therapy.”
The last file belonged to Tessa Monroe, the news anchor who seemed to thrive on drama and near-death experiences.
Grace hesitated, then touched the folder.
Instantly, she felt a rush of vertigo, the sickening lurch of falling.
She saw Tessa’s face, twisted in horror, as she plummeted from a balcony—no, a second-story landing—down into a ballroom packed with partygoers.
There was a moment of weightlessness, the flash of sparkling lights, then the brutal crunch of impact.
Grace jerked her hand away, nearly dropping the folder. She sucked in a breath, heart jackhammering.
Bryant leaned forward, eyes narrow. “Another accident? Or something more?”
Grace wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “She falls. Or is pushed. Hard to say. But it’s going to happen at a party, maybe the same one as the mayor’s.”
The women digested this in silence. The only sound was the whisper of logs settling in the fire and the wind rattling the stained glass above.
Bryant finally spoke. “So whoever set up the electrocution could be after any of them. Or all of them.”
Grace nodded, exhausted. “That’s what it feels like.”
Caroline stood, refilled everyone’s wine, and planted herself next to Grace on the couch. “We need to warn them all. And watch our backs.”
Bryant closed the files, face unreadable. “We’ll figure this out,” he said. “But for now, you need to rest. All of you.”
Grace wanted to protest, but she could feel the room spinning around her, the exhaustion catching up all at once. She let her head fall against the back of the sofa, the blanket re-wrapped by Anna’s gentle hands.
As the fire popped, Grace’s eyes drifted shut. But her last memory before sleep was Bryant’s hand, warm and steady, covering hers on the arm of the sofa.
She wasn’t sure if it was comfort or protection.
Maybe both.