The Gift (Empath Investigations #1)

Chapter 1

Erica shut her front door and sagged against. She closed her eyes for what seemed like the first time in a week. When the emotions, sensations, and visions invaded her sleep, even her waking hours, they never stopped until she understood what they wanted from her.

For the past few nights, she'd drifted off easily only to be yanked awake by flashes she couldn't hold onto. Shadows sliding over concrete. A silver arc cutting through darkness. A cold stab of fear that didn’t belong to her. No faces. No voices. Nothing she could use.

Every fragment slipped away the moment she reached for it, leaving her wrung out and raw.

She pressed her fingertips to her temples. Since she was twelve, it had been this way.

With a tired sigh, she pushed off from the door and walked into the kitchen.

Parched from the relentless July heat, she opened the fridge and perused her options.

She considered the bottle of pinot noir, tempted.

Alcohol never dulled the visions, only blurred them, making them harder to decipher, and usually rewarded her with a headache.

“Tea it is.”

She grabbed the pitcher and poured a tall glass, pressing it to her flushed cheeks before taking a sip.

Desperate for WD-40, the screen door shrieked as she stepped out onto her covered porch. The humidity hadn’t decreased with the evening, so she flipped on the ceiling fan.

The heavy air held the scent of freshly cut grass. Crickets chirped, and cicadas buzzed. They were loud enough to fill the quiet, but not to smother the groan of the hooks overhead as she sank onto the wooden swing.

She kicked off her sandals and pushed with her bare feet. The rocking usually soothed her. Not tonight. A prickle ran along the back of her neck.

She wasn’t alone.

Adjusting to the subtle glow of the porch light, she squinted out into the yard. The shadows under the oak tree shifted, and a pair of yellow eyes blinked at her.

For a split second, her mind conjured every horror-movie possibility. Then a form took shape as a gray cat moved into the circle cast by the single-bulb porch light.

“Oh,” she breathed, resting a hand on her chest. “It’s you again.”

The cat had appeared three nights in a row. Never in the same spot but always watching.

“You’re starting to feel like surveillance,” she muttered.

Her comment elicited only a solitary tail twitch.

Erica peered closer. “You’re thin, kitty. Is anyone feeding you?”

This time, the cat answered with a plaintive meow, as if it understood.

She set her tea down and ducked inside, returning with a generous scoop of tuna on a paper plate. She placed it on the porch and retreated to the swing.

With her at a safe distance, the cat devoured its supper. When finished, it didn’t bolt, leaping up beside her to settle in for a bath instead.

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, aren’t you bold?”

Reaching out slowly so as not to frighten it, she gave it a gentle ear scratch. A deep purr vibrated in response.

That was when she noticed the pink collar studded with rhinestones. They were a little wonky, as if set by hand. It dangled a bit from her neck. Far too loose.

“Let’s fix this before you lose it,” she murmured.

As she opened the buckle, the metal tag brushed her skin.

Emotion hit like a jolt of current surging through her chest. Her breath caught on someone else’s panic, and pain. The bite of plastic ties dug into raw wrists. It felt hot, intense, not a memory but now.

Images flared next, sudden and intrusive. A filthy bathroom. Cracked tile. A mirror above a rust-stained sink, the glass hazy from grime.

In the reflection, a girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Dark hair stiff with dried blood. A split lip. One eye bruised and swollen. Her T-shirt was torn, exposing a crescent-moon tattoo inked below her collarbone, three small stars orbiting like a constellation.

When the girl’s breath hitched, she felt the drag inside her own lungs, a terrifying, perfect sync.

Her body jerked in reaction, making the swing lurch beneath her.

The connection with her snapped hard as the collar slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the porch.

The cat startled, tail puffed, but Erica barely registered the movement.

Urgency took hold, rooted in the need to help, even without knowing where, when, or how.

The vision was already fraying, fading fast, like all the others, and too quick to fully grasp. It was too little to take to the police.

With a life at stake, frustration gnawed at her. Most days, her supposed gift felt more like a curse.

The cat meowed as it wound around her ankles, indifferent to what had just torn through her.

“What now, kitty?” she asked, as if she had the answers.

The collar lay near her feet. Unwilling to touch it again, she nudged it with her shoe into a shaft of moonlight. Squinting at the engraved tag, she saw the cat’s name, Whiskers. There was also a number to call if found.

She could do that, at least.

“I bet your family has been worried about you,” she said, already dialing.

The call went straight to voicemail. A cheerful teenage girl’s voice, “You’ve reached Cheyenne! You know what to do.”

Fingers shaking, she nearly dropped her phone as she ended the call. The face in the mirror tugged at her. Eyes that might have been familiar in another light. The bruising and swelling made it hard to tell.

Her focus shifted to the house catty-corner across the street.

From here, she could only make out the driveway.

She stood and walked to the end of the porch.

Debra and Thomas Wilson’s two-story colonial came into view.

She couldn’t even call them acquaintances; she knew them by sight, nothing else, except that they had a teenage daughter named Cheyenne.

When had she last seen a lamp on over there? The porch light? The glow of the TV through the curtains? Headlights in the driveway?

Nothing came to mind.

Her gaze cut to Whiskers, crouched at the edge of the porch, watching her.

Three nights of unclear visions. Three nights of the cat appearing—Cheyenne Wilson’s cat. Was Whiskers trying to reach her when the girl could not?

She huffed softly. “Right, Erica. Now, you’re Dr. Dolittle.”

But something wasn’t quite right across the street. She searched her phone for the police department. After a moment of indecision, she dialed the non-emergency number. They answered on the third ring.

“Leon Valley Police.”

“I’d like to request a welfare check.”

“Yes, ma’am. What’s the address?”

She gave it, listening to the clack of keys as the dispatcher typed. “Is there someone elderly at the residence? Anyone with a medical condition?”

“I don’t know.”

The typing stopped. “What’s the concern?”

Erica hesitated. The fear she’d felt was real, but revealing her gift came with the risk of being dismissed as a crackpot. She weighed the chance of being ignored against her responsibility to help and stuck to facts the police might believe.

“The house has been dark for days. No one has come or gone that I’ve seen. I found their cat wandering outside. That’s unusual. I wanted to make sure everything’s all right.”

“Can I have your name?”

“I’d… rather not say.”

A pause. “Ma’am—”

“Please, send someone to check it out.”

She ended the call and then sat motionless, remembering. Whenever she got involved, things became complicated, sometimes dangerous. El Paso had taught her that.

But she couldn’t ignore the fear she’d felt, or the things she’d seen. Or that a teenage girl was out there somewhere, captive, terrified, maybe fighting to stay alive.

If calling meant trouble landed on her doorstep again, so be it. She couldn’t stand by and do nothing.

Cheyenne deserved better. Anyone would.