Chapter 17
Long shadows from the late-afternoon sun stretched across the yard. The scent of charcoal and grilled burgers lingered in the air, mingling with sunscreen and freshly cut grass. Someone had already stacked graham crackers and marshmallows near the fire pit for later.
The lawn behind McNabb’s house sloped gently toward a wooden fence.
Lawn chairs formed a loose semicircle around the makeshift softball diamond scratched into the grass.
Erica sat cross-legged on a blanket, pleasantly full of potato salad and lemonade but debating whether she could manage a s’more after the game.
Coop walked up to the plate.
A few of the women whistled.
One Ranger shouted, “I’ve got a case of Shiner riding on this game, Lieutenant. Don’t let me down.”
He rolled his shoulders, took a practice cut, and settled into the batter’s box.
The first pitch came in low and away. He watched it go by.
The second pitch had more heat. He drove it, the crack of the bat echoing through the yard. Not a line drive but a clean launch that cleared the fence.
Cheers erupted from half the spectators, including her. The other half groaned because Coop had tied it up, and the winning run was coming to the plate.
She clapped as he rounded the bases at an unhurried jog. When he crossed home, his teammates swarmed him.
Taller than most, he glanced over their heads and found her. A slow grin curved his lips.
“Oh, that man,” a woman sighed. “If I weren’t married…”
“You mean if you were fifteen years younger and didn’t have two grandchildren and a third on the way, don’t you, Marian?” someone called.
“All trivial matters,” she said dreamily to snickers and laughter.
The next batter stepped up, and they all settled.
First pitch. Swing and a miss.
Second pitch. Popped up foul. Relieved murmurs as the first baseman ran for it, but not fast enough.
“You’re late, Anderson!” someone yelled. “Choke up!”
Third pitch. Contact. But the ball sliced toward the blankets and chairs along the first-base line. Erica ducked instinctively, covering her head as it skipped off a lawn chair and rolled to a stop near her knee.
Heat rose in her cheeks as she reached for it. A real psychic would’ve seen that coming.
Another spectator reached for the scuffed yellow ball along with her. Their fingers brushed, and a jolt went through her.
She saw a man’s hand clamped around a slender wrist. His square-cut diamond ring caught the light as his grip tightened, deliberately cruel. The walls closed in, no way out. Helplessness that wasn’t hers slammed into her all the same.
And maybe the most chilling of all—mint. Cool, crisp, too close, and too familiar.
It was the same mint broadcast from Cheyenne, and on the money bag.
This woman, a stranger, was connected to the same man. The same violence. The same danger. Was this a new nightmare starting, or a continuation of the last?
Dear heavens! She’d barely had a minute to breathe.
Suddenly lightheaded, she tore her hand away.
The ball dropped to the grass. The distant roar in her head ended with the connection, replaced with music, laughter, and someone calling for another beer. Beside her stood a young blonde with glossy pink lipstick and sun-flushed cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—” She stopped mid-sentence, concern cutting through. “Are you hurt? Did it hit you?”
She couldn’t answer. The ring. The mint. That crushing grip. They looped in her mind with the same wrongness as before, like a warning she wasn’t supposed to ignore.
“I… um, excuse me…” Her voice sounded distant. “I just need something cold to drink.”
A worried crease formed between the blonde’s brows. “Yeah, it’s hot.”
She stood on unsteady legs.
“Let me help you,” the woman offered.
“No!” Erica snapped, pulling away. If she touched her again, no telling what she might see.
She moved carefully, each step deliberate, toward the house. The noise dimmed with every yard she put between herself and the game.
Inside, she found the bathroom and locked the door. She braced against the sink, dragging in gulps of air. Time blurred. Seconds, maybe minutes, passed as she slowly steadied enough to look up.
Her reflection was colorless. Not sick, shaken, like she’d seen a ghost.
But had she? The images were disjointed, but they didn’t seem to be in the past. The grip in her vision had been hard enough to bruise. But when their hands collided reaching for the ball, the blonde’s wrist was smooth and unmarked.
Maybe what she’d seen hadn’t happened yet, which meant there was still time to save her.
A knock sounded. Coop’s voice came through the door, urgent. “Erica? Someone said you were sick. Is everything all right?”
Before he could knock again, she yanked the door open. “We have to find her.”
His brows drew together. “Find who? What happened?”
“A young woman at the softball game. She’s terrified.”
He studied her face carefully. “You saw something.”
Erica nodded, swallowing hard. “She’s in danger.”
“From who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it someone here?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated, her voice rising. “All I know is we have to find her and help her.”
He didn’t argue and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”
When they returned outside, the party was thinning. Chairs folding. Kids arguing about s’mores, someone calling for leftovers to be wrapped up.
“She was watching the game,” she said, scanning faces.
“It ended twenty minutes ago,” he said. “That’s why I came to find you.”
More time lost than she thought. Erica glanced toward the driveway. “Maybe she’s already left.”
“Let’s check the front.”
When his arm settled around her waist, strong and supportive, she didn’t realize how much she needed it.
They rounded the house. A red pickup was parked at the curb. The blonde stood beside the passenger door, laughing at something O’Reilly said.
“There,” she said, doing all she could not to point. “With your partner.”
He swept the yard until he found him. Then his mouth compressed a fraction. “That’s Shannon Carter. O’Reilly’s new girlfriend.”
Erica let that soak in. His partner’s girlfriend broadcasting terror couldn’t be a coincidence. More telling, how many people broadcast mint?
“What do you know about her?”
“Not much. We met earlier this week. She works for Senator Burnside.”
“That’s interesting,” she murmured, watching the pair closely.
O’Reilly was taller, broader, cocky in a way that was sometimes abrasive, and far too pleased with himself. But he didn’t have the cold control she’d felt. He was pickup trucks and hand-tooled leather, not the showy diamond-ring type. Instinct told her he wasn’t the man she’d seen with Shannon.
When he opened the truck door and helped Shannon climb in, it confirmed her belief. But as they drove away, her unease didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened, settling low in her stomach.
Coop took her hand. “We can go too, if you’re ready.”
They walked in silence farther down the block to his truck. In the cab, both buckled, he started the engine and switched on the AC, shutting out everything except the two of them.
“Tell me,” he said.
She inhaled, the images still echoing in her mind. “I saw a man with big hands and a diamond ring. He had her by the wrist and wasn’t gentle.”
“Recently?”
“I don’t think so. She didn’t have any bruises that I could tell.”
“Future, then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” She swallowed before she gave him the rest. “I got mint, Vince. It was strong. The same as with the money, and Cheyenne.”
He went still. “Kedrov?”
“I didn’t see his face either time. But the mint as a common thread is damning, don’t you agree?”
He stared through the windshield, jaw set.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“If my partner is compromised… or if he’s being used.”
“Which would be better?”
He looked at her. “Either way, I have to move carefully.”
“O’Reilly knows about me.”
“Yeah.”
“If he told Shannon, she might tell Kedrov, especially after today…”
“Other than tense, you didn’t get a clue about their relationship?”
She exhaled shakily. “My visions don’t come with subtitles. I wish they did.”
“I’ll put it together.”
She reached for his hand. Not casually. Needing an anchor.
“Breathe, darlin’,” he urged, as he laced his fingers through hers.
She didn’t nod or give him an okay this time. That was easier said than done.
***
Erica gripped his hand all the way to her house. As the miles rolled by, something else began building beneath the fear. In her driveway, he shut off the engine. Neither of them moved. The tick of hot metal filled the silence.
Coop lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles, lingering there.
“I’m sorry you have to deal with this, darlin’.”
“Me too,” she whispered.
His thumb brushed over her pulse point. “Come here.”
She unbuckled and leaned into him. He pulled her close, arms enveloping her firmly as if he knew she was shattering and he could physically hold her together.
His strength, words of comfort whispered gently, his lips against her head felt so damn good. Usually, she dealt with this alone. Tonight, she didn’t have to.
As the seconds passed, still wired, the tension spiraling inside her, she needed more than comfort. She needed a physical connection. A lot more than she was getting now with the console between them.
She hiked her skirt up and shifted into his lap, facing him astride. The heat of him registered instantly, solid and immediate between her thighs. His hands came to her hips.
“Erica—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She cupped his face and kissed him. And she wasn’t tentative or playful or sweet, as much as desperate.
He returned the kiss, slower, more measured, trying to rein in the pace she was setting.
“We should go inside.”
“It’s dark.” Her fingers traced the buttons of his shirt, sliding lower. “No one will see.”
He stilled at the edge in her voice. “Darlin’, you’re wired.”
“I know.” She stayed close, her lips grazing his. “But I need this. I need you.” She reached his waistband, pausing there. She had enough control and sense left not to proceed before he agreed.
“Does sex usually calm you after a vision?”
“I don’t know.” It was an answer she’d given too many times in the last hour. “I’ve never tried it before.”
His fingers threaded through her hair, and he angled her face up to his. He studied her, measuring the moment. She thought he would refuse her. Then his eyes dropped to her mouth.
“I’m here however you need me, darlin’.”
It went frantic after that. Only the necessary clothes came undone—and, thank God, he had a condom in his wallet.
She guided him to her center and took all of him in one glide.
The sudden, breathtaking stretch pulled a broken sound from her throat.
The fullness silenced everything cold and terrible in her head—anchoring her in something real, something she needed.
His hands slid under her skirt, palming her cheeks, but she didn’t need the guidance—she rode him hard and fast.
The leather creaked under her knees, the windows fogged white, the whole truck rocking—neither of them cared.
She felt the solid weight of him, the drag of him inside her.
His grip tightened on her backside, fingers digging in as he pulled her down harder.
The angle shifted, sending him deeper, almost unbearably so.
The tension in her snapped all at once, her fingers fisting in his hair as her body locked tight around him.
That was it for him, too. His hips drove up once, twice, then he followed her over, both of them groaning—nothing quiet about it.
For Erica, reality returned in layers. The thud of their hearts, the heat of the cab, the ragged quiet where urgency had been. Then the weight of what had just happened crashed down all at once.
She hid her face in his collar, her body shaking as she fought tears.
Her reaction didn’t seem to surprise him. He gathered her close, his arms locking around her and held on.
“I can’t believe I did that,” she said, voice raspy. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. It’s what you needed.” His hand stroked slowly along her spine. “Now let the rest of it out.”
And she did, the floodgates bursting open on years of bottled-up emotions.
Ugly, heaving sobs wracked her. The kind she’d never let anyone witness. He didn’t flinch. He simply held her.
When she was all cried out, his shirt damp with her tears, she sat up, sniffling.
He opened the glove box and fished around. “No Kleenex. Napkins,” he said, wiping her cheeks himself. He went back for a second, handing it to her so she could blow. She dabbed her nose, drawing the line there.
“Gotta say, darlin’, that was a deluge.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I don’t expect you volunteered for this.”
She sighed. “You’d be right.”
“Does this… catharsis happen every time?”
“Never.”
“Why now? I would think seeing Debra Wilson dead through Cheyenne’s eyes was more terrifying.”
She grimaced as the image resurfaced. “That was pretty graphic.”
“Didn’t mean it as a reminder.” He picked up her hand and laced their fingers together. “What was different tonight?”
“You. I never had anyone to hold on to before.”
His fingers flexed. “Damn, darlin’… you’re breaking my heart.”
“That wasn’t my intention.” She offered a tentative smile. “This catharsis was freeing. Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he drawled with a hint of amusement.
“I bet dealing with a torrent of tears after sex was a first for you.” She searched his face, suddenly vulnerable in a different way. “I’ll try not to let it happen again.”
His thumb brushed along her still-damp cheek. “I meant what I said. Whatever you need.”
He drew her in for a kiss, tender this time, nothing frantic about it. When he raised his head, she sighed. “Do you think we’ll ever get to the point of going slow?”
He considered that. “A novel approach. Maybe in a month or a year.”
“Or never?” she suggested, more than pleased he was thinking that far ahead.
He grinned. “That works too.”
Headlights swept over them briefly, breaking the moment.
“I think it’s time to go inside,” he said softly.
She stopped him with his hand on the door. “Will you stay?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
“Then try to stop me.”