Chapter 12
The ride back to Skye’s was a disorienting spiral.
Only Marcelle, her head tucked securely beneath his chin, kept him grounded.
Violet knew who he was. How in the hell?
Had she always been popping in and out of his life, checking on him?
Spying on him? The answer had to be a resounding, gut-wrenching yes. How did it make him feel?
Never pleased. Furious.
For the last few months, he’d painstakingly shoved Archibald and Violet into separate, sealed pigeonholes.
They were out of his life, and rehashing the hurt they’d caused was a waste of energy.
Focusing on Rory and Robert had to be his priority.
But now, Archibald and Violet were tearing open old wounds, forcing him to deal with the hurt again, and he couldn’t even tell them he knew the truth.
When Remy stopped the car in front of Skye’s house, Clay didn’t want to hop out of the rumble seat. Sitting there with Marcelle, her warmth a shield against his reality, had been extraordinary, and he wasn’t ready for the intimacy to end.
Remy and Skye didn’t wait for them. They ran toward the front door arm-in-arm like newlyweds.
“They forgot all about us,” Marcelle said.
“Remy didn’t forget. It didn’t look like he was paying attention, but he knew Capone’s goons were hanging out across the street and exactly where they were.”
“Are you sure? It didn’t look that way.”
“I know him, and the other men in the family.” Clay’s voice cut out, leaving a thick, sudden quiet. “They possess an uncanny, almost predatory awareness.”
“Bastien’s like that, and so are you. Did you serve?”
“No, but I’m proud of those who did and thankful for their service. If I’m observant, it comes from being a sketch artist and investigative journalist.”
“I’d like to see your sketches.” The flicker in her eyes sharpened to an intense focus.
He patted his jacket pocket, a habitual gesture for the journal he typically carried, only to find it empty—he’d left without it that morning.
“I have several sketches of you and Skye at the restaurant last night,” he revealed, his gaze fixed on her reaction, uncertain if his intense scrutiny would offer comfort or leave her disarmed.
Her jaw tightened, a muscle visibly jumping near her ear as he continued, “Remy was freaking out because you were with Capone. He thought for sure Bastien would come after him for allowing that to happen.”
She dismissed the concern with a wave of her hand. “Bastien would go after Capone before Remy.”
“But he’d try, and that’s the dangerous part. You can’t mess with gangsters.” Clay shivered involuntarily. “They have no moral compass. They wouldn’t think twice about slicing your throat.”
Clay needed to get out of the car now, before Remy looked out the door and growled at him for lingering in the danger zone. “We’d better go in.” Clay jumped out and then reached for Marcelle. “Let me help you.” She put her hands on his shoulders, and he swung her effortlessly to the ground.
She batted her eyelashes in mock innocence. “Thank you, sir.”
“Anything for you, my dear.” He tucked her hand to his side, and they strolled toward the front door. “Did you learn eyelash fluttering from Skye?”
“Does she do it?”
“Yeah. The effect’s both innocent and seductive.”
Marcelle dropped her chin but looked up through those fluttering lashes. “Then I won’t stop.”
There was a lump in his throat, hard and unswallowable, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Should he kiss Marcelle? Was she asking to be kissed? Before he could figure it out, his eyes twitched, and that only happened when he had visions.
The world stopped spinning on its axis, and a vision began playing in his mind’s eye with absolute clarity and certainty.
Archibald and Violet sprint, chased by an unseen threat.
I’m guarding their rear, urging them to hurry.
The night is a black void—no moon, no stars, no streetlights.
We’re in a tunnel, trapped. A dangling light bulb cast a sickly glow.
The air is heavy with the reek of stale whisky and decay.
Rats swarm past my legs. Violet’s fingers graze my hand, seeking connection, but my palm is slick with sweat, preventing a secure grip.
Inside my mind, raw fear and blinding pain wage a fierce, exhausting war.
A frantic tug ripped at his sleeve. “Clay, what’s wrong? Answer me.”
A wave of heightened focus and adrenaline disoriented him. Violet left me, and I’m falling further behind. I’ll never catch up.
“Clay!”
He tensed, a reflexive jerk throughout his body. “What? Don’t yell. I’m hurt.”
“What hurts?”
His teeth clattered uncontrollably. The rest of him screamed in agony, his extremities unresponsive. Had he been diving and missed the compression stop on the way up?
“Everything hurts.”
“How’d you get hurt?”
He gave a slow, deliberate head shake. “I plummeted off a cliff, shattered my leg, and I’m paralyzed.”
Marcelle cupped his face in her hands. “You’re here, safe, and unharmed.”
He jerked his head free of her hands. “My leg’s broken.”
“No, it’s not. You’re okay. You had a flashback to a time when you got hurt? When was that?”
He was exhausted and confused. “I’ve fallen twice, but what happened just now merged those two events. It’s not all a flashback because one event hasn’t happened.” He reached down to rub his leg. “Ouch. I injured my leg.”
“When?”
He remembered the waiter’s tray—shattered glass, the clatter and skitter of it across the floor. “At lunch,” he said, pressing his fingers briefly to his thigh. “Glass cut my leg.”
“Is the glass still there?” she asked calmly, already shifting closer, her tone steady enough to anchor him.
“I took care of it.” He straightened a little, as if to prove the point.
“Good.” She slipped her hand around his arm and gave a gentle tug. “Let’s head inside and clean up your wound.”
Clarity was returning now. His pulse slowed, the echo of panic receding until it felt almost distant. “If Remy spots me,” he said, managing a faint smile, “he’ll insist on a physical, and his only prescription will be a shot of whisky.”
She didn’t smile back. “In the part that hasn’t happened,” she asked, watching him closely, “were you a spectator or a participant?”
“Participant.” The word came out heavier than he had expected. “In all my other visions, I watched from a distance.”
Her grip on his arm tightened just a fraction. “How many have you had?”
“Dozens over two decades. But this one was different. I took a nasty spill a couple of years ago while rock climbing. Then I fell again while hiking in the Adirondacks with Roosevelt. The fall left me battered, but with no broken bones. This vision combined both falls, layering in a new event involving Archibald and Violet. We were all running through a tunnel, but my leg ached, and I couldn’t keep up with them. ”
“You thought they left you behind.” She stroked her finger over the scar on his face. “Is this from one of your falls?”
He put his hand over hers, instantly recalling the terror of that accident. “The first one. The surgeon said I could have plastic surgery later, and the scar wouldn’t be noticeable.”
“I wouldn’t have it fixed. It gives you character.”
He gazed into her hazel eyes, a combination of green and gold, and lingered there.
She cleared her throat and then lowered her eyes for a second. “Let’s get back to your vision. Have you been running through tunnels?”
“Maybe as a kid, but not as an adult.”
“Do you think seeing your father today triggered it?”
“And my mother. She was the woman in the purple dress.”
Marcelle stared at him, unblinking, the blood draining from her face. “Why didn’t you say something?” she whispered, the words barely audible.
Clay shivered. “It wasn’t important.”
“Seeing someone who causes you anxiety might not just be uncomfortable. It could be a trauma trigger leading to an overwhelming and uncontrollable response.”
“Are you a trauma trigger expert now?” Clay nearly jumped at the spikiness in his tone that caused her eyes to turn smoky with anger. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
She leveled her gaze on him. “Bastien has PTSD. It’s manageable now, but I’ve had to learn how to help him when he has flashbacks and not to take it personally when he strikes out at me.”
“He lost his leg in Afghanistan. I’m not surprised he has PTSD. My nasty falls pale in comparison.”
“Nobody’s comparing traumas,” Marcelle said quietly. “A childhood rape differs from the loss of a leg in battle, but both traumas are life-altering—and both can leave lifelong marks on the mind.”
He hesitated. “Were you assaulted?”
“No.” She shook her head once. “But I have a friend who was.”
“I’m sorry about your friend.”
A wistful, reflective smile crossed Marcelle’s face—not sad, exactly, but tempered by memory.
“She’s happily married. Two kids. A job she loves.
” She paused, choosing her words. “She’ll tell you she took what happened and forged it into armor.
It took her a while to reach that point, but she’s good now. ”
He studied her. “She’s lucky to have you as a friend.”
Marcelle shrugged lightly, though her eyes stayed on his. “I’m not trying to collect friends with traumas—but I am here for you, too.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Sounds like I’m getting the best end of the deal.”
“I’m not so sure. I’m making a friend who plays the double bass, guitar, flute, saxophone, and piano. So, I’m getting the best end of that deal.”
He chuckled a little at that. “Okay, friend. I need to walk off this excess energy and tension. If there were a home gym, I’d head straight there. Give me about thirty minutes.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Not this time.” He took a slow breath, steadying himself. “I need a few minutes to recenter.”
She studied his face, then nodded. “I understand that feeling.” Her gaze flicked past him, toward the other side of the street. “Be careful. Capone’s men are still over there.”