She turned on the table lamp. “Remember when I dreamed that other murder the night it happened, exactly the way it happened?”
He didn’t move, but his gaze sharpened. “How can I forget? It was only a couple of weeks ago, and at the time, it put you at the top of my list of suspects.”
“Yeah, well, I think this is another one of those dreams.”
“Tell me everything.” He’d switched gears from sexy hunk to alert cop. His mind became a mental notebook as she described it all, minus a few prurient details, of course.
She finished with a bang. “It’s a premonition of Nadine’s murder.”
“Premonition?”
“Yeah.”
But they were too late. Nadine Johnson was already dead. Max was sure of it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
They’d taken time for quick showers. Separately, of course. Then they’d climbed into his big Dodge Ram. It hadn’t given Max quite the charge it usually did. Witnessing a murder, even if it was only on disk, tended to put a damper on some things.
She drummed her fingers on the armrest. “Did it occur to you that Nadine could have been one of those women in the video?”
Witt rolled his eyes. “Duh, Max,” he mocked. “Surprised you didn’t say that last night.”
“The thought crossed my mind as I was falling asleep.”
“A little slow on the uptake, aren’t you?”
“You’re still mad I went to Traynor’s alone.”
He flashed her a quick glance before turning back to the road. “Couldn’t be I’m worried about keeping your pretty, idiotic little neck out of jail.”
“Thanks. You think I’m pretty?”
“Trust you to pick up on that instead of the idiot part.”
She put the banter aside. “I had to do what I did, Witt. I’m the only one who knows what Bud Traynor is capable of.”
Even in hindsight, she wouldn’t change a thing. If Witt had known of her plans ahead of time, he’d have nixed them. Call it obsession, call it drive, a quest for justice—she’d had to get into Traynor’s house. She had to be the one to bring him down.
Witt waved a hand in the air. “Let’s agree to disagree, okay. I get too close to committing bodily harm whenever you open your mouth to argue with me.”
It was barely light by the time they got to Nadine’s. On a Saturday morning, there wasn’t much activity.
If she’d hoped to catch Jake Lloyd in an illicit act, she was disappointed. His truck wasn’t there. But neither was Nadine’s Mustang.
Max felt it again, that horrible tug of dread. She opened the door of the truck and slid to the ground. Lights still burned in the parking lot. A dog barked somewhere. A door closed, the sound audible in the still morning. A male jogger ran down the steps and sprinted across the road.
Witt rounded the hood to stand beside her. “What’s wrong?”
She stared up at Nadine’s front door. “Her porch light isn’t on.”
“Maybe she’s still asleep.”
She should have told him Nadine had the sleep of the dead ahead of her. But she wanted to be wrong. “Her car’s gone. I don’t think anyone’s home.”
She walked down the path and headed up the stairs. Witt was two steps behind her when she knocked on Nadine’s door, letting her fingers linger on the wood a moment. Nothing. No sensations, no visions, and no one answered the door. She moved down the front landing and knocked on the window. The curtains were closed. Nothing stirred.
Witt put his hand on her arm. His touch was warm, but it didn’t kill the chill that had settled into her bones. “She’s dead, isn’t she, Max?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
“Max.”
“I’m cold,” she whispered. She wore a sweatshirt, but the brisk morning air had crept beneath the ribbed hem and cuffs. She looked down at her fingers, the nails tinged with blue.
“What’s the matter?”
“Something terrible.” The air around her was fetid. She couldn’t breathe without gagging.
“How can I help you?”
“It hurts.”
He rubbed her arms, then brushed his fingers across her temple. “There, I’ve made it go away. You’re okay now.”
If only it was that easy. “Still hurts,” she whispered.
“I’ll take care of you.” He wrapped her inside his jacket, cuddled her in his big arms. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of his shave cream. Solid. The real world. She fisted her hands in his shirt and burrowed closer to him. Breathe in. Breathe out.
When she could, she looked up at him. His blue eyes had turned gray with concern. “She’s dead,” she whispered. “I just don’t know where. Or when. Or who did it. I didn’t see it this time.”
“That’s a good thing. For someone who’s never actually witnessed a murder, you’ve seen your share. Come on.” He kept her bundled against him as he walked her back down to the truck. She’d climbed into the cab before she realized it wasn’t cold outside at all.
But it was in the place where Nadine Johnson’s body lay.
*