“Why is the vision of his murder coming now?” she finished for him. “We don’t know.” We, she and Cameron. Her heart throbbed like a migraine.
“Tell me everything.” God, he was destined to sound like Cameron. Or she was destined to forever hear Cameron in him. Whatever the reason, she told him every dirty, painful detail. She told him despite the now clamoring crowd around them, letting the sounds of cellular phones and P.A. systems cocoon them, insulate them. Witt’s only reaction, a grim tightening of lips, especially when she talked of Bootman. Witt had read the police report. He knew what Bootman had done to her after he’d killed Cameron, when he’d dragged her off into the night. The iciness of Witt’s gaze could slice the man’s muscle down to the bone.
He, however, respected her desire to discuss that part as briefly as possible. His sparse questions made the telling of it easier.
“In the dream, your husband told you to find his sister.” He went on at her nod. “But that didn’t happen for real back then?”
She shook her head. Nope, no mention of Cameron’s sister.
Witt drew in a deep breath, shoved the bags forward with his foot as the line moved.
“Do you think his murder might have been more than wrong-time, wrong-place?”
Max was aware of blinking, but her gaze never left Witt’s face as she nodded once more.
Witt closed his eyes, issued a long-suffering sigh, then stared down at her again. “Shit, Max, what the hell does a sister in Michigan have to do with a robbery in a 7-11?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, echoes of Cameron’s litany in her head. “But I will find out.”
“I know.” Damn right he should know; she always found her culprit. Then he managed to stop her heart with his next question. “How does 452 fit?”
“452,” she repeated almost in a daze though she knew what he meant. Like an omen or a talisman, that number had figured significantly in every vision she’d had. A flight number, an address, the suite where a murder occurred, that number hovered at the edges of everything, connecting every death, a psychic connection to every murder she’d witnessed in her visions.
“The month and year she was born?” he pressed.
“Cameron’s sister? Like in April of 1952?” She shook her head. “That’s way too early.”
“What then?”
She leaned into him, pursed her lips, then knocked on his forehead. “Hello? This is about Cameron. This is different. His death has nothing to with all those other...” Realizing people had begun to stare, she lowered her voice. “...those other murders. It’s not connected to them.”
“It’s a vision like all your others, not just a nightmare. Why would it suddenly be unconnected.” Gone was the slow speech, the lazy words. He was either pissed or very, very serious.
That’s what scared her the most.
Finally, they reached the front of the line. Handing her boarding pass to the agent, she ended the discussion, stepped forward, then turned to wait for Witt.
That’s when she saw him against the wall by the men’s bathroom. Head down, his concentration centered, apparently, on the newspaper page in his hands. The guy looked like a Greek God, handsome of face and form.
He looked up. For a brief moment, their gazes locked. Then he shifted, and his expression shuttered. He folded the paper, tucked it beneath his arm and high-tailed it back down the concourse. How the hell had he gotten through security without a ticket?
Max was sure Mr. Greek God over there had been following her for well over two weeks. She just didn’t know why.
Chapter Three
Max didn’t tell Witt about the guy following her. There were lots of things she didn’t tell Witt. Mostly because she wasn’t used to telling anyone anything, except Cameron. After Cameron, no one guessed she would quit her job as a CPA, sell the condo, get rid of all the stuff that wasn’t absolutely necessary, move into a studio and start temping as an accountant at less than half the salary she’d been used to earning. She hadn’t asked advice, sought a psychiatrist, or vacillated over the decision. She’d simply done it without telling anyone why. Not even her best friend Sutter Cahill.
It was the same with Witt. Telling him things didn’t come naturally. It took too much effort, too much concentration. So she didn’t tell Witt about the man because she hadn’t figured out what interest the guy could possibly have in her. It never occurred to her to think she was in danger. Okay, so it had occurred, but she’d swept the thought aside.
They ambled through the cabin, stopping for this person to stow luggage, that person to get a pillow or take paperwork from a briefcase. Finally, she found their seats.