Part 9 (1/2)

She smiled. ”I might be a while.”

He s.h.i.+fted, then turned off the lamp on the nightstand. For the first time in years, she was glad the light in the bathroom was still on and she hadn't been plunged into darkness.

”Whatever you need,” he said, pulling the comforter over them. ”One question, though. And be honest.”

She inhaled his familiar scent and sighed. Now that the truth was out and John was sort of okay with the return of her psychic stuff, she had nothing to hide. ”Ask away. But do it quick before I fall asleep.”

He ran his hand along her hip. ”If your mom had the gift, and her mom had it too, along with...how many generations are we talking about?”

Eyes heavy, her body sated, her mind done for the night, she snuggled closer to him. ”I have no idea.”

”So you don't know if Olivia could end up with the gift, too?”

She opened her eyes and stared at the sliver of light glowing from the bathroom. ”Time will tell,” she answered honestly.

Moments later, John's breathing regulated and she a.s.sumed he'd fallen asleep. Exhausted, she closed her eyes. As she drifted, hung in that place between consciousness and sleep, the black figure reappeared. Its dark ma.s.s undulating and rolling over itself. It moved, growing larger, revealing a small head covered in golden curls.

Olivia.

Heart pounding, Celeste left the safety and comfort of John's arms and slid from the bed. She rushed down the hall to her daughter's partially-opened bedroom door. When she reached the crib, she let out the breath she'd been holding. Olivia lay on the center of her small mattress, her arms raised in a touchdown symbol. Her little sighs and the sight of her were more beautiful than what Celeste had seen in the light with Tracy.

Satisfied her daughter was fine, Celeste went back to bed. But before sleep finally claimed her, she couldn't shake the ominous and terrifying image of the black ma.s.s surrounding Olivia or what that image could mean. Maybe tomorrow she would find the answers she was looking for...she hoped.

The black figure had killed twice. The evilness it exuded told her it would kill again.

But who and why?

Chapter 9.

GEORGE LANDRY'S OFFICE was located on Davis Street in Evanston, Illinois, a short thirty-minute drive from Celeste's Lincoln Park condo. She parked her Jeep at a meter in front of the three-story office building. After feeding the meter, she stepped onto the sidewalk and moved toward the dark-blue awning branded with the building's street address and leading toward the second and third floor offices. Off the street level, a salon, along with a cell phone store, occupied the first floor of the charming, 1930s building.

Celeste entered and took the stairs to the third floor, where George had said his office was located. When she found a door labeled in bra.s.s with the numbers 303, she knocked. A knot of nerves twisted in the pit of her stomach. She hoped to G.o.d George would listen to her and accept what she had to tell him. She prayed he'd help her find Tracy. Although she had the woman's name and, based on her phone number, knew she lived in or around the Milwaukee area, she'd rather have George make the trip to Wisconsin with her. Since George had helped Sandra find Tracy, he would have her address. And if she was wrong and Tracy was alive, Tracy would likely listen to the private investigator over a psychic stranger.

The doork.n.o.b turned and she took a step back as a tall man with silver hair cut in a severe crew cut filled the doorframe. ”Celeste Kain?” he asked.

She held out her hand. ”Good morning. Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Landry.”

His handshake was warm and firm as he widened the door and invited her inside the cozy one-room office. ”Please, call me George,” he said, then tapped the chair in front of a dark wooden desk that took up a large part of the room. ”Have a seat and tell me why you're interested in hiring a PI.”

She sat and placed her purse in her lap. ”I'm not looking to hire you, I'm interested in a case you worked on for Sandra Welsh.”

”Then I'm afraid you wasted your time coming here.” George sat behind the desk, his dark brows tugging together. ”If you want to know about that, you'll have to ask Sandra. What I do for my clients is confidential.”

”Sandra's dead.”

Sadness softened his face as he glanced to the calendar hanging on the wall. ”She thought she had more time.”

”She did.” Celeste drew in a breath. ”Someone murdered her.”

George quickly leaned forward, his brown eyes wide, his jaw hardening. ”How? Have the police found her killer?”

Oh, boy. He's so not going to believe me.

”The police aren't looking.”

”I worked Homicide for twelve years.” He reached for the cell phone on the desk. ”I'll make a few calls and find out what-”

”George, they don't know she's been murdered. But I do.”

He dropped his hand next to the phone and narrowed his eyes. ”Did you kill her?”

She jerked back. ”G.o.d, no. It looked like she committed suicide by overdosing on morphine.”

Shaking his head he leaned back in his chair. ”Mrs. Kain, I-”

”Celeste.”

He sighed. ”Celeste, have the police and ME ruled her death as a suicide?”

”Yes, that's my understanding.”

”And you think otherwise because...?”

”You've known Sandra for a year. Do you think she was the type of person who would kill herself?” she asked, instead.

”No. But she was dying anyway.”

”True. But I know Sandra didn't kill herself, and I think the person who murdered her did it because of the daughter she had given up for adoption. The daughter you helped her find.”

He looked away. ”I told you what I do for my clients is confidential.”

”It's not so confidential if I already know that you helped her find Tracy Saunders, who I also believe was murdered.”

George rubbed the back of his neck. ”Ma'am, I think maybe you should leave.”

”Could you open your mind and hear me out? Please. Just give me a few minutes to explain. At this point, I think you're the only one who can help me. And, when I'm finished, if you still want me to leave, I will. Then I'll drive to Milwaukee and check on Tracy myself.”

He glanced at his watch, then met her gaze. ”You've got five minutes.”

”Thank you,” she said, relieved. ”Remember you said that.”

”My memory is just fine.”

”Good.” She straightened and let out a breath. ”I'm psychic,” she admitted, then arched a brow when he didn't even flinch. ”No comment?”

He looked at his watch again. ”You still have four and a half minutes. Say what you need to say.”