Page 8 of The Gift
“I assumed… with the coroner…” She shut her mouth with a click, wondering if she needed to ask for an attorney. Either way, she exercised her right to remain silent the rest of the way.
When they pulled into the Leon Valley police station ten minutes later, she sat forward in her seat. “I thought we were going to headquarters downtown.”
“Rangers go where the crimes happen and collaborate with local law enforcement, including using their facilities,” O’Reilly explained as he opened the door for her.
When she hopped down, her heel caught on a rock, and she wobbled. The young officer reached out to steady her.
The moment his fingers brushed her sleeve, sensation skimmed across her skin. It was light, quick, and more static than shock. Not danger or darkness but a wash of impatience, like the restless itch of someone who’d rather be anywhere else tonight. She knew the feeling.
Beneath it came an intimate thread, almost embarrassing in its clarity: anticipation, attraction, and the distracted warmth of a man thinking about a woman who wasn’t standing in this parking lot.
She jerked away. “Please don’t touch me,” she said, with more heat than she intended. But it was late, and on a normal night, she would have been in bed an hour ago, a place she’d much rather be.
O’Reilly held up his hands, taken aback. “Sorry. Only trying to help.”
Coop was there instantly. “Problem?”
“She jumped as if I scalded her,” O’Reilly said, confused and more than a little defensive.
“I’m sorry,” she said, gentling her tone. “I don’t like to be touched.”
The lieutenant scanned her face—questioning, calculating, seeing way too much. “Understood,” he said, gesturing toward the entrance. “This way, please.”
The men walked on either side of her, giving her a wide berth as they escorted her inside.
***
Erica had been a TV crime-show buff until her life turned into one. She’d watched everything from the oldDragnetreruns to all theCSIs, always wondering how much Hollywood got wrong.
Now, she knew.
The interrogation room was cold and gray, furnished with nothing but a metal table, two chairs, and lighting so harsh, it would make anyone look guilty. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see Sgt. Joe Friday stride in and start grilling her. Instead, she got Lt. Cooper.
He held the door for her, waved her toward a chair, and offered her a bottle of water. She declined. Then, without a single, “Just the facts, ma’am,” he left her alone.
Minutes dragged by. Her nerves prickled. She stared at the blank wall, trying not to imagine Cheyenne staring at one like it.
When the lieutenant returned, he carried a folder. She had a really bad feeling—not her gift, just her experience talking—about what was inside.
“How much longer are you going to keep me here, Lieutenant?” she asked.
“This won’t take long.” He spread several newspaper clippings across the table. Some were a decade old, some more recent. All familiar. “Tell me about these cases,” he said. “They say you’re a psychic.”
She sighed. “Some people call me that. Others say I’m sensitive. Most call me a whack job.”
Her attempt at humor fell flat. “What do you call it?” he asked.
“I prefer empath,” she said.
“Explain that to me.”
Erica clasped her hands together, taking a moment to steady herself. “I experience other people’s memories and emotions. Usually, when I touch them or items they’ve handled.Sometimes I’ll sense them even without being near, but in those instances, it’s almost always connected to an emotional event.”
“Like violence?”
“Yes. And trauma—pain, fear, loss.” She settled into the familiar rhythm of a speech she’d given too many times. “Powerful emotions give off energy, and sometimes it finds me.” Actually, it often found her, but she didn’t share that. She lifted her chin and went on. “Let me be clear. I don’t read minds. I’m not a medium. Nor do I commune with the dead. Their emotions die with them.”
He took it all in, thankfully without mocking her. “Explain how it finds you?”
