Page 24 of Jon's Helter Skelter Cold Case

It was late in the day, basically quitting time, so I suggested, “Home?”

“Sounds good to me.” Donovan was already plotting steaks. Not that he had a specific line for it, I just knew him that well.

Abby pointed to the vending machine at the base of the stairs. “I’m going to grab a drink first, I’m beyond thirsty.”

“Go for it.” It was hot today. I’d get a drink too, but naw, I’d be home soon. She still had an hour’s drive.

Abby bounced down the stairs, pulling out her wallet from her back pocket as she moved.

“She really is good, isn’t she?” Donovan asked me in a low voice.

“She’s a fucking natural. She wants to be good, and it shows. Criminals won’t stand a chance against her.”

“I look forward to the day we can unleash her on the world.”

“Me too.” I felt like a proud parent.

In a second flat, I saw the Havili protective instincts flare to life. Eh, what? What was going on?

Before I could do more than turn my head, Donovan was racing down the stairs. What was— Oh. Abby had been cornered by someone at the vending machine, a sleazy looking guy with stringy hair and clothes three sizes too big. She was half turned, and I think trying to tell the guy to back up—I saw her lines flare with anxiety and irritation—but the guy didn’t move.

Donovan didn’t say a word. Just stopped at Abby’s back and loomed over the guy.

Sleazeball looked up, and up, and up some more into that angry face and abruptly swallowed before backing up.

“Hey, brother. Hey, man. We ain’t got trouble here, right? Just wanted to talk to her.”

Donovan didn’t say a word, only pointed—go.

“Yeah, man. No problem, no problem.” Turning on a heel, he raced off to the other side of the bullpen.

Man was stupid to mess with a teenage girl in a police station but apparently had enough survival instincts to not take on Donovan.

Yeah, let’s go home. I did not need any other excitement today.

8

Once we got home, things became calmer, which was good after the many plot twists of today. I’d promised our mothers to finalize a guest list today, since we were quickly approaching our wedding, and they needed a head count for the venue. After we ate dinner, I sat down with my list, Jon sat down with his, and we had our legs overlapping on the couch as we silently worked.

The cats sensed not only people but paper, so they were all over this job. I had one tucked under my arm as I tried to write. Which, let me tell you, was cute but not helpful.

Jon blew out a stressed sounding breath. I glanced up, not sure what that was about.

“What?” I prodded him.

“Huh?” He looked up, baby blues blinking, then he shook his head. “No, sorry, lost focus for a second. I was thinking about Dwayne’s case.”

“Ohhh, for a second there I thought you were stressing about the list. Okay, which part of the case?”

“The bond, truthfully. Dwayne’s adamant that he can’t feel his sister, the bond’s dormant. I can even visually confirm as much. But if Grant’s right, then Tylesia is still alive. So how in the hell did their bond go dead?”

“It’s really a puzzle.” I certainly didn’t have an answer for it, either. “Like one of those catch-22 situations.”

“That’s exactly what it feels like to me. How can a psychic not know if their anchor is alive or not?”

“For that matter, how can Grant not lock onto a person’s location? Surely he’d know if they were merely out of range. Like, in Mexico or something.”

“Oh, I’m sure. He was quite confident on that part.” Jon rubbed his nose and left an ink stain behind on the side of it, which was beyond cute. “There’s something majorly wonky about this situation. I have a feeling it’s going to keep me up all night until we figure out the answer.”

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