Page 7 of Wicche Hunt

I found Declan’s hand and held on tight, wishing like hell I was in my studio in my comfy chair, a hot cup of tea warming my hands…

“—middle of the room. I’ll be over here. I won’t leave her unattended.” The doctor wasn’t happy about any of this. She wanted to help her friend, wanted the killer caught, but it was obvious this was really unorthodox and made her uncomfortable.

“Understood,” the detective replied. “I appreciate you doing this.”

The coroner nodded and moved to a desk to work.

I handed Declan my backpack and moved to the center of the room, to the metal gurney holding a body covered by a sheet. The tips of two fingers stuck out from under the sheet. Blowing out a breath, I started to tug at a glove and then Declan was there, placing a chair beside me.

“Good thinking.” I sat, pulled off the glove. When I did a reading, I centered my thoughts and thought of a question. Otherwise, I could end up seeing her Christmas pageant when she was seven. I needed to know about Pearl’s murder, so I thought of that and then touched a finger to her pinky.

Ankles are yanked up and she slides under the water. He holds her legs as she struggles, unable to right herself and breathe. Craig stares down at her, impatient, a look of annoyance on his face. She grasps the edge of the tub, trying to pull herself up. Shaking his head, he snatches one of the crutches she left leaning against the wall and flips it over, jabbing it into the tub. The curve of the shoulder support pins her neck to the floor of the tub, crushing her larynx. Head throbbing, lungs ready to burst, she pushes at the crutch, but he’s too strong. Her vision constricts and finally he smiles down at her. Choking, inhaling water, her thrashing is no match for the one who said he’d love her in sickness and in health.

Curled in on myself, head throbbing, gasping for breath, I felt the hard linoleum floor under my shoulder, my hip. Declan was hunched over me, trying to figure out how to help. I moved to my knees, ungloved hand fisted against my chest as I desperately sucked in as much air as I could. Hernández crouched beside me, asking how she could help.

Lifting my head, I stared through my curls at the doctor, who watched from behind her desk. Hanging onto Declan’s arm, I pulled myself up, still staring at the cow as her chair shot out from under her, dumping her on the floor. Hernández stood to help her friend, took a step in her direction, and then looked back at me, brow furrowed.

“That’s not Pearl,” I said, voice hoarse, having just been strangled and drowned in that vision. “This is the body of a woman drowned in the tub by her husband Craig.” I forced myself to slow my breathing.

Declan grabbed my sleeve when I almost touched him with my ungloved hand. He pulled the glove from my pocket and handed it to me.

“Did you do that?” The detective asked her friend, looking well and truly pissed off.

“I told you before,” Dr. Landscombe said, “there’s no such thing as psychic ability. I don’t want your reputation in the department ruined by a con woman.”

Glancing up, I saw Declan’s eyes had gone wolf gold. I shook his sleeve until he looked down at me. My back to the other women, I mouthed,your eyes.

He shouldered my backpack, wrapping an arm around me. “I’ll take you home.”

“No. Wait,” Hernández said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was going to do that. Please. I really do need your help with your cousin’s case.”

The coroner climbed to her feet. “The victim is her cousin?”

“Yes,” Hernández said. “This is Arwyn Corey,”

Declan and I still had our backs to the women, but I could see his eye color was darkening to his natural brown.

The detective moved so she could see me. “I really am sorry. Please don’t go yet.”

I thought about Pearl and Aunt Hester. Sighing, I nodded and then turned to Landscombe. “Don’t fuck with me again.” I stared her down until she finally nodded.

“But you’re wrong,” she gloated. “That one was an accidental drowning in the tub. She fell asleep.”

“No. She didn’t,” I said to Hernández. “She was taking a bath, eyes closed, and her husband grabbed her by her ankles, yanking her up so her head went under the water. She struggled, trying to get out.” I glanced at Landscombe. “If you check her throat, you’ll see bruising that has nothing to do with drowning. He used the curved, under-arm cushion of her crutch—she’d twisted her ankle badly on a hike—to pin her neck to the bottom of the tub and then watched her die. She won’t have too much water in her lungs because he was crushing her trachea as he killed her.”

Hernández looked at Landscombe, waiting for confirmation.

The doctor shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t do that autopsy. I don’t like this, Sofia. I don’t believe any of it. I checked the computer as that one was doing her routine to see who was on the gurney. It was ruled an accidental death.”

Hernández took out a small notebook from her jacket pocket. “What’s her name?”

“Trisha Hall,” Landscombe and I said at the same time.

The detective turned back to me. “Her husband killed her?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Craig. There was no emotion. He just wanted it done. Check the prints on the crutches. His’ll be in a weird place, gripping the bottom of the crutch. There’ll probably be bruising around her ankles that, again, have nothing to do with falling asleep and sliding into a bath.”

After a charged moment, the doctor said, “It’s true.” Her voice was low and shocked as she stared at her computer screen. “Her hyoid was fractured.” She touched the fingertips of one hand to her forehead. “How could he have missed that?”

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