Page 44 of Chasing Dreams
She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, settling comfortably on the cushions and drying her hands on her denim thighs.
“I read through the file this morning,” he said, and picked up the tongs still lying on the table.
From the envelope, he produced a black watch. Shaine’s hand trembled a little as she reached for it. She held it in her palm and placed her other hand over the top. The glass face felt warm against her skin.
Closing her eyes, she blanked out everything except the warmth of the watch and the shine of silver that flashed in her mind’s eye.
“Where are you?” Austin asked.
She shook her head.
“What do you see?”
“I—I don’t see anything. I know there’s a boy. I know he’s dead. The number seven came to me.” This was unlike the day before, unlike the distinct pictures and scenes she’d seen.
“Use your reference points.”
“This isn’t the same as last time. I’m not getting anything to draw me in.”
“Give it a little time.”
She did. Seven came to her again. “There’s a divorce,” she said after a minute. “That’s all. I just don’t have anything.”
“Here.”
She opened her eyes to see he held the open envelope out for her. She dropped the watch in. “That’s okay,” he said. “You did get something.”
“What?”
He opened the folder. “Thirty-six-year-old woman. Stabbed seven times.”
“Do they have a killer?”
“No. They have a DNA expert helping, but so far nothing positive.”
Disappointed, she leaned back against the cushions.
“That’s perfectly okay,” he said. “You can’t get an exact connection every time.”
“Did you ever not get anything?”
“Once in a while. Want to try another one?”
“Yes.”
He brought another file and handed her the envelope this time. She glanced in and tipped it to slide the locket into her hand. The instant the piece of gold jewelry hit her palm, a jolt like electricity shot through her.
She gasped and closed her ice-cold fingers around the necklace for fear she’d drop it.
Shaine didn’t know if her eyes were open or closed. It didn’t matter. She’d found someone.
Chapter 9
She saw the motel room as clearly as she’d seen Austin walk toward her with the files. A faded orange print spread draped the double bed. The stale smell of cigarettes hung in the air.
A hot plate, a cooler and a coffeemaker testified that this wasn’t a one-or two-night stay.
“She’s in a motel room. She’s been there for some time. A couple of months maybe. There’s a folded apron on the little table, the kind they give employees at fast-food restaurants.”
