Page 54 of Chasing Dreams
Chapter 11
Austin raked leaves and banked them around the rose bushes that lined the stone walkway through the ornamental garden. He paused to watch squirrels gathering acorns for winter, his thoughts on Shaine’s growing frustration and her inability to read anything concrete in the boy’s possessions.
She should have been able to see something. Her accuracy with the FBI’s files had proven that. Maybe she was too close to the case. Maybe...
He didn’t know what was holding her back, but he still had the nagging feeling that there was something obvious he should have recognized by now.
At least she’d been able to sleep last night, and that had been a blessing. Obvious in the smudged-looking skin beneath her eyes and the slight trembling in her hands, this ordeal was wearing her down. Today’s session had to go better. For both their sakes.
Since he was already dirty, he decided to run and then grab a shower. He’d dressed and was tying his shoes, when the intercom in the kitchen crackled. “You there? Meet me at the garage.”
Meeting Shaine as she unlocked the side door, he helped her sort through boxes until she decided on one. He carried it to her apartment.
This time she knelt on the floor beside the box and reached in without hesitation. Perhaps she’d spent the morning doing as much self-talk as he had.
She pulled out a photograph of the boy he knew from her expression was Jack. Straight blond bangs and a dimpled smile characterized the tiny boy. Austin watched her for a reaction, but the only one was a natural one: sorrow filled her eyes, and she laid the picture on the floor. A small jewelry chest came next, and opening it revealed more mementos than jewelry. Shaine fingered ticket stubs, a silver charm and a small plastic hospital ID bracelet.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It was on Jack’s ankle when she bought him home from the hospital.”
He studied her closely for a connection to any of the items, but she displayed no signs of sensing anything.
Finally she held a watch and placed her other hand over the top. Minutes passed. Her breathing remained steady, her eyes open and serious.
“Find somewhere inside to start,” he advised gently. “A guiding point.”
“There isn’t one.”
He placed his fingers over hers, finding her hands warm, not cold the way she described while she channeled in.
“I remember things,” she said, opening her eyes and going through the contents of the chest. “These things all have memories and feelings attached, but nothing more. There’s no—” she made a fist, searching for the word “—connection. It’s like I’m trying to tune in to a station and the radio’s not plugged in.”
“Try something else,” he suggested, losing hope fast.
She did. She went through the entire box, holding one thing after another, until in frustration, she dumped it all back in and hit the lid with her fist. “It’s no use. I can’t do it.”
He placed the carton by the door and stood at the window, staring sightlessly at the already leaf-strewn side yard. Doggedly, he went back over all the dreams she’d described: the woman with the apron; the Deets child; Jack; Daisy. And the visions: the hiker in the woods; Olivia Rose Jenkins’ mother at the cemetery; the McCullough woman at the Florida motel.
She’d known the Jenkins girl was dead, but she’d seen only her parents and her headstone. She’d known the boy who’d been stabbed was dead, but she’d seen nothing. She could see nothing of her sister, but had nightly dreams of Jack.
What was the difference? What was the connection?
A nagging idea occurred to him. His first reaction was to dismiss it, but nothing was too bizarre in matters of this nature. How could he test his theory?
“Shaine?”
She looked up, her eyes dark with misery.
“Where’s Maya?”
“At her house across the street.”
“The little white one with the porch?”
“That’s it. Why?”
“I’ll be right back.”
