Page 98 of Royal
“Can I come in?” a familiar voice said from the doorway.
I looked to see Aunt Abby. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but she had a rainbow-colored shawl around her shoulders. Her red hair was thrown on top of her head in a messy bun, and her pale skin looked even paler.
“Of course.” I walked over and gave her a small hug.
“I thought I could help you,” she said, giving me a sad smile. “Or try to, anyway.”
“Thank you for being here.” It meant a lot, even if I didn’t fully believe in her supposed gifts. I turned to Phoenix. “Agent Stone, this is Abby, my aunt.” I hesitated before adding, “She’s a psychic and has helped us before with finding a perp.”
“I’ve heard wonderful things about you, Agent Stone,” she said, reaching out to shake his hand.
“Likewise,” he responded, briefly taking her hand in his before dropping it. “Any help we can get is much appreciated. I believe our minds work in similar ways. You read people, and so do I.”
Aunt Abby smiled, clearly flustered by the smolder in his dark blue eyes. “I’ve had visions about this case. Even before the killer came to Addersfield.” She walked over and touched the picture of Beth Monroe. “I wish I could’ve seen something that would’ve saved them. But my visions aren’t always clear.”
“What did you see?” Phoenix asked.
She explained her dream in full detail, describing the smells, the scenery, and the sense of foreboding in the air.
“I feel that wherever the killer is hiding, it’s somewhere dark with no windows,” she said, closing her eyes. Then, she shook her head. “But I can’t see anything else. It’s like there’s a wall keeping me from fully seeing.”
“Will holding an item of Ameinias’ help?” Luke asked, drawing everyone’s attention. His cheeks reddened. “We have the flower he left in Royal’s mailbox in the evidence room. Can’t psychics touch an item and get visions or feelings from the owner?”
I was so fucking desperate, I’d do anything.
“Go get the flower,” I told Ben.
He nodded and dashed out of the room. Minutes later, he returned with the flower in the evidence bag and handed it to me.
“Thanks.”
I opened the bag and walked over to Aunt Abby. Her green eyes searched my face before moving to the flower. Slowly, she reached inside and grabbed it, pulling it out and holding it in the palm of her hand. Her eyes closed, and the room fell silent.
Phoenix watched her with an intense gaze.
I wondered if he actually believed in all of that psychic shit. It didn’t really matter to me. As long as we caught the sick sonofabitch before he hurt Royal, I didn’t care what it took to do it. Even if it meant putting my trust in something ridiculous like magic or the supernatural world.
Aunt Abby stood there, eyes closed and flower in her hand, for about a minute before her brow crinkled with a frown. Her chest rose and fell faster, and her fingers gently brushed across the wilting white petals. Her head turned to the side before going the other direction.
“So much pain,” she whispered. “A soul that’s been broken, put back together, and shattered again.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I hear…music. Classical music. It brings him peace, but also heartache.”
She opened her eyes, and it took a few seconds for her to focus on anyone. Once she came out of her daze, she put the flower back in the bag and looked at me.
“I didn’t see where is, but I felt a strong connection to him. And there was something else.” Aunt Abby massaged her left hand. “He was abused in a house by a lake. I saw water and a dock. A broken swing set. His hands were placed on a table and cut repeatedly with a rusty knife. A cut for everything he’d ever done to displease his father.”
“You mentioned music,” Phoenix said.
She nodded. “It was playing in the background. Sounded like something from an opera. Maybe Mozart. It was the one thing that made him happy.”
Suddenly, Phoenix moved over to the table and rifled through some of the papers. I understood his expression. Something had sparked in his head. When he didn’t find what he was looking for in the stack, he grabbed Luke’s laptop.
“The mention of an opera made me remember something,” Phoenix said, his eyes locked on the computer as he typed. “When we first got this case and were making a timeline of his victims, there was one case we considered but eventually concluded it didn’t fit the killer’s M.O. Some pieces fit but others didn’t.”
“And now?” I asked, stepping over to him.
“I think we were wrong.” Phoenix read something on the screen before turning it toward me. “Robert Fry, age thirty-nine. He owned an opera house in Geneva, Washington, about twenty minutes outside of Bellingham.”
I looked at the article, which included a photo of Robert. The resemblance to Royal was disturbing. Just age Royal a few more years and give him longer hair, and they could’ve passed as twins. Or at least brothers.
