At Second Sight: Sentinels

by Meg Allison

  She swallowed and fought the urge to scoot further away. “What is it?”

  “I’ve been thinking, if I could go where the women were last seen alive, or where they were found dead, maybe my gift can reveal something else. Maybe if I’m where the killer stood, I can draw his face, too.” He eyed her carefully as her brow furrowed. “Does that sound like something that might work or am I crazy?”

  “Yes, that’s not crazy at all. It really could help.”

  “The thing is I don’t want to get the wrong kind of attention,” he explained. “I’m probably being treated so well because your brother is in charge of the case and Liam and I are such good friends. If something were to happen while I’m out investigating I’m sure I’d be locked up without another thought.”

  “I can go with you,” she interjected. “Nobody will think twice about a couple going out for drinks. Then, if anything does happen, I’ll be your alibi, too.”

  He hesitated. “The problem is that these neighborhoods are a little rough. You must understand that we could wind up in trouble no matter how careful we are. One bar is really close to my office, as a matter of fact, though I’ve never been inside.”

  “I’ve been to rough neighborhoods, Nathan. I don’t think it will be a problem.”

  “Seriously, Samantha, I just wanted to know if you thought my idea might get results. I wasn’t fishing for a date. You should really think this over.”

  “Don’t be silly, I’m not backing out,” she insisted as she gathered her purse and jacket. “This just might work, Nathan. If you don’t see anything more, I still might pick up on some residual emotions. It’s a long-shot, but I think it’s worth taking. We can have lunch, then go home and change. I think the best time to hit the bars is around nine.”

  He frowned. “Wait, I didn’t mean tonight.”

  “There are women dying out there,” she reminded him. “What if he kills again tonight? Tomorrow night? What if we can do something now that will stop him? I think it’s worth the risk. I know it’s worth my time.”

  His hand on her arm stopped her in her tracks. “You said maybe you can pick up something. What exactly is your gift?”

  She felt her cheeks warm. “I’m empathic.”

  “As in, you feel others’ emotions.”

  “Yes.”

  Understanding lit his dark eyes. “That’s why Adam wanted us to meet. So, you could tell him if I was lying about the drawings. He thought I could be the killer.”

  His immediate acceptance of her claim threw her for a moment. But she quickly recovered.

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “Although I’m positive he never truly believed you killed anyone. He just couldn’t find a logical explanation for your drawings. More than anything, he simply wanted my confirmation of his suspicions that you are chosen. Besides, if you were a sociopath, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell one way or another. I understand they are even good at hiding their feelings from empaths. Discerning between good and evil isn’t my talent.”

  He watched her and she couldn’t but wonder at the thoughts bouncing around his head. “Adam’s going to be pissed if he finds out we’re playing detective.”

  “Yes, he probably will, which is why we won’t let him know. We'll stay off the radar and keep any questions we ask low-key.”

  “Wait, Sam, I’m having second thoughts. I’m starting to wonder if this isn’t just a very bad idea.”

  “Why? This could be the only way to stop him before he kills again.”

  His stare all but pinned her to the floor. “You could get hurt. If I go alone, at least I wouldn't have to watch both our backs…” he sighed, “Maybe we should leave this to the cops.”

  Anger blazed through her veins. She hated being thought of as weak and fragile just because she was a woman. That’s why the murderer preyed on women. He could subdue them. Control them. And because they were prostitutes, no one would care enough to go to the police until a lifeless body was found. Even then, their deaths would merely be three-inch stories buried deep in the back pages of the newspaper, forget the front page.

  “Adam has a dozen cases,” she said out loud. “He can’t do it all, Nathan. And you have a gift he doesn’t have…one that I don’t have. For some reason, you have connected to this killer, like it or not. I really think you are the one who can stop him—but you don’t have to face it alone. Maybe I can help. Adam might be able to provide the fire-power, but I’m the one who can sense liars…most of the time.”

  “Most of the time?”

  “No one’s perfect,” she snapped, then immediately regretted it. He didn’t deserve her anger. Besides, she didn’t want to explain herself to him—to expose her fears. Her mistakes. “I’m sorry…” she couldn’t meet his eyes for a moment, “But I really think we should at least try. We can always leave if things feel off or get dangerous.”

  Nathan sighed. “Fine, I’m not completely convinced, but it was my idea. If things get the least bit hairy, you’re out of there—got it? Chauvinistic or not, that’s the way it’s got to be. I am not going to put you at risk for anyone. If even one person looks at you cross-eyed I will drag you out so fast your head will spin.”

  She felt a rush of unwanted warmth fill her from head to foot. “Then I shouldn’t have a thing in the world to worry about. How could I be any safer than with my own personal body guard?”

  His gaze drifted down her figure in slow, sensual perusal. When he reached her eyes once more, she could see the fire burning in the black depths.

  “Don’t tempt me,” he said softly. “There are too many things I’d love to do to that body of yours. Guarding it is not one of them.”

  Heat filled her face. She turned and hurried to the door. “Um, I think we’d better go to lunch now.”

  “Yes, yes we should.”

  Chapter Five

  They walked from her office toward River Street, a wary space between them as they at first made small talk about the weather and winters in Savannah. Eventually the conversation became more relaxed and topics ranged from everything to nothing. Nathan told her about spending summers and Christmas on Tybee Island, as well as a bit about his stint in New York City. He was a born storyteller. His words held her spellbound and made her laugh. She smiled. Laughter had been in short supply recently.

  The space between them diminished as they walked out of the shop district and crossed Bay Street to a set of old stone steps that hugged a steep brick wall, a rather substantial iron rail trailing down both sides. The steps were high and narrow and Samantha found herself taking the hand he offered as she picked her way down the timeworn treads. Sunshine burned hot and comforting on the top of her head and she felt, for that moment, inexplicable joy as they walked hand in hand.

  As they reached the bottom, their hands remained joined when they stepped onto cobblestone as old as the plantation houses that dotted the countryside. Samantha’s shoes tapped against the stones of River Street, adding another note to the rhythmic hum of voices and laughter that echoed up and down the popular thoroughfare. A small woman with bright blue eyes and straw-colored hair stood by a large green cart filled with flowers. She smiled at them as they moved past. While Samantha might have stopped to admire the display of foliage, Nathan, being a typical man, moved past without a second glance.

  “Flowers for your lady, Sir?” the small woman suggested, her voice clear above the squawk of seagulls overhead and the faint rift of a blues band further down.

  Nathan turned back and smiled. “Of course,” he agreed. “That’s a great idea.”

  Before Samantha could protest, he pulled his wallet from his pocket and tugged a crisp twenty form the folds. The flower vender beamed.

  “What’s your pleasure, Sir?” she asked with a sweeping gesture at her wooden cart. Dozens of buds and blooms filled the tiny frame. Each nestled carefully with others in a random array, and all wrapped with dark green paper.

  Nathan looked at Samantha and shrugged. “What do you like?�
�

  She examined the wrapped bouquets for a moment, then pointed to one filled with daisies, small pink carnations and baby’s breath. “That one, please. I love the daisies.”

  “Ah,” the woman said with a smile as she plucked the bunch from her cart. “Happy and carefree—that must be how you’re feeling today. A little bit romantic, too, eh?” She winked. “I can always tell how folks are feelin’ by the kind of flowers they buy.”

  Nathan looked skeptical. “Really? Then what would I be thinking about if I chose the tiger lilies?”

  Her grin broadened. “Then I think the lady needs to watch where your hands be going tonight. You just might have a bit of lust in you.”

  They laughed, and Nathan’s face turned a shade of pink to match her carnations.

  “Might be good advice.” He cleared his throat. “Okay, then, how about the roses? What would I be up to then?”

  The woman opened her mouth to speak, and her smile suddenly froze. Her happy expression seemed to melt as her golden sun-kissed complexion took on an ashen tone. In the blink of an eye she went from bubbly and carefree to fearful and unsure.

  “No,” she shook her head vigorously, “Roses are no good,” she seemed to compose herself a bit and forced a smile, “Too common…too many thorns…wouldn’t want to hurt the lady.”

  She lifted the handles of her cart and hurried in the other direction, leaving Nathan and Samantha to stare after. Where the hell had that come from? He looked at Samantha for reassurance, but her expression made him more uneasy.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You look a little scared.”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she offered a forced smile. “That was just a bit freaky.”

  “What do you think she meant by all that?”

  “Oh, nothing, I’m sure.” Samantha didn’t look sure about anything, however. “You know how this city is. Everyone has to put on a show to sell you something. The creepy vibe must be her thing.”

  “I guess.”

  “Thank you for the flowers,” she said as she stood on tiptoes and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. In that moment, he forgot all about the odd little woman and her prophecy of doomed roses.

  “You are most welcome,” he replied. “I’m starved. What are you in the mood for?”

  “Anything, except seafood. Can’t stand it.”

  He chuckled. “You were born and raised in Savannah and you don’t eat fish?”

  “Nope, I’m an odd one, that’s for sure. Had some bad salmon when I was younger—haven’t been able to stand anything fishy since.”

  “How about we just keep walking until something smells good?”

  She grinned. “Works for me.”

  His breath caught in his throat for a second. She was the only woman who had literally taken his breath away. God, he was in trouble. In less than forty-eight hours, Samantha Bays had slipped deeply inside him. He pushed the thoughts away and scrambled to act normal.

  “Good, I say we head this way,” he pointed, “And see where it takes us. I don’t get down here too often. There might be some new discoveries here and there.”

  He grasped her free hand in his. Her skin was warm and soft. He wrapped his fingers around hers and breathed in her scent mingled with the musty breeze off the river. She was so beautiful and full of life. She was the kind of woman who could make him forget everything ugly and cruel in the world.

  A beep sounded in his pocket. He stopped and frowned as he fished the offending cell from his blazer. He cursed quietly, then cast her an apologetic half-smile.

  “I’m sorry, that’s my calendar reminder,” he said. “I forgot I have this interview scheduled with a reporter from a local paper,” he glanced back at the phone, “Not sure I can cancel now without looking like a complete ass.”

  “Is this something your agent set up?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Ah, no, you’re going. I know how hard it can be to get these things going with newer authors. I’m not letting you call it off.”

  “But I’ve been dreading this since he told me about it a month ago,” Nathan admitted. “It just doesn’t seem important now with everything else that’s going on.”

  “Nonsense, the cops will catch the killer, and he’ll go away for a very long time. You, however, may not get this interview again. Believe me, reporters have very long memories, and I’ve never met one who didn’t mind being stood up. Besides, what are you going to say, ‘Oh, sorry, but I’ve been drawing murder scenes in my spare time and I really don’t think talking to you is appropriate’?”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, good point. Still, it feels wrong. All I can think about are those women. They’re complete strangers, but I feel responsible, somehow.” He squeezed her hand in his. “The only time I can stop thinking about them—even for a moment—is when I’m with you.”

  She inched closer. “You have to remember that these murders don’t have anything to do with you. Not really. You are not responsible for their deaths.”

  “Then why am I drawing them?” he asked, aware of the desperation in his voice. “Why can’t I get their faces out of my mind? If I can’t stop the murders, what’s the point?”

  “Nathan…” the sound of his name on her lips sent a wave of heat over his skin as she laid her hand on his arm and moved closer, “You can’t beat yourself up over this. It isn’t fair.”

  He shrugged and pulled a step away as he released her hand. Did he want distance from her or his guilty conscience?

  “No, it isn’t fair,” he admitted. “I realize I’m not literally to blame and still I can’t help feeling I could have saved them. I should have stopped it from happening somehow.” He stared at her for a moment, needing to confide, but afraid to all the same. “I drew another one last night.”

  Her eyes widened. “You did? Oh, Nathan, I’m so sorry.”

  “I already took it to your brother,” he said, anticipating her next question. “Again, there aren’t any real clues and I don’t have the faintest idea who the woman is except that she’s going to die soon and I can’t do anything to stop it.”

  “Drawing those women doesn’t make you responsible for them anymore than…” He waited for her to finish but she only shook her head. “It just doesn’t.”

  “I understand that, intellectually,” he replied, slowing his pace a bit. “You just don’t get what I’m feeling—you couldn’t, Samantha. Not unless you’ve lived through something like it.”

  She seemed poised to say something more, but apparently thought better of it. Instead, she lowered her gaze and shrugged. “No, I don’t suppose I get it. Not completely. But please trust me when I tell you that sometimes, as a chosen one, your gift can be the greatest burden you’ve ever imagined…but it can also be the most wonderful blessing. I can help you, Nathan. I can help you focus this power you have.”

  “But not now,” she amended with a quick, bright smile. “Now we need to get you to that interview. Where are you supposed to meet the reporter?”

  “At Delaney’s over on Bay Street,” he glanced at his watch, “in five minutes.”

  “Well, at least you remembered on time.”

  “Only if I run for it, and that isn’t going to happen”

  “Fine, then he’ll wait a few minutes and cool his heels. That way you won’t seem too anxious.”

  He laughed. “Are you a closet optimist? I’m shocked.”

  “No, not really. Just a trained, professional cheerleader.”

  “So, is that how agents see themselves?” he asked. “As cheerleaders?”

  “That, among other things. I suppose it depends on the client.”

  Ten minutes later, they walked into Delaney’s Eatery, a semi-upscale restaurant that catered to the literary and professional crowd away from the more touristy feel of River Street. Nathan walked with her through the door, his hand at the small of her back. She liked the feeling of his warm fingers resting there. It seemed casual yet intimate. It gave her the feeling of being protec
ted, even as it made a clear statement to everyone that they were a couple. She blushed at the notion. The last thing she’d ever been was possessive, but Nathan brought out both the best and worst in her, it seemed.

  “Can I help you?” the hostess asked, her gaze flicking over her and then resting on Nathan. The woman’s smile appeared, ever so slowly as she blatantly looked him up and down.

  “Yes, I’m supposed to meet Jasper Grant here for lunch,” he told her. “I’m a bit late, I’m afraid.”

  Her smile vanished. “Mr. Quinn?”

  “Yes.”

  She blinked. “Mr. Nathan Quinn?”

  Samantha frowned. The woman wasn’t the brightest bulb on the chandelier.

  “Yes, Nathan Quinn,” he replied, his voice a bit tight. “Is there a problem?”

  The girl’s brain seemed to rouse at that point. “Oh, no, of course not. Mr. Grant is expecting you…” she glanced at Samantha but seemed to decide not to push her luck. “Right this way, please.”

  Samantha glared at the woman’s back as she led them through the crowded restaurant. She noticed the female appreciation Nathan garnered as they weaved around the scattered tables and the way many women stopped talking as they watched him walk past. A sudden rush of jealousy scraped against her nerves. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

  “You okay?” Nathan asked near her ear.

  “Fine.”

  He looked at her, but let it slide as they approached a thirty-something gentleman sitting at a table near the kitchen. Samantha immediately took in the rumpled gray suit and matching tie, bloodshot eyes and five o’clock shadow. He’d obviously been up at the crack of dawn.

  “Mr. Grant?” the hostess got his attention. “Mr. Quinn is here.”

  The man stood as he looked up and then froze, his hand lifted about halfway to greet Nathan. He blinked. “Mr. Quinn?”

  “Yes, good to meet you,” Nathan said as he grasped the other man’s hand and shook it firmly. “I’m sorry I’m late, some personal issues arose. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought a friend along. This is Samantha Bays.”