She’s tempted to think that her mind is playing tricks on her. But she can still feel it, huddled in the back of her mind, something that doesn’t belong to her but feels familiar.
From the tram?
Isabel gathers herself. The keys cut into her hand as she focuses on the intruding weight at the back of her head. Tries to feel it out. As she fixes her attention on the empty tram, it seems to swell.
‘What . . .’
The hairs stand up on the back of her neck and she starts forward.
Inside the tram, something changes.
Isabel stops.
Had something moved?
She moves into the middle of the road so she can speed up, eyes zeroed in on that one spot towards the back of the tram where passengers would be able to hop on and off. The streetlights don’t quite reach it.
That’s when it happens again. She sees it, like a re-forming of the dark within. Isabel’s step falters and she stops in the middle of the road. Discomfort lodges in the centre of her chest and for a moment she hyper-focuses so hard, white noise fills her ears.
A door to her left opens, light and noise spilling out, and she jerks, snapping round to face the woman who stops outside of her house to give Isabel a look.
‘Boa noite,’ the woman says, words slow, a disapproving dip to her brows.
Isabel dips her head in apology. ‘Desculpe, boa noite.’
The woman nods and steps down from the stoop, makes her way down the road, leaving the door ajar behind her as she carries the black bin bag towards the big collection area.
Isabel turns back to the tram. She makes herself put one foot in front of the other, shifts her grip on the keys as she goes.
When she reaches the tram she leaves enough space that she can walk a circle around it without getting too close, constantly checking back to that open hop-on-hop-off point, acutely aware of how vulnerable the space between her shoulder blades feels as she peers in through the windows, only to see nothing but empty benches.
She circles back to the open point and stands there, staring into the dark and empty space.
She sees dos Santos’ open eyes, looking right at her.
She shakes the image out of her mind and steps back, unable to keep her gaze from tracking back to the tram, knowing that it’s empty but feeling as if the moment she turns her attention away, something will be there.
‘Sleep, Isabel. You need sleep,’ she murmurs, backing up.
Whatever had brushed against her thoughts is gone. She can’t feel it there any more.
Still, as she makes her way home she keeps checking over her shoulder, but sees nothing.
Eventually, she wills herself to turn her back on it and makes the rest of the climb to her door.
She double-checks the lock on the gate and closes the distance to the door in record time.
And if she stares out of the window into the street for a little too long before going into her apartment, well. No one will know.
Chapter 22
THEN
‘Isabel?’
Isabel pulls her gaze away from the sway of the trees outside and faces the woman across from her again. She tucks her hands between her legs and begins to trace the rug’s blue pattern with her eyes.
It’s her third time sitting across from the woman in front of her and she’s still not sure she likes it. But her dad has asked Isabel to try. So, she tries.
The woman’s name is Rosario and she’s Isabel’s stage Guide. She’ll be with Isabel until she turns eighteen.
Isabel still isn’t sure she understands what that means, but mostly they sit together and talk, every Saturday from nine to ten thirty in the morning.
‘So, have you been practising?’ Rosario asks. Her chair is big and looks super-soft, and her big green hoop earrings catch the light pouring in from the window. They swing a little every time Rosario moves her head and her hair is tangled around them.
‘A little,’ Isabel says. ‘But sometimes I try, and I can still hear thoughts.’ She frowns and scratches at the centre of her palm with her thumbnail.
‘At home?’
Isabel nods. ‘And outside too. Sometimes when I go shopping with Tia Simone and Sebastião I’ll hear other people. Little voices. But they go away quickly.’ She shrugs. ‘Sometimes, they hurt my head. Dad or Tia Simone give me paracetamol and it goes away.’
‘I see.’ Rosario scoots to the edge of her seat and peers into Isabel’s face. ‘And what about your mum and your sister? Do you hear their thoughts too?’
‘Yes.’ The word is little louder than a whisper and after she says it Isabel clamps her lips together. She doesn’t want to talk about it.
‘Okay. We can talk about that another day, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘What about the exercises we’ve been doing? Have they been helping you?’
Isabel shakes her head. ‘I think I’m doing them wrong.’
‘Okay, well we can work on that.’ Rosario shifts from her chair and sits on the fluffy carpet. Her skirt settles around her in a circle and it reminds Isabel of girls in movies and how their skirts twirl around them when they spin.
Isabel, reluctant, slides off her chair and sits down too, folding her legs and sitting upright with the chair against her back.
‘We’ve talked about why it’s important to learn wards, haven’t we?’
‘Because they help protect our thoughts and keep us healthy.’
‘Exactly. Because although our minds have a natural barrier that helps us to keep other people’s thoughts out, we have to build on it and make it stronger. Some people think louder than others, don’t they?’ Rosario smiles. ‘And do you remember how we create a ward?’
‘We have to use our imagination.’
Rosario smiles at Isabel like she’s caught her out on something. ‘See? You know the basics. So why don’t we start by trying a little one, hmm? So, let’s close our eyes.’
Isabel closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. They’ve practised a few times already. In through the nose so it puffs out your belly and out through the mouth until your tummy tucks in.
‘Okay. Now we have to build a wall. Brick by brick. Your wall can be any colour you want. And you have a mountain of bricks.’
Isabel’s bricks are bright green, the kind of green that glows, and they’re all stacked into one big mountain.
‘Isabel, we build one by one.’
It’s hard at first, Isabel tries to hold on to the image of the bricks but it keeps slipping away from her. But then Rosario doesn’t speak again, and Isabel settles on the dark of her eyelids. She is distracted briefly by the noises outside of the room – shoes clipping on the varnished floor, doors opening and shutting further down, a phone ringing over and over – and then she settles, and the image isn’t slipping away from her any more.
When Rosario speaks again her voice is soft and quiet, like she’s coming from far away. ‘There’s someone standing on the other side, Isabel. And they’re trying to speak to you. But you just want a little quiet. Do you want a little quiet?’
‘Yes,’ Isabel says and there it is, the first line of glowing bricks.
Beyond the line, her imagined person-on-the-other-side stands. But Isabel is focused on building her wall and doesn’t think about the tops of their familiar, work-worn brown shoes.
‘You keep building. Add another line. And then keep going until you can’t see the other person.’
Isabel does. She keeps adding, line by line by line until the height of the wall reaches up to the other person’s hips and higher. It becomes harder as she gets to shoulder level and she has to concentrate really hard. Her eyebrows pucker and she grinds her teeth together.
‘Can you still see them, Isabel?’
Isabel clenches her jaw and looks into her mother’s eyes over the wall.
She pushes in the final bricks, the glow consuming her mum’s expression and blurring it until the final brick slots into place and all Isabel c
an see is green.
‘No.’
Chapter 23
The day dawns with a message from her sister reminding Isabel yet again about the dinner later on that night.
Isabel hides a yawn behind her hand and rubs absently at the pulsing at her temple as the door to the case room opens to let in Jacinta.
‘Sorry, sorry, I’m here,’ Jacinta says eyes scanning over everyone else present and grabbing a seat.
Following the relaxed evening at her tia’s house, feeling energised and centred, Isabel had messaged everyone late the night before asking them to make it in a little earlier so they could squeeze this meeting in. Carla, bless her soul, had brought a box of sweet treats that sat in the middle of the desks Isabel and Voronov had pushed together.
Isabel had managed to wring two portable heaters out of facility management’s hands when she’d arrived and the room was warm enough that she’d rolled up the sleeves of her top past her elbows. The back of it is still a little damp from having her freshly washed hair plastered to it, which she had now tugged into a half-hazard knot at the top of her head. The artificial heat lends a certain smell to the room, like Isabel can smell the toastiness of the warmth radiating from it.
Isabel waves Jacinta’s apology away, the words that accompanied it garbled because of the croissant clenched between her teeth, flakes of it dusting the corners of her mouth and falling on her as she pours herself a cup of coffee.
Instead of taking a seat, Isabel sits on the edge of the table, knee half drawn up. She takes another bite of her croissant and nearly burns her tongue on the coffee before starting.
‘Sorry for calling you all in early, and I know I sent that message pretty late last night. But,’ she rubs her thumb over the arch of her brow, thinking, and sighs, ‘I think we need to pause and see where we’re at, agree on our next steps.’
As the weak sunlight filters in through the blinds, Isabel goes over the interviews they’ve had with Mrs dos Santos, Armindas and Julio. They still don’t know what HSL means – it could be nothing – Armindas apparently didn’t know anything but then has an argument in the middle of a function with Julio, who, according to Mrs dos Santos, hasn’t always had a smooth-sailing relationship with their victim. And on top of all of that . . .
‘He lied,’ Isabel says and chews on the last chunk of her croissant.
‘Julio did?’ Jacinta asks.
Isabel washes it down with the coffee – a little too bitter for her taste. She makes a note to not let Voronov make it again. ‘Definitely withholding information, especially in regard to the last phone call he had with Gil.’
‘Did he slip up or something?’ Daniel asks, stretching across the table and trying to hook the coffee pot with his fingertips. Isabel is happy to watch the struggle and keeps drinking her own. When she looks up she finds Voronov watching her with an arched eyebrow, and she can’t help giving a twitch of a smile in response.
‘No. I read it in him,’ she says, and it changes the atmosphere in the room.
It’s not that her colleagues have an issue with it. They wouldn’t be working with her if they did and Isabel wouldn’t want to work with them either. But there’s always a sense of unease that slips into a room when someone talks about using their Gift. It’s the elephant in the room. You know you’re Gifted. They know you’re Gifted. They know you sometimes use it. But that’s usually as far as it goes.
Considering what this case revolves around, it’s something that they’ll need to get as comfortable with as possible. She’s not about to let any of them shy away from it.
‘Carla,’ Isabel says, ‘I’d like you to be here for any interrogations or interviews where I can’t be present. We don’t need permission to read emotions and I want as many authentic reactions as we can get without crossing the line. Especially with Julio.’
Carla nods. Her hair, which always seems to be up in the same high, tight ponytail, swishes with the movement.
‘Won’t that be risky?’ Jacinta asks. ‘Considering their stance on Gifted and how Bento Soares came storming in here. They won’t react very well to that.’
Isabel shrugs. ‘Thankfully for us, the investigation isn’t about making them comfortable. But you’re right. We’ll have to watch our step where they’re concerned. And maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree, but right now Julio Soares is standing out.’
Of course, Isabel thinks, the fact remains that he’s not Gifted himself. But if there is a motive serious enough there is no reason why Julio couldn’t have gone out of his way to get a Gifted to do his dirty work for him. They just need to figure out exactly what the disagreements between Julio and Gil, and between Julio and Armindas, had been about.
Julio comes from money and his profession means he’s come into contact with countless Gifted individuals, ones whose levels he’d most probably be well acquainted with too.
‘Actually, Carla, do me a favour. Contact his secretary again, find out what he was scheduled to do the morning of Gil’s death – a map of his day would be great. And check with her to see if there’s anything in his diary similar or in relation to HSL. Ask her if she knows anything about it too.’
That set, Isabel asks Jacinta to update them on the crime scene processing.
Jacinta runs them through the details quickly. Nothing found at the scene that pointed to someone having committed a crime. The crime scene shows that someone repeatedly bashed Julio’s face into a door. He died of severe blunt-force trauma.
Isabel crosses her arms, shoves up the sleeve that had fallen back past her elbow. ‘That supports the theory that this was a crime committed by a Gifted telekinetic.’
‘Definitely. Good news is,’ Jacinta says, ‘we’ve still got Gil’s car, which we’ve started processing. It might be a long shot, I know. But maybe it could turn up something useful.’
‘Right.’ Isabel chews on the inside of her cheek, trying to hide her disappointment. She hadn’t thought they would get much on the train carriage, but she’d been hopeful.
Voronov, who’s been sitting quietly and taking in all the information, sits forward. ‘And what about the CCTV footage from the station?’
‘Chasing that today,’ Daniel says.
‘Keep us posted.’
It’s going to be a long day.
Chapter 24
Isabel didn’t start out being able to hear people’s thoughts. It was all feelings. All these feelings that didn’t belong to her. But she is a telepathic Gifted. Her talent manifested later than usual. Not surprising considering they should never have manifested to begin with.
Both her parents were Regulars, and so is her sister. Initially it’d looked like Isabel was heading the same way. At thirteen though, in the middle of playing a school basketball game, the most horrendous pain had hit her and the pressure on the backs of her eyes had spread through to the centre of her head. The pain had been crippling.
Isabel remembers her dad rushing onto the court, a dark shape against the court lights, his arms tight around her and his voice shaking as he’d tried to stay calm.
Through a fog of strong painkillers, she remembers the nurse telling her mum and dad that she was fine, telling them this sometimes happened with Gifted when their talent began to manifest.
Isabel’s father accepted her wholeheartedly. Her mother had never looked at her the same way again. Her sister – well. They talked.
For all the drama, though, her official classification on her passport reads as:
Grupo Telepatia
Nivel Internacional 5
País de Origem Portugal
The PJ had been happy to take on a telepath. Back then the more Gifted they’d had in their ranks the better. It had kept the balance.
Now, wherever there is a Gifted officer, there’ll be at least twice as many Regular ones to ensure that they’re not breaking any rules.
The fear being a Gifted sometimes generates, although unwanted, can be useful. She’s not above letting it intimidate peopl
e into telling her what she needs to know.
Isabel is stepping out of the taxi when her phone starts ringing.
‘Reis here.’
‘Isabel, it’s Carla.’
Isabel starts walking towards the roads filled with small restaurants. ‘Hey, what is it?’
‘Got a few things for you.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Medical history for Soares came in. We now know for certain that he had no other pre-existing conditions.’
Isabel stops. ‘So, it’s all the confirmation we needed. This is officially a Gifted crime.’ She breathes out a careful breath.
‘Yes, it looks like it.’
‘All right, call Voronov and let him know.’
The restaurant is a little thing tucked into the back streets in the surrounding area of Restauradores.
There are tables outside and Isabel can hear the strumming of a guitar drifting out of it. The streets are busy; there aren’t as many tourists here, but still enough to fill the streets with a buoyant mood. The locals are strolling, having a quick drink and unwinding after a day’s work before heading home for a late dinner. Isabel should be doing the same and wonders why her sister booked the restaurant for so early. The Portuguese are late eaters, having dinner around nine or sometimes even ten in the evening.
After the meeting she’d called first thing that morning, they’d spent the day going over witness statements, trying to spot anything they might have missed and speaking to station staff who had been in the middle of their shift before it had all gone to shit that morning. It’d been a day filled with too many voices and little progress and to be honest, Isabel was looking forward to having a drink.
At least the place isn’t too upscale, because all she could find was a black shirt to offset the jeans and plain, comfy flats. Her hair is still damp against her cheeks and she knows it’s going to curl out of control as soon as it dries.
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