Clarity (7 page)

“I’ll be outside.” Gabriel stormed out. I heard him mutter something about “ridiculous” before he slammed the door.

I turned to Justin. “What the hell?”

He held his hands up in a shrug. “I told you he’s a tough guy.”

“Yeah, but what’s with the name calling?”

Justin sat down and rested his elbows on the desk. “Apparently, he has a big beef with psychics.”

“Lovely.” So this had nothing to do with the other kids in town and my reputation. Perhaps even worse, this was something already inside Gabriel. That “stupid idea” of Justin’s that Gabriel had spoken of yesterday was actually me.

“He agreed to work with you, but only because my father is forcing his hand.”

I rolled my eyes. “As if I didn’t hate you enough before.”

“Come on, Clare. It’s not like you’re doing this as a favor to me. It’s the right thing to do.”

That was true. And now I had a more urgent motivation to get the case solved quickly: I had to protect my brother. “Fine,” I said.

“Great. Let’s get started.” Justin opened the bag on the desk and pulled out a wallet, a tube of lipstick, and a cell phone. “These were hers. You want to give it a try?”

I shrugged and picked up the lipstick first. Closed my eyes. Nothing.

I tried the wallet next. Again, nothing. I was glad Gabriel had left the room. So far I was proving to be completely useless.

Then I took the phone.

Instantly, I was sucked in. I saw only swirls and haze, nothing concrete, but the emotions were strong. I was crying. No, Victoria was crying … in anger. I squeezed the cell tighter, focused harder.

You don’t own him.

Her voice was loud, insistent. A muffled response was out there in the distance, but I couldn’t decipher it.

Well, he obviously doesn’t want you anymore,
Victoria continued.
He wants me.

Static crackled. I tried to hold on as long as I could.

We’ll see about that.

Victoria’s words trailed off and I opened my eyes.

“What was that?” Justin asked, wide-eyed.

“I got something. I’m not sure if it’s relevant, but it might be.” I repeated what I’d heard. I wondered for a moment if Victoria could have been talking about my brother. No, they’d just met that night at Yummy’s, right? That’s what he’d said.

Justin nodded as I returned the phone to the desk. I felt a small swell of pride. I’d just gotten our first lead. Maybe I would be useful after all.

I looked over my shoulder at the door, and sighed. “Time to deal with Mr. Tough Guy, huh?”

“Good luck,” Justin said dryly.

I left the office and found Gabriel pacing the hallway. I tried not to notice how good he looked in his cargo shorts and dark blue tee. I focused on the fact that he’d called me a nutjob.

I was invigorated by the vision. My confidence was back up and I was ready to get involved. Figuring the meeting got off on the wrong foot, I tried to make nice first. “I understand that you have worries about working with me,” I began. “Maybe if I explained my ability, that would make you feel better?”

Gabriel wouldn’t look me in the eye. “Doubt that.”

Okay, forget nice. My guard went up like a drawbridge. I hardened myself and faced him like I’d faced Tiffany, Billy, Frankie, or any of the others time and time again. With the only defense I had. Words. “Listen, I gather you have a problem working with a psychic. Believe me, I don’t like working with a jackass any better.”

His eyebrows rose and his mouth opened slightly.

I continued, “Mayor Spellman is forcing me to do this as much as he’s forcing you. So how about this? I won’t get in your way and you don’t get in mine. We solve this thing quickly and then we never have to speak to each other again. Deal?”

There was a flash of respect in his eyes. He stared at me for a moment while twirling his keys around his finger. Finally, he spoke.

“I’m supposed to bring you to the motel room and let you do your thing there. Then I’ll bring you home.”

He started walking and waved me forward, but I followed at a distance. I needed to take a minute to regain my composure. I shoved my trembling hands into my pockets and took a few deep breaths. Telling him off had salvaged my pride and possibly earned me some respect. But underneath my outer bravado, my chest was tight and a slight ache filled me.

Yeah, I was Clare Fern, tough psychic chick, member of the freak family. But if they stripped all those labels off, people might be shocked to find a normal girl beneath. Who doesn’t want to spend her days on the defensive. Who wants what everyone else wants.

To be loved.

EIGHT

KING’S COURTYARD WAS A SINGLE BUILDING OF connected rooms that arched in an L-shape around an outdoor pool. They advertised it as “water view,” but when you looked out your window all you mostly saw was your car staring back at you. There were two floors. Victoria Happel’s room was 108, first floor, tucked into the corner of the L, farthest from the office.

Yellow police tape stretched across the motel room door. I stood beside it, waiting for Mr. Stick-Up-His-Butt to finish up in the office.

Only yesterday, he’d been all interested in me — flirting and flashing his perfect smile. And now Gabriel acted as if I disgusted him. I crossed my arms and tapped my foot.

He finally came along with a lanky hunched-over man, who I assumed was the motel manager from the room keys he had bunched up in his hands. Gabriel had told me on the way over that his father had called ahead, giving the heads-up that a “trainee” was coming to take a couple more photos.

“I’d really like to know when I can rent the room again,” the manager said.

Gabriel took the key from him and began pulling a side of the yellow tape down. “It’s still a crime scene. We’ll let you know as soon as we can.”

“But, see, there are people who would be willing to pay a premium to stay in this room. Murder groupies, you know.”

“Sick,” I said.

Gabriel tossed the guy a stern look, and the manager nodded and walked off.

Gabriel entered the motel room first. I followed closely behind, a strange feeling churning in my stomach. I felt like I was watching myself act in a movie or remembering a dream. Once again, I was reminded of how much of a freak show my life was. Normal teenage girls were at home, hanging out with friends, watching TV, flirting on the phone with their boyfriends. I was in a murder room.

Gabriel closed the door behind me. The blinds were drawn, casting most of the room in shadow. Gabriel flicked on the light switch and said, “This was the victim’s room.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

I looked around. It was your typical cheap motel room. One king-sized bed (“We’re one hundred percent king-sized at the King’s Courtyard!”), a nightstand with a reading lamp, telephone, and alarm clock, and a small TV on a dresser. The walls were dirty beige with one cheap painting of a sailboat hanging crookedly above the bed.

Gabriel sighed. “So what is it that you do?”

“Ever heard of retrocognitive psychometry?”

“Nope.”

“It’s the ability to perceive or see events that have taken
place in the past. I have that. I touch an object, focus my concentration, and sometimes I’m able to see visions of things that have occurred when someone else touched the same object.”

“Sometimes.”

“Yes. Just because it doesn’t work every time doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

“I didn’t say it’s not real.”

“I don’t have to be psychic to know how you feel right now. I just have to not be an idiot.”

I saw him almost smile, then remember he was supposed to hate me, and his face returned to a serious frown. “Point taken. I’ll sit here in the corner and watch silently.” He slumped into a chair.

“Fine. Is it okay for me to touch everything?”

“Yeah.”

I went to the bathroom first and worked my way through there, letting my fingers graze, holding the shower curtain, the hot and cold handles on the sink. Nothing interesting came. Just grainy pictures of people performing their mundane tasks. I moved out into the main room and sat on the end of the bed, letting my hands rest on the bedspread that was folded up on the edge of the bed. Immediately, it was as if I’d tuned into a porn channel with bad reception. Flashes of all kinds of sex came to me, but mostly indistinct. Red heat prickled up my neck and flushed my cheeks. I stood quickly, thankful that Gabriel didn’t notice how embarrassed I suddenly felt.

When dealing with items that many people have touched, the visions can compete with each other and mush together
into an indeterminate mess. I was hoping to pick up something of Victoria since she was the most recent inhabitant of the room. But it was obvious from what I’d just seen that the motel mustn’t wash their bedspreads often. I needed to find somewhere that her touch lingered.

I looked around for the remote and found it on top of the television. I held it in my hands, closed my eyes, and concentrated. I saw nothing, but felt overwhelming frustration.

“Anything from the remote?” Gabriel asked. So much for him being quiet.

“Not a thing.”

“That’s good, considering she didn’t use it. The TV is broken. She complained at the office the night she was killed.”

That might explain the tremendous feeling of aggravation I felt while holding it. “It’s too bad,” I said.

“Why?”

“If the TV worked she might have stayed in and watched
SNL.
Not gone to Yummy’s. Not ended up dead.”

He shrugged. “We can’t see the future.”

“You’ve got that right.”

He cocked his head. “Wait a minute, you claim you’re a psychic but you don’t believe people can see the future?”

“Correct.” I moved to the dresser now, felt each knob on the drawers.

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “I’ve never met anyone who could. And, believe me, considering the population of freakazoids in the town my folks are from, if there were someone who could see the future, we’d have heard of them by now.”

“What about that new Madame Maslov who came to town?”

“Scam artist,” I said.

He laughed. “Pot, meet kettle.”

“I’m not a scam artist!” I was so sick of having to defend myself to this loser. A gorgeous loser with a low, raspy voice and a great body, but still.

“Don’t you think it’s a little hypocritical that you get all mad at people who don’t believe in your gift, yet you judge this Maslov woman the same way these people judge you?” Gabriel asked.

I had to admit — to myself — that he had a good point. But I didn’t have to admit it to him. I put my hands on my hips. “Can you please shut up so I can concentrate here?”

He smirked, but complied.

I worked the room over for twenty more minutes with no concrete results. I needed a spot Victoria Happel had touched that wasn’t recently touched by a hundred other people. But finding that spot could take all day.

“Ready to quit?” Gabriel asked with hope in his voice.

An idea occurred to me. “Do you have crime scene photos?”

“Yeah, right here in my back pocket.”

I groaned. Wiseass. “Photos were taken, correct?”

“Yeah. What do you need to see?”

“I need to know the position her body was found in.”

He stood and gazed at the bed. “I saw those photos. I remember. She was lying on the bed.”

I paused. “I need to recreate it.”

“Excuse me?”

I got on the bed. The sheets and pillows had been stripped, I assumed for the blood evidence. I lay atop the mattress and stared at the ceiling Victoria Happel had most likely stared at only three nights ago.

“Move me into the position she was found in. As exact as you can.”

He shook his head. “This is sick.”

“Just help me and then you’ll be done with me for the day.”

“I don’t see how this is helpful at all. As a matter of fact, I’m starting to think you’re completely wasting my time.”

I had stopped listening to him. Something wasn’t right here. I focused on a small, perfectly circular, dark spot on the white popcorn ceiling. I squinted my eyes. “What’s that?” I asked, almost to myself.

“What?” Gabriel followed my eyes to the ceiling. “I don’t see anything.”

I clambered to a standing position on the bed and reached up on my tiptoes. Now that I was only inches away, I could see what it was clearly. I stuck my finger in it.

“There’s a hole in the ceiling,” I said.

Gabriel jumped up on the bed and examined the opening. “Definitely man-made, probably with a drill.”

“It would give whoever had the room above a clear view of the bed,” I said.

He nodded. “We’ll have to find out who was staying in that room.” He shook his head. “How did my dad miss this?”

“Did your father bother to lie in the bed and get the victim’s perspective?”

“No.”

“Then maybe I’m not just wasting your time,” I said bitterly.

He blushed. “I apologize. This is a good lead. Thank you.”

I lightly pushed him off the bed and returned to my previous horizontal position. “I’m not done yet. Will you move me into the position she was found in?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

He leaned down and placed his hands on my shoulders. Immediately, a rush of warmth coursed through me. I was glad he couldn’t read minds because all I could think of was how devastatingly good-looking he was. And then of how twisted I was for thinking about that at a time like this, in a place like this. But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t shut the thoughts off.

I looked up into his dark eyes, at his slightly parted lips, so close to mine.

Then he abruptly flipped me over like a pancake.

“Hey!” I snapped, my voice muffled by a faceful of bed.

“She was found on her stomach,” he said.

“You could have done that a little gentler.”

“Fine, no more hands. I’ll just instruct you. Turn your head to the right.”

I complied and took a deep breath.

“Put your left arm under your body.”

It was uncomfortable. She wouldn’t have lain like that for
sleep. Maybe she was trying to push herself up and, after the shot, fell down onto her arm.