Exception (80 page)

Authors: Patty Maximini

BOOK: Exception

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He scrunched his eyebrows, and his forehead furrowed in deep thought. “How often do you have these dreams?”

His eyes revealed genuine curiosity. He really did seem to believe in them.

“Hmm…” I speculated for a minute. “It’s hard to say really,” I admitted. “Sometimes, I have them on back-to-back nights, and other times, I’ve gone months on end without having one.”

He seemed to ponder that for a moment. “Can you always distinguish between a regular dream, and well, a vision, I guess?”

Twiddling my thumbs in contemplation, I looked past him towards the wall. “Yeah, although I’m not quite sure how.”

I paused to sort my thoughts as I realized that wasn’t entirely true anymore. I definitely couldn’t distinguish one recurring dream in particular, though it certainly had the vision feel to it. But, he didn’t need to know that, and I certainly wasn’t about to tell him about it. “It’s weird actually, because I know they’re visions while I’m having them. It’s like I’m more aware during visions than I am during a dream. I can also generally remember more details from visions.”

“Hmm.” He chewed his lip thoughtfully. After a few seconds, he picked his head up from its propped position, slid his elbow off the counter and leaned forward, closing the nearness that separated us even more. “What are your visions generally about?” he asked.

I fidgeted nervously, daring to take only periodic glances at his face as I answered. This was a touchy subject for me, especially since I knew the outcomes of all of them. Although I tried my best to prevent them, I rarely succeeded. I gulped down the lump forming in my throat and took in a deep breath, exhaling slowly, as I remembered all those terrible things I witnessed, and usually heard about shortly after they occurred.

Detective Miles sensed my weariness and placed an awkward hand on my shoulder. He dropped it hesitantly, unsure of how to react to my fragile state.

“Don’t worry about it, Ms. Lockton, er, Kali, we don’t have to talk about it now, okay?” he coaxed in a reassuring tone.

I shook my head slightly. “No . . . no, it’s okay,” I replied, knowing it would actually feel good to talk about it with someone who believed me. Picking my head up, I brought my eyes to his, but was unable to hold his gaze for more than a second at a time as I described the ability I had been mocked for my entire life. “Every single one involved people in danger, their lives, that is. Most often, they don’t survive. Sometimes there are crimes, or freak accidents, but strangely enough, they are always local,” I admitted in a quiet, sad voice. “I don’t understand them, or how, or why I get them. And I’ve waited so long for someone to believe me,” I said intently. My eyes searched his for any repugnance, but his sincerity never wavered, it only deepened.

“Do you,” he hesitated, “do you ever see things that seem abnormal to you?”

Could he somehow know about my strange vision? This definitely wasn’t a question I expected. His query indicated an even more open mind, and I considered telling him more, but quickly decided it was a terrible idea.

My eyes narrowed in mock confusion, hoping I looked convincing. “What do you mean?”

He looked down, gathering his thoughts. “Like things you can’t explain.” He raised his thoughtful eyes to meet my own desperate, hopeless ones. His penetrating green irises searched my face.

My hands became clammy with sweat, and I had to look away. I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so,” I lied, drawing my eyes back to his nervously.

He let out a resigned sigh. “Never mind.” He sounded disappointed. “Just my curiosity getting the best of me.” He grinned, though the tension around his mouth led me to believe he was simply trying to reassure me. I managed a weak smile.

Getting off his stool, he picked up his glass and walked to the sink to pour the rest out before placing the cup on the counter beside it.

“You didn’t have to do that, but thank you,” I said softly. I always appreciated considerate visitors.

He waved his hand dismissively and walked back towards me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pad and pen. I watched him scribble a phone number down before sliding it towards me with a confident smile. “This is my phone number. I’d like you to contact me any time you get another vision.”

I took the piece of paper and glanced at the number briefly. “Thank you, Detective, I will.” I didn’t even try to hide the relieved smile as it grew over my face.

His answering smile melted me right back into a puddle, just when I’d finally pulled myself together. He knew what he was doing to me. He had to. I watched his back retreat as he turned to leave, and found myself startled when he spoke again, his back still turned to me. “You have the most beautiful eyes. Rare, just like you. They remind me of home. Vibrant in their depths, but warm, light and earthy on the surface.”

Well, that was an unexpected and interesting observation. Sure they were somewhat different, but they were quite boring in my opinion. Still, his words were simply too romantic not to feel affected by them. I subdued my smile as best I could. “They’re brown.” I giggled. I couldn’t help it.

He turned halfway back around, his hand resting on the doorknob. “A very unusual brown.” He smirked. “Take a compliment, Ms. Lockton.”

I laughed and bit the corner of my lip. “Okay, they’re a really, really light brown.”

He grinned, shaking his head in disagreement. “They’re the color of the desert floor when the sun first sets over it.” His grin faded slightly as he mulled over something, his eyes dancing around before settling back on me. “Like I said, warm in their depths, light and earthy on the surface. Home.”

God, could this guy show me one fault? Just one? That was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to me.

Just as he was twisting the knob to make his exit, I cleared my throat to find my voice. “Where’s home?”

He turned slightly and smiled. “Goodnight, Ms. Lockton. Call me when you get the next vision.” And he was gone.

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Editing: Lauren McKellar

Formatting and Interior Design: E.M. Tippetts

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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