I used my demon-given gifts to dip into his thoughts, and slip just inside his aura. Yes, I was cheating. Then again, the sun was also stolen from me, along with Oreos and cheesecakes, fettuccine alfredo and mango margaritas. Or mangoritas, which just so happened to be Allison’s favorite drink these days. So, if the demon inside me—the thing that fueled this supernatural body of mine—could actually give me something back, could actually add value to my life, rather than steal from it, then I would take it gladly. Lord knows enough had been taken from me.
“Cry me a river, Mom,” as Anthony would tell me these days. Kids, they grew up so fast.
Anyway, the ability to read thoughts was a decent trade-off for having to give up dinner at The Cheesecake Factory, not to mention, the ability to quickly discern truth from lies was invaluable to my profession. Now, I no longer had to guess if someone was jerking my chain or not.
Now, as I psychically slipped inside his personal space, without him knowing it, of course, I dipped into his thoughts, which turned out not to be an entirely good idea. The guy was borderline losing it. No, correction, he had lost it. Weeks ago. He’d lost it when his wife had seemingly disappeared at a Starbucks just outside of Orange County, which I had pieced together from his own chaotic memories.
No, not quite chaotic. His mind, I quickly realized, was continuously looping the crime scene. Over and over, even for the few minutes I was inside his mind, he relived his last moments with her.
Sit back, I commanded, relax.
Henry Gleason looked at me, blinked, and then sat back in my client chair. His thoughts calmed a little, and I was able to piece together what I saw. It wasn’t a pretty picture.
“Tell me what happened, Henry,” I said, and as he spoke, I relived the scene in his thoughts.
* * *
Henry is waiting impatiently, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel...
His wife has gone inside the Starbucks to grab them some iced mochas. Henry doesn’t even like iced mochas. His wife doesn’t either. What the fuck is an iced mocha, anyway? And why had she insisted they stop here, dammit? Lucy is acting weird today, he thinks. So weird.
He waits in the heat. His window is down. Hot wind blows through the open window. He checks the time on his cell phone.
I hear him say, “C’mon, babe, where are you?”
More drumming. More hot wind.
He turns around, scans through the back window of a truck toward the busy Starbucks. Nothing. No wife. No damn mochas.
More drumming.
Finally, he gets out and pads across the shimmering asphalt. I can feel the heat. I can also feel the panic rising in him. I know from his thoughts that he has waited about fifteen minutes for her. He thinks she’s in the bathroom. Maybe she’s sick. If that bitch is in there talking to someone—especially some guy—he was going to go off on her. Off. Maybe even slap her around a little. Maybe.
As he heads toward Starbucks, alternately fuming and worried, he tries to remember if she had shown signs of being sick. They had eaten tacos earlier. Yes, the tacos. He is sure of it. They had tasted funny to him.
Now, he’s inside the Starbucks. Cool air. People were everywhere. They were as busy as hell.
He heads immediately to the bathrooms. His mouth literally drops open when he sees a girl exit the bathroom because it’s not his wife. The girl avoids eye contact with him and hurries past. He glances inside the open door. It’s empty. He checks the men’s restroom. Empty, too.
I feel his panic. Full-on panic. He dashes out to the lobby, searching, searching. She is nowhere to be found. What the fuck? What the fuck?
Now, he’s asking employees if they have seen his wife. It’s a busy Starbucks. People are coming and going. Workers are making drinks fast, taking orders. Everything is mechanical, rote, all done a hundred times a day, a thousand times a day.
I hear him describe his wife to anyone who will listen. No one remembers seeing her. Wait, one worker does, but she isn’t very forthcoming. No, that’s not it. She just doesn’t remember too much. Yes, she took an order from her. Water only. ‘Water?’ he asks. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yes, sir. Just water. Then she went in there.’ She points to the bathrooms.
Henry rushes back to the bathroom. Maybe he missed her. Maybe she is behind the door, or in a stall. Dammit, no stalls. Not behind the damn door. He checks the guys’ bathroom again, too. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Now, Henry is outside, rushing back to his truck, in case she has come back, in case he has somehow missed her. But she’s not there. Now, he’s running around the building, running and running, looking for her. Maybe she had wanted to throw up in an alley? But there’s no alley here. Just a big, hot shopping center sitting on the edge of the desert. He stands on a parking lot curb, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare. Nothing. Then stands on his truck’s bed, searching.
Nothing.
Now, he’s on his cell phone calling the police, weeping, fearing the worst. He’s nearly incoherent as he reports her missing.
And then the thoughts repeat.
Over and over.
Chapter Three
“She disappeared,” said Henry, speaking into his hands, his voice barely audible, his voice barely human. He was unaware that I had just seen the entire scene in his thoughts. “She just disappeared. And I have no idea where she went or what happened.”
I didn’t know either, of course. I didn’t know all or see all. I was just a woman. Just a mom. Granted, a very freaky woman; and, if you asked my kids, I was a very freaky mom, too.
I said, “You watched her walk into Starbucks?”
He nodded. He held a tissue tightly in his hand. The tissue might have been torn to shreds. “Yes. I watched her in the rearview mirror.”
I could have confirmed this by dipping into his thoughts, but I thought I’d had enough of Henry Gleason’s thoughts for one day. Hell, for a lifetime. I said, “And you watched her enter?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see where she went from there?”
“No. She just, you know, blended with the crowd and I started playing with my phone. You know, wasting time, looking at texts and scores and news and weather.”
“Angry Birds?”
He gave me a weak grin. “That, too.”
“An employee at Starbucks saw her?”
“Yes. She spoke to the police, but she really doesn’t remember much.”
“Do you have her name?”
“Jasmine.”
“Last name?”
He shook his head. “The police will have it, but I can’t imagine there are too many Jasmines working at that Starbucks.”