Part of her wanted to snap that murdered girls were everyone’s problem. But she knew it wasn’t cowardice or lack of caring that kept him from offering to help. She’d read about the cases he’d been involved in. The man had seen both brilliant successes and a few losses. He’d been fearless and driven. Right far more often than wrong.
That last case, though, had been beyond wrong. It had robbed him of his confidence. Wounded him. And he wasn’t ready to go back to his real life—a look around this stuffy, closed-in mausoleum in which he’d entombed himself made that clear.
Too bad. Whether he was ready or not, she needed him. But she knew of only one way to get him to keep considering getting involved.
By leaving.
“Well, I think I’ve used up a lot more than my five minutes,” she said, standing abruptly.
She knew better than to push this man. He’d come around and let her in earlier only after she’d shown herself willing to walk away. If he had to take some time to come to the realization that this poor, missing girl—and the fate of all the others—did involve him, that he was a part of this community and should care what happened here, she’d give it to him. She only hoped he didn’t take too damn long.
“Thanks for listening, Mr. McConnell.”
He stared up, surprise and confusion widening those eyes.
“The only way you will understand why I am so sure something has happened to this girl is if you understand what’s been going on here in Granville over the past three years.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she shook her head, not allowing him to refuse. “Not that I’m going to sit here and force you to listen to it.”
Lexie reached into her backpack, pulling out the thick folder full of clippings of articles she’d collected in recent months. Articles from the high school paper about the increase in runaways from the Boro. Articles she’d written for the
Sun
connecting those runaways and offering another possible explanation for their disappearances. The file also included her research, bios of the missing, photographs, notes, transcripts of her interviews with the victims’ families, a copy of the chief’s press release rebutting the story and her own retraction. Everything she had.
If it wasn’t enough to interest this man, well, there was nothing she could say to change his mind. She just had to trust that if she got out of his hair, he’d take the time to read it over, realize she was right, and then get back in touch. It was a risk, but journalism was all about taking risks, going out on a limb for the sake of the truth. This was one risk she had to take—the stakes were too high to blow it by pushing him.
“I left my card inside. My numbers are on it,” she told him as she bent and lowered the folder onto the coffee table. “I’ll show myself out. Thanks again for your time.”
She almost made it, almost slid away on that final line, making a grand, classy exit. But when McConnell
tsk
ed and shook his head, slowly rising to his feet and eyeing her with something like amusement, she had to snap, “What?”
“You’re good.”
Compliments didn’t seem like something that fell naturally out of this man’s mouth. Then again, his expression said he hadn’t really been making one. “What do you mean?”
“You assessed the situation, figured out the best way to get what you want, and went for it.” He reached down and picked up the folder, not opening it, but not shoving it back into her hands, either. “You know I don’t want to look at this.”
“I know,” she admitted, though begrudgingly.
“You also know if you sat here and tried to force me to hear you out about it, I’d have shown your ass the exit.”
She offered him a sweet smile. “Would you at least have opened the door before tossing me out?”
He hesitated, then finally told her something she already knew. “I don’t like reporters.”
“No, really? I never would have imagined.”
“I guess I’m wrong and you’re not very good at your job. That’s pretty unobservant,” he said, almost sounding as though he were teasing her. If he was capable of such a thing.
Challenged, she retorted, “I’m an excellent reporter.”
“I have my reasons for not liking people who do what you do.”
Remembering everything that had been said and written about him, much of which had made him look like a hunk of bait encircled by an entire circle of vicious sharks, she understood and respected those reasons. “Not all members of the media lose their morals and principles in order to get the story.”
One fine brow went up, debating that.
He didn’t have to say anything; she knew he had a point. She’d seen some pretty nasty things in the news business, and she’d only ever worked at Granville’s small-town paper. There wasn’t, for instance, much Stan wouldn’t do if he thought it would get him ahead, or even just give him a leg up on her.
“However, some do. And to be completely honest, I don’t like some of them myself,” she had to admit.
“Honesty? Not something I usually associate with those in your profession.”
She didn’t take the insult personally. “Yeah, well, I never associated callousness with people in yours. I thought psychics were supposed to be more empathetic than the rest of us.”
Looking more surprised than offended, he crossed his arms, pressing the folder against his broad chest. “You think I’m callous?”
“Either that or cowardly.”
The insult didn’t faze him; not much seemed to. “I’m neither. Just burned out, and maybe a little gun-shy.”
She got that. God, if anything, last month’s public humiliation should have her feeling the same way. Though she had only been accused of scaring people, not being responsible for the death of a child. In his shoes, she’d probably be more gun-shy as well.
“I don’t ever want to feel solely responsible for someone else’s life,” he admitted. The words were open and honest, his dark, almost mournful expression saying he meant them completely. The weight he carried must be impossibly heavy and her heart twisted as she wondered if he ever allowed himself to put it down, even for a moment.
“You can’t be responsible for somebody whose life is already lost,” she told him. “And there’s no doubt in my mind Vonnie’s life is over if we don’t at least try.”
Silence descended, broken only by the loud ticking of an antique grandfather clock standing in the hall. Each tick served as an audible reminder that time was slipping away, every second brought Vonnie Jackson closer to taking her last breath, feeling her final heartbeat.
He glanced down at the folder, hesitated, then sighed heavily. “I’ll read what’s in here.”
She didn’t smile, wasn’t flooded with triumph. This was a momentous thing he’d offered and she knew it. “Thank you.”
“I’m not promising anything,” he cautioned.
“You don’t have to.”
“All right, then. You’re welcome.”
He placed the thick bundle of documents back on the table, then walked toward her, passing right by and heading out into the foyer. As he moved, she couldn’t help noticing the height of the man. Not to mention the breadth of him. He was the brainy sort, classically handsome and intellectual looking, so she hadn’t really acknowledged before just how well formed he was—broad shouldered, slim hipped, with a hard chest, strong arms, and powerful-looking hands.
Now she noticed. Which was sort of like noticing for the first time that the sun was yellow. And hot.
Also noticeable was the warm, spicy scent of his cologne, and the way his hair was a little disheveled, as if he’d run a frustrated hand through it more than once today.
Yeah, now that he’d stopped growling at her, she was noticing quite a lot about her unwilling host. She was also liking the things she noticed more and more. Especially the fact that, even though he resented her showing up here and trying to drag him into something he wanted no part of, he was still willing to keep an open mind.
She couldn’t ask for more than that.
“I’ll be in touch tomorrow,” he said as he unlocked the door and opened it for her.
“Either way?” she asked, wanting some assurances that she would hear from him again, either because he intended to help her, or because he couldn’t.
Or wouldn’t.
Besides, if his answer was no, at least the contact would give her an opportunity to try to change his mind. Having met the man, she truly believed Walter was right—he could be a big help with this and she would do whatever she could to get him to see that.
He nodded once.
“No sooner than tomorrow?”
He rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. “Reporters.”
Lexie couldn’t prevent a tiny grin. “Sorry.”
Aidan McConnell’s mouth lifted a bit at the corners, flashing that small smile that made the years and the soberness and the hardness melt away until he was nothing but sweet-looking, sexy man again. “There’s a lot in that folder. But if you give me until tomorrow, I’ll read every word of it. I promise.” He raised his index finger. “But I want one promise from you.”
“Anything!”
“My involvement, anything I do or say or think, is totally off the record.”
“I don’t understand. I mean, if you help solve this case, don’t you want . . .”
“If my name never shows up in the news again, it will be too soon,” he insisted. “My name stays out of it, or you can take this folder with you.”
Yeah, fat chance of that. “Okay, Mr. McConnell, your involvement is completely off the record. You have my word.” She thought about sticking her hand out so they could shake on it. But remembering his thing with touching, she decided not to.
“Good-bye, Ms. Nolan. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” she said as she stepped outside onto the porch.
He didn’t come out with her, as if loath to emerge from his sanctuary, merely watching her from one step above as he said, “I would expect nothing else.”
Thursday, 5:10 p.m.
After watching the attractive young reporter drive away, Aidan retreated into the shadowy house, locking the door behind him. He didn’t proceed immediately to his office, instead heading into the kitchen. Dumping a handful of aspirin into his palm, he tossed them into his mouth and washed them down with some bottled water.
The headache that had been digging at his temple with sharp metal spikes had increased into a full-out hammering over the past half hour. It felt as though something had burrowed into his brain and was trying to punch its way out, as if his skull could crack under the pressure.
You know why
. Or, at least, he suspected.
She was onto something. That reporter, Alexa, so strong, so passionate, so damned stubborn, had come to his door to enlist his help, bringing complications and obligations, worries and bad memories in with her. In doing so, she had forced him to stop thinking of this morning’s episode as some kind of strange aberration and acknowledge what it really had been.
His gift wasn’t one that switched on and off at random. Nor was it ever caused by anything as simple as somebody walking by a trash can and smelling something unpleasant. He’d been kidding himself. Only severe emotional distress could cause such a solid connection between his mind and another’s. That distress had to be extreme for those images, those smells, to claw through his standard mental blockades and insert themselves into his sensory input.
He’d met that girl. Touched her. And now she was missing.
He needed to know if hers was, indeed, the mind he’d been connecting with.
“Vonnie?” he whispered, staring at the closed refrigerator door, though he was picturing something else. A restaurant, a crowd of people, a pretty African American girl with braided hair, a pencil stuck behind her ear, shiny gold hoop earrings, a deep laugh, and a big smile for everyone who walked in the door.
He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to even think of doing it. But he had no choice.
Aidan closed his eyes. Visualizing that protective wall he’d spent so long building, he reached for one cement block, dead center, and began tugging, digging it out inch by inch. He worked hard, pulling with all his strength. Finally, it popped free, leaving a single rectangular hole in the barricade. One small opening through which anything could intrude and his own imaginative thoughts could escape.
He drew a steady breath. Then sent them flying.
Wishes and demands, fears and instincts ... all spewed out of him and raced in search of answers to his deepest questions. His questing mind was like an enormous blanket held aloft by a flock of soaring birds. They dove closer to the earth and slowly draped Aidan’s consciousness over the entire town, insinuating itself into others’ conversations, thoughts, private moments.
He shrugged off the familiar sense of unease, ignoring the barrage of images that charged back at him through that small hole. Snippets and ideas, half- lost memories of people who didn’t even know they still existed deep within their brains, they all had to be sifted through.
“Vonnie,” he murmured. The name became a chant. “Vonnie, Vonnie.”
He looked for her, searched, trying to find
just
her thoughts, just her memories in the ocean of them that were flooding his mind. He pictured her face, heard her laugh, remembered the moisture on the glass as he’d taken it from her and the faint brush of their fingertips.
He wanted to see her alive and well, sitting on a bus somewhere. Anything that would allow him to let this go.
The tension grew, until he felt like he was being pulled toward that hole in the wall. Aidan was being drawn by a powerful rubber band that was wrapped around his chest, squeezing the breath out of him. It was so strong, it could suck him through the tiny opening, even if it had to crush him in the process.
One more tremendous push.
Vonnie!
And suddenly he found her. It was brief, so brief, just a few seconds. He didn’t see her, didn’t feel her or gain any insight as to where she was, even if she was still alive. But he heard her, heard two words repeating over and over in her voice. Her terrified voice.