One glimpse, and she has him by the throat.
She is young. Too young for him, in any case. Still, the man cannot tear his eyes away. Not as someone calls her name and she gets to her feet, relief briefly contorting her delicate features. Not as she follows the receptionist out of the frenzied waiting room, into the back hallway.
The man is meant to be out on the street, starting his shift. His partner is waiting for him in the cruiser outside. He can’t afford to get written up. Not now, when he’s trying his damndest to make detective. But the man cannot stop his feet from turning — not toward the door, not the direction he is meant to go, but into the back hall.
After the woman.
He has no explanation for the strange pull he feels in his gut. Yet he is powerless to stop it. He finds himself standing in the back of the interrogation room, where a crowd has formed to watch Jennings take her statement. Her voice is just as he imagined it would be. Like musical notes, light and melodic, even as she says the strangest things. Things that cannot possibly be true.
Can they?
He stares through the two-way mirror, knowing she cannot see him, even when she turns those bottomless eyes his way. Through the glass, her gaze cuts like a knife, straight to the heart. There is no deception there. Only truth. Only pain.
A lifetime’s worth of pain.
He stays for her whole statement, listening to her speak. The other officers in the room make jokes. They laugh. They call her a quack, a fraud, a charlatan.
But the man makes not a sound.
Just stares at the woman, wondering who put that pain in her eyes. Wondering what he’d risk, just to get a shot at taking it away.
Purple sparks shifted, stealing the scene away. The vision changed.
The second time the man sees her, his world stops turning.
It is late. The middle of the night. The station is a storm of grief and pain and rage. Officers are processing the news. Some crying, some cursing, others completely silent. In the lobby, phones ring off the hook without reprieve despite the late hour. The receptionist is too devastated to answer.
More press camp out on the curb outside as the night creeps on, desperate to get this fresh horror filmed in time for the morning broadcast.
A whole SWAT team, dead.
Six good men, never coming home.
No justice for the boy who was taken.
No punishment for the man who did the taking.
It is the worst case scenario. It is nightmare-fuel.
The public will demand answers, as soon as first light breaks and they turn on their televisions to see the news. This miscalculation is a career-ender for Jennings — and Jennings knows it. No amount of nepotism can save him, not this time.
The man is headed home for the night. His shift is over. He cannot be here anymore. He would rather be at home alone to process his grief. Even the emptiness of his new apartment, the one he moved into after the divorce was finalized, is better than being here.
He changes into plainclothes in the locker room, then heads out. He is halfway down the hallway when he hears Detective Jennings shouting at someone. He isn’t surprised. Jennings has to take his rage out somehow.
He rounds the corner and stops in his tracks.
The recipient of Jennings rage is none other than the woman he saw the night before. The clairvoyant. The one who gave them the lead. The one he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about since.
“I’m not going down for this fuck up!” Jennings is shouting directly in her face. “I’ll make sure everyone knows this is on you!”
The woman does not respond. She stands there, spine stiff, and takes the verbal lashing without cowing. Clearly, it is not her first. She has taken many such lashings before, the man would stake his badge on that.
“You should be the one to tell that mother what happened to her son!” Jennings roars, spit flying, hitting her cheeks. “You should be the one to face her! You’re the one responsible for his death!”
The woman flinches. It is a slight movement – barely noticeable – but she cannot quite hide her pain.
“You’re responsible for all their deaths,” Jennings tells her, slamming a hand against the wall beside her head. It is a fierce blow, nearly a punch. She barely moves. It’s like she’s expecting the strike.