Not until it was too late.
There was no rhyme or reason when it came to the type or shape or location of triggering objects. I’d once been thrown into a vision while picking up a few loose coins from the floor during a bartending shift, not realizing there was a hole in the tip of my glove until the sticky linoleum was swapped for the cold marble floor of a vault, and the bottles of liquor at my back were replaced by a trio of bank robbers in black balaclavas, pointing guns at the teller who was emptying the contents of her register into a bag with trembling hands. (I’d needed a shot of tequila, after that one.)
I used a tissue to pick up the figurine and stashed it away in the medicine cabinet, where there would be no more accidental encounters. Usually, triggering objects — even extremely old ones — only had enough instilled memory to spark a single vision. But some emotional echoes were stronger than others. I wasn’t taking any chances during the rest of my stay here.
After changing into pajamas, I slathered on moisturizer and combed out my long tangle of damp curls. I didn’t have the energy to blow it dry, even if it meant waking up with volume to rival Dolly Parton. It had been a long day even before the vision, and traces of exhaustion were etched all over my face. I studied my reflection in the mirror as I brushed my teeth. The contrast between my pale blue eyes and the dark bags beneath them was starkly unattractive.
Flipping off the lights, I made my way to bed in near total darkness. As I crossed the room, my bare feet tangled on my discarded clothing, nearly sending me sprawling. When I crouched down to pick them up, my gaze snagged on a small white card sticking out of the pocket of my shorts. Detective Hightower’s business card. Before I could stop myself, I was reaching for it with my bare hands.
I sucked in a sharp breath, bracing for another vision, but my fingers gripped the cardstock and…
Nothing.
No violet sparks, no rippling visual field.
I didn’t allow myself to question why I’d been willing to risk touchingthisparticular object. Nor did I allow myself to wonder why, instead of relief, I felt something more akin to disappointment when no vision overtook me. And I definitely, absolutely, positively did not allow myself to psychoanalyze why I felt the urge to carry the card with me into bed, beneath the covers, where I traced the faintly embossed letters that spelled out DETECTIVE CADEN HIGHTOWER, SALEM POLICE DEPARTMENT over and over with my fingertip until, finally, my eyes drifted shut and I fell asleep.
* * *
“The waffle machine is broken again,” Rory announced morosely, slamming his plate down beside mine on the long oak table that stretched across the first floor parlor. Seeds from his everything bagel flew in all directions. “This totallysucks.”
“Rory! Don’t saysucks.”
The kid rolled his eyes at his mother’s chastisement, which she delivered without even turning from the coffee machine where she was filling up her mug. The parlor was drenched with early morning sunshine, which slanted through the bay windows that faced the side lawn. It was spacious enough to feed at least twenty, but at the moment only one other guest was present — an elderly man who’d seated himself at a tiny table in the far corner and never once looked up from his newspaper in the twenty minutes since I’d arrived downstairs.
Gigi’s sons more than made up for the sparse attendance in both energy and appetite. If they weren’t actively chewing, they were chattering. I’d barely gotten two words in as I fixed myself a mug of coffee, as I sent my sliced croissant around the toaster conveyer belt, as I dolloped jam onto my plate and carried it back to the table.
Rory settled in on the seat beside mine with a low grunt. “Declan says sucks all the time, Mom.”
“Don’t be a narc!” Declan hissed, plunking himself into the chair across from his brother. His bowl looked like it contained at least three different varieties of cereal and was so full, milk sloshed over the edges and began pooling on the placemat. It was his second helping.
“What’s a narc?” Rory asked.
Declan ignored his little brother, shoving a heaping spoonful into his mouth and chewing at superhuman speed. He looked a lot like his younger sibling, though his hair was nearly brushing his shoulders instead of close-cropped and his eyes were a dark brown instead of hazel.
Rory turned to me. “What’s a narc?”
I choked on my croissant. “Um…”
“Boys! Leave Imogen alone.” Gigi winked at me as she exited the parlor, hurrying back to the front lobby where the desk phone was ringing off the hook.
“We aren’t bothering her!” Rory called after her. He turned to me, brows high on his forehead. “We aren’t, right?”
Shaking my head, I took another large bite of my croissant and washed it down with a sip of coffee. “Not at all.”
“Cool.” Rory took a bite of his bagel, made a disgusted face, and promptly discarded it back on his plate. “Yuck! This tastes like dirt.”
“Cereal’s good,” Declan declared without looking up, still wolfing down spoonfuls.
“I don’t want cereal.” Rory was adamant. “I wantwaffles.”
“Don’t be such a crybaby,” Declan grumbled around a mouthful. “We’re lucky Mr. Monteith lets us eat here for free.”
Mr. Monteith, I had learned from the boys only moments before, was the proprietor of the illustrious Sea Witch Inn. He didn’t seem to have much interest actually proproieting, though, seeing as he spent most of the year living in Florida and only occasionally swept back into town to make sure things were running smoothly under Georgia’s management.
“What’s with the gloves?”
I nearly spat out my coffee at Rory’s sudden question. I turned to look at him and found he was studying my white, lace-detailed gloves with naked curiosity.