I smiled. “I see what you did there.”
She winked. “It was good advice.”
“Nora’s right,” Ezra said. “Her avoiding the vision isn’t going to stop the...uhm, this guy from pulling off whatever dumbass thing he has planned for today.”
“Scent Stalker,” Pippa whispered as if taking the moniker out for a test drive. “Does it really fit, though?” She squinted as she thought about it for half a second. “How about the Fragrance Phantom, the Perfumed Prowler, or,” she snapped her fingers as if excited by the idea. “The Scented Shadow.”
“Don’t encourage them,” Ezra groaned.
“Besides, those sound like old radio shows from the nineteen twenties.”
“Is that the sort of thing you listened to growing up?” Levi asked.
I gave him a scathing stare. “I used to like you.”
Levi chuckled. “Just kidding.”
“Can I put him on an extended leave?” I asked Ezra.
He shook his head. “Not unless you take my job.” He switched his gaze to Levi. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t do it for you.”
“And that’s why I love you,” I told him.
He grinned. “I hope that’s not the only reason.”
I flushed and gave him an eye roll. “We’ll discuss all the reasons later. Right now, I should smell that soap. Who knows, maybe I won’t see anything.”
“We can always hope,” Pippa said.
“Officer Walters,” Ezra ordered. “Get the soap for Ms. Black so she doesn’t contaminate the evidence.”
I hadn’t been planning on handling the soap bar, but I let it slide. Levi had gloves on, so I was happy to let him hold it.
He carefully picked up the bar and held it out. I felt weird sniffing something in his hand, but a psychic girl had to do what a psychic girl had to do.
The strong odor of menthol, wintergreen, and eucalyptus emanated from the soap, and I focused all my energy on trying to block out all the other scents in the workshop. I inhaled deeply once more and felt a slight burning in my nostrils, then...
A person dressed entirely in blue—a blue hoodie, blue rubber gloves, and a full plastic Captain America Halloween mask—stands amidst the concrete walls of the dimly lit room. It reminds me of the same place where the popcorn memory was created. The air is thick with the scent of menthol, eucalyptus, and wintergreen, strong enough to clear out someone’s sinuses.
The mysterious maniac stirs the contents of the bowl with purpose, the glass clink of a stirring rod against the sides. Next to the bowl is a white silicone soap mold, its surface smooth and unblemished, ready to receive the liquid concoction. There are some bottles of clear liquids, their labels obscured in the dim light. What is he adding? He’s careful as he uses a glass dropper to add more ingredients to the mix.
As he finishes his witches’ brew, he adds five drops of blue food coloring and two bars of amber-colored soap. His movements are deliberate and precise as if he’s orchestrating some dark symphony. The color transforms into a vivid blueberry blue, and the menthol scent intensifies.
Then, in a voice distorted by his voice changer, he speaks with chilling confidence, mimicking the unique force of nature that is Jennifer Coolidge’s tone: “Light up the sky like the fourth of July. I’m coming in hot, dog, and the race is on. Wow, wow. Try an’ stop me. I’m unstoppable. Stop, drop, and roll, hero, or let it burn, baby, burn.”
The words send a shiver down my spine. I hear two clangs, like a clock striking. Captain America, with a muffled voice that is distinctly male, mutters, “Well, shee-it.”
Emerging from the vision, my breath caught in my throat, excitement tingling through my veins like an electric current. “He slipped up. He thinks he’s clever, but he’s finally made a mistake.”
“Oh, damn it, that burns!” Levi exclaimed, his voice sharp with pain, then he fumbled and dropped the soap. His latex gloves, now riddled with holes, revealed skin turning an alarming shade of brown. “What is this?”
Jeanna, also gloved, instinctively reached for the dropped evidence. Broyles, who must’ve entered while I was in the midst of my vision, intervened swiftly. “Don’t touch it. Not with gloves on,” he cautioned, eyeing Levi’s hand. “Get that washed off.” His gaze flicked to me. “Do you have any baking soda?”
“There might be some in the fridge. I use it to neutralize odors,” I hurriedly replied as Broyles dashed to the fridge. “What caused the burn on his hand?”
“If I had to guess, it’s nitric acid,” Broyles explained. “It eats through latex fast. The brown discoloration on the skin is a dead giveaway. Levi’s lucky it wasn’t fuming nitric acid. That stuff bursts into flames upon contact with latex.”
“I don’t feel lucky,” Levi gritted out, his hand held under the rushing water in my sink. “It feels anything but.”
