“The house is clear,” Broyles informed me. “You getting anything, yet?”
“Nothing helpful,” I confessed. “I’ll keep trying.”
“I did a quick search of the kitchen,” he said. “Regular household stuff. I’m going to check out the garage than the basement.” He pointed to a door off the living room. “Those are the two most likely places after the kitchen for people to store chemicals.”
I rolled my hand at him. “If you find any holler. I might be able to get something from the odor.”
“You got it, Ms. Black.” He winked. “If it stinks, you’ll be the first to know.”
“You can call me, Nora,” I told him. “We’re good now, right?”
He grinned. “Yeah, we’re good. Call me, Tony.”
Excellent. I’d won over the hardnose cop who’d been making my life a little more difficult of late. It made me happy because I actually liked and admired the man. I was putting a check in the win column. I needed all the wins I could get.
I made my way to the kitchen. The scent of lavender was stronger here, probably from the cleaning products under the sink. The countertops were pristine, not a single dish out of place. Carol’s meticulous nature was evident, but there was a sense of emptiness as if her home was missing its heart. I opened the fridge. She barely had the basics: milk, eggs, cheese, and a half-eaten sandwich. No clues here.
Heading down the narrow hallway, I noticed a slight scuff on the wooden floor. I crouched down, touching the mark. It was recent, maybe from a hurried step or a dragged piece of furniture. I followed the trail to a small study. The air here was different, charged with a subtle energy. The desk was a modern glass affair, papers neatly stacked, a laptop closed and locked.
Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with a mix of classic literature and contemporary thrillers. One book, thicker and dustier than the others, caught my eye. I pulled it out, the cover stiff and unyielding. Inside, instead of pages, there was a hollow space containing a small, black notebook. My heart quickened.
The notebook was filled with Carol’s cramped handwriting, detailing meetings, interviews, and something more cryptic: dates and locations, including the Cove Community Church. I didn’t know what the significance was, but I bagged the notebook for forensics.
I realized that Gilly hadn’t called or texted me back. My never-ignore was being ignored, and it worried me.
“Anything?” I yelled at Broyles.
“No sulfur or nitric acid,” he bellowed back. “But there is something you should come see in the garage.”
When I joined him, I was shocked by what I saw. The walls and floor had been painted white, and dead leaves and stems were swept into a corner. Several blushes of pink marked where Starfighter lilies had been smashed against the ground.
“This is it,” I told him. “This is where I had the vision when the lilies were delivered. I don’t know if it was her or her partner, but this is where the stink bomb was made.”
I suspected it was her partner. Her house was spotless. If she’d been the one to clean up the garage after the floral arranging, she would’ve done the job right.
“Basement?” Broyles asked.
I nodded. “Yep. And I’d bet we find a popcorn maker and a box of bullets.”
The basement steps were steep, but I managed the descent without too much trouble, thanks to the injections I received in my knees every six months. I was right about the popcorn stand, wrong about the bullets.
“This is definitely the basement from my first vision.” I sniffed the air, detecting an odor I couldn’t identify. “Is that gas?”
Broyles inhaled and said, “It’s kerosene.”
“Is there any stored down here?” I walked around the area, trying to find where the odor was stronger.
The basement is cold and gray. The air is thick with the acrid scent of kerosene, making it hard to breathe. In my visions, I don’t see faces. They’re always blurry, but there are two people in the room—a man and a woman. The woman’s shape and hair make her easily recognizable. It’s Carol.
They’re whisper-arguing in the corner. The man is wearing a hoodie, and I can see his hair or what his size might be, but next to Carol, he seems...small. On top of that, his voice strikes a chord of familiarity. Carol’s words cut through clear and sharp.
“I’ll pay you the five hundred dollars, okay? Just give me some time,” she snaps, her tone edged with frustration. “I just dropped a thousand for that flower delivery.”
“This was your plan, not mine. I didn’t use my own supplies for free. I’m here for the money.” The man isn’t backing down. “You owe me for the stink bomb, Carol. Five hundred dollars. I need the money. No more excuses.”
The tension in the room is palpable. A clang-clang resounds through the space, sending a shiver down my spine. I recognize the clock from a previous vision.
“I hate that clock,” Carol mutters, her voice dripping with disdain.
