I shook my head. “It was so chaotic. There was a loud sound, like a firecracker, then another, and Edgar shouted that he’d been shot. That sent everyone on the streets running.”
“No shots after that?”
I shook my head. “Honestly, I’m not sure there were any shots fired at all.”
He scoffed. “What do you mean? We got a dozen 9-1-1 calls describing the situation as an active shooting.” His brows dipped. “You think they all got it wrong?”
“Yes.” I met his flat gaze. “I do.”
“What about the guy who got shot? I suppose that didn’t happen either.”
“It wasn’t a bullet sticking out of his arm,” I informed the arrogant man. “It was a piece of metal. Stainless steel, if I had to guess.”
“Found a casing,” I heard Reese say. “Looks to be a nine-millimeter.”
Broyles gave me a look that said, “Hah!”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I’d had enough shenanigans for one day, and I was seriously regretting my decision to leave the house this morning.
Reese came around the corner, holding it with a gloved hand between her thumb and index finger. “This is strange,” she said. “The casing looks shredded, and it doesn’t have scorch marks on it.” She scrunched her face in consternation.
“Where’d you find it?” I asked.
Broyles gave me a none-of-your-business stare. This time, there was no resistance on my part. I rolled my eyes. Hard.
“Don’t be a jerk, Broyles,” Reese said. “If Nora’s asking questions, there’s probably a damn good reason.”
“Right,” he said doubtfully. “Because she’s psychic.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe anyone is desperate enough to believe that crap.”
I glanced at Reese.
“It was on the ground in front of the popcorn stand.” She sniffed the shell. “It’s like burnt butter and gunpowder.” She raised her brow at me. “Do you want to smell?”
“This is ridiculous,” Broyles said.
“Shut your yap,” Reese snapped. She glanced askance at me.
I nodded. “Okay. I’ll see what I can see.” Not every aroma triggered a vision, but I hoped this one would. If for no other reason than to wipe the smug look off Broyles’ face. I got up and walked over to Reese and leaned close to the empty shell. Gunpowder, butter, and burnt popcorn.
A shadowy figure gets up from the chair, takes a piece of popcorn from the largest of the four bowls, sniffs it and flicks it off a gloved hand. He picks up two bullets from the table. There is a popcorn maker, a small version of the street fair kettle, against a gray cement wall. The sinister person drops the bullets inside and steps away.
He shakes his covered head and says, “I can’t wait to see how this turns out.” His voice is southern and high pitched now. Definitely not Christopher Walken. If I’m hearing correctly, and I think I am, it can only be Dolly Parton. What the heck? Is there more than one person in the popcorn room?
Another low chuckle sends a shiver down my spine. “Good luck, Nora Black. I’m just warming up.” On that note, there’s a loud bang, and the bottom of the kettle bursts open when the bullets overheat and explode. The shadowed figure stumbles backward, falling to the ground. The laughter that follows makes me nauseated.
Bile rose in my throat as the vision ended. “The kettle,” I rasped. “Check the popcorn kettle for the other bullet.”
The person in my vision had called me out by name. Was the article the reason this happened? Was some madman testing my ability? The idea of it sickened me.
Ezra came around the corner, his face registering surprise as he looked at me. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I think this is my fault,” I said wanly. “I’m the reason this happened.”
ChapterFour
Shawn Rafferty, the chief of police and my ex-husband, paced the floor in front of the large window in his office that overlooked the lake. The view was serene, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside the room. Ezra stood by a shelf lined with Shawn’s awards and family photos, his arms crossed over his chest in a posture of contained frustration. I sat on a brown leather loveseat situated across from Shawn’s desk, sipping a thirty-two-ounce gulper from the Pump & Go, feeling the tension rise with each passing second.
“Start from the beginning.” Shawn ran his hands over his thin, graying hair, a familiar gesture of anxiety that made me recall the nervous young man who’d taken me on my first date. He looked just as anxious now. “Talk to me like I’m stupid,” he added, his flat stare daring me to respond with a snarky comeback.
