The last photo was of Cheyenne.
Her reaction was immediate. A sharp inhale. A trembling hand to her mouth. “This can’t be. I saw her tonight. Still breathing.”
Coop frowned. “I just left the crime scene, Miss Stevens. I assure you, Debra Wilson is deceased and has been for several days. We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s confirmation on how long.”
Erica blinked, startled. “Debra? I thought we were talking about Cheyenne.”
Relief crossed her face, but it vanished almost instantly. Her gaze darted away as if she suddenly couldn’t look at the photo. Color drained from her cheeks. Whatever she’d just realized hit her hard.
“How well do you know Miss Wilson?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral.
“I wouldn’t say I knew her. I’ve seen her around the neighborhood.”
Coop homed in on the discrepancy. “You said you saw her tonight. Where, specifically?”
She hesitated, a beat too long. “You won’t believe me.”
“Why would you say that?”
“It always starts out that way.”
Coop studied her and her strange answer for a moment then urged, “I’m open-minded. Try me.”
The photo shook in her grip, barely noticeable, but he did. Seconds passed, and he thought she would refuse. Instead, she said in a whisper, “I’ve seen her in my dreams.”
Coop didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Experience had taught him to keep his face neutral and to control his reactions, but dammit, not tonight.
He’d dealt with “dreamers” before: the well-meaning ones, the attention-seekers, the unstable ones. He didn’t have the patience for it. Not after the scene he’d just walked out of. Not with a girl missing.
Erica Stevens didn’t look unstable. And she didn’t seem to be putting on an act. Everything about her said she’d rather be anywhere else.
So, he’d indulge her until he could figure out what kind of dreamer she was.
Coop extended his arm toward the swing. “I’m going to need you to have a seat and tell me everything.”
The chains groaned, and the wood creaked beneath them as they settled in. She sat stiffly, hands clasped in her lap, staring out at the dark yard as if regretting what she’d already told him.
Coop kept his voice low and even. “Start from the beginning. Tell me about the dreams.”
She pulled in a shaky breath—steeling herself—before she answered. “They weren’t clear at first. Just impressions. Fear. Cold concrete. Shadows and odd light.”
Her voice changed, becoming soft and distant, as if she were slipping somewhere else. “Tonight, I saw her.”
Coop’s pulse ticked up. “Are you sure it was Cheyenne Wilson?”
Erica nodded. “She’s hurt. Her face is swollen, and her wrists…” She swallowed. “The zip ties were so tight, they cut into her skin. I would have called it in sooner, but I didn’t know who she was at first. Not until she looked in the mirror.” Her voice thinned; her eyes rose to his, beseeching. “You have to find her, Lieutenant, before it’s too late.”
Coop leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Tell me what else you saw.”
“She was in a filthy bathroom,” she whispered. “Terrified. Exhausted. Trying to stay alert.” Her fingers curled as if she felt the bite of the plastic. “Her T-shirt was torn.” She raised a trembling hand to her chest. “She has a crescent moon tattoo with three stars. Right here.”
That detail wasn’t in the photo he’d shown her. From the location, it wasn’t something a neighbor would know from passing someone on the street.
“A crescent moon usually symbolizes transformation. And stars often represent hope.” Her voice softened. “I doubt Cheyenne imagined this was the change she was choosing when she picked it.”
“What else did you see?” he pressed.
She shook her head. “I sensed her fear. And the feeling that she’s running out of time.”
