Free Conduit by Angie Martin Page B

tight.
    She didn’t want to run around, gushing about her talents to
everyone, but maybe she was a little neurotic about secrecy. The idea that
victims of a serial killer could be reaching out to her in their final moments,
however, made her never want to tell another soul about her gift. She wished it
would just disappear so she could have an uneventful, normal life.
    Emily knew she should have disclosed her suspicions to Lionel
and Cassie yesterday morning, but something stopped her. The significance of the
voices and automatic writings still a mystery, she didn’t want to jump the gun
without first confirming a connection to the murders. If she talked about the
coincidences, they would become real and justify the fear building inside her. Cassie
and Lionel would pull her off the case if they knew, and she would never find
out the reason behind these strange happenings. To get answers, she had to work
the murders.
    Best not to say anything and alarm Cassie, she decided. If
things got too complicated or if she made any kind of discovery about the
voices and writings, then she could always talk to Cassie about it and get her
opinion on the matter.

Chapter Eight
    Coffee sloshed around in Lionel’s
favorite mug, threatening to spill over onto the blur of kitchen tiles beneath
his pacing feet. Barbara stared at him from the breakfast table, her empty
plate in front of her.
    He ignored her gaze until her voice cut through his
thoughts. “Honey, just sit down with me and have a normal Sunday morning breakfast,”
she said. “You have all day to pace by your desk and worry about your case. For
now, I want you to fuss over me. When you’re home, you’re mine.”
    Lionel stopped his restless movements and made his way to
the table like a robot obeying a new command from his master. Barbara always
used those words to get him to stop living his job at home and bring him back
to her.
    “When you’re home, you’re mine” was an agreement they made twenty-four
years earlier on the night before their wedding. Barbara didn’t hesitate to
remind him whenever it seemed he brought the stresses of his work into their
home. Lionel appreciated her candidness, and accepted her correcting him in
moments like this. His home was his sanctuary away from all the madness of the
world, and Barbara ruled both him and their home with nothing but love.
    While he always did his best not to dwell on work at home, this
morning he couldn’t help it, and Barbara sensed his struggle. He munched on a
crispy bacon strip and his eyes traveled over the face of his always beautiful
wife. She appeared much younger than he, with no grey hairs intertwined with
her shoulder-length brown strands and only minimal creases around her trusting dark
blue eyes.
    Lionel was afraid to open his mouth and talk. He didn’t want
any of his manic concerns about the case to emerge in conversation and
interrupt the serene morning. Instead, he soaked in her presence as comfort.
    “When we got married,” Barbara said, “I knew what you did
for a living. I knew being a cop’s wife wouldn’t be easy. When you made
detective, I supported you while knowing that things could be a little harder
for you than when you were a beat cop. Then you transferred to homicide and I
feared the things you’d see would leave their mark on you. I knew you wouldn’t
change, but I also knew you couldn’t do that kind of work without accumulating
some scars here and there.”
    He reached for another piece of bacon instead of inserting
his thoughts into the conversation. Over the course of their marriage, he knew
when she expected him to respond and when she expected him to listen. The congruous
way in which they worked together and their accord resulted in very few
disagreements.
    “I’m worried about you, Leo.”
    Barbara had a way of cutting to the thick of things, Lionel
thought. She would prep her speech with soulful reflection, and just when she
lulled him with her words, she would