Free Epiphany (Legacy of Payne) by Christina Jean Michaels

necklace adorning an earlier version of himself. The paper shook in his hands, and for a moment I thought he was going to crush it in his fist. “How is it possible . . . that you came up with this on your own?”
    My only option was to play dumb. “I’m not sure what you mean. Do you have a similar necklace or something?”
    His mouth hardened into a straight line. “Not anymore.” Without warning he disappeared into the kitchen again.
    I fell onto the couch and dropped my head into my hands. As I pulled myself together, I heard the refrigerator door open, followed by the creak of cupboards, the slide of drawers.
    “How about eggs, potatoes, and toast?” he asked from the other room.
    Despite the nervous flutters in my stomach, I nearly salivated at the thought of a cooked meal, even one as simple as breakfast. I hoped he was better in the kitchen than I was. “Sounds perfect, thanks.”
    “How do you like your eggs?”
    “Scrambled is fine.” Another drawer opened and closed, and I wondered at the speed in which he’d shifted gears. Something about the drawing disturbed him—disturbed him so much he’d let it drop? More sounds echoed from the kitchen. “Need help finding something?”
    “Nope, found it.”
    While he busied himself cooking, I thought of how little I knew about him. What  was  his story anyway? He’d literally walked out of my dreams and into the flesh just days before Six went missing.
    “I did a little digging on the Internet today,” I said, listening as he chopped what I assumed were potatoes.
    “About what?”
    “The Boise Hangman.”
    He didn’t answer for several moments, though the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board ceased, so I figured he’d heard me. “What did you find?”
    “He killed several women, mostly bartenders. The media was all over the case, and he sent scathing notes to the major newspapers.” Silence stretched into minutes, and soon something sizzled from the next room. My stomach rumbled, and I yawned, fighting to keep my eyes open.
    Sometime later, he startled me awake with a plate full of steaming food. How he was able to get it all done at the same time, I’d never understand. I’d eaten cold eggs on more than a few occasions. He set the plate down on the coffee table and added a glass of milk.
    I scooted over, giving him room to sit. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.” Noting the single plate, I asked, “You’re not hungry?”
    “I already ate.”
    I took a bite of eggs. Damn, he could cook. When I scrambled eggs, they tasted like rubber.
    “Do you work tonight?” he asked.
    “Yeah. Six is supposed to work too.” I prayed she’d be back. We’d poke fun at the customers and talk about the regulars that Six knew on a more personal level.
    “You should get some rest then.” He started to move, clearly intending to leave. The drawings sat between us like a third person. So did something else.
    “Don’t go yet.” I set the fork down. “I need to ask you something.”
    “All right.”
    “Why did you come to Watcher’s Point? You said you’re passing through, but I feel like there’s another reason.”
    “What reason is that?”
    “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” I winced at the petulance in my tone.
    A sly grin flitted across his mouth. Obviously, he found me amusing. “I’m housesitting.”
    “Housesitting?”
    “Essentially.” He tilted his head. “What are you doing here besides sketching . . . interesting drawings and breaking into your neighbor’s apartment? Do you have skeletons rattling in your closet, Mackenzie?”
    “Doesn’t everybody?” How had this conversation turned to me?
    “You can’t answer a question with a question. That strategy won’t work on me.”
    I hesitated. “My mom grew up here.” That was about as vague of an answer as I could get. I figured it was wise to leave out how I’d dreamed of the town for weeks preceding my move—how I’d seen horrific images