Free Touched (Second Sight) by Hazel Hunter Page B

it was your idea,” Isabelle said. “Wasn’t it?”
    “I mean I don’t want you sidelined,” he said, coming around the island, moving one of the stools out of the way. “I want you with me,” he said, taking her gloved hand in his.
    Isabelle shook her head and looked down at their hands. 
    “Sometimes I think I don’t understand you,” she said quietly.
    “Really?” he said. “Even after…last night? Or after our hands touched?”
    “Do you believe I have psychic ability?” she asked suddenly and looked up at him.
    The question came as a surprise.
    “What?” he said, sensing that everything turned on this.
    “You’ve never once acknowledged it,” she said. “As far as you’ve ever said, everything I contribute is something your investigation has already revealed. Or it’s a decent guess. Or a logical thing to say.”
    Her eyes flicked back and forth between his and he felt the squeeze of her hand.
    “Mac, do you believe I have psychic ability or don’t you?”
    He wanted to be able to say yes, that he believed her unequivocally, without a doubt in his mind. It’s what she wanted to hear, maybe even needed to hear. But, sadly, it wasn’t true and Isabelle didn’t deserve a lie.
    “I’m a man of science,” he began. “I rely on facts, on data.”
    Isabelle’s shoulders suddenly sagged and she quickly lowered her gaze. In moments, she had dropped his hand and was backpedaling.
    “No,” he said reaching toward her, but it was too late. A lopsided smile appeared on her lips and her eyes teared up. “Isabelle,” he said quietly, “don’t.”
    “No, that’s all right,” she said quickly, holding up her hands to fend him off as she continued to back away.
    Then she ran through the swinging doors, one gloved hand covering her mouth.
     
    • • • • •
     
    “Here we go,” muttered Prentiss, as he poured milk for his cereal. 
    He sat at the folding card table in the kitchen-slash-living room of the studio apartment, the small TV set next to the sink. The podium in front of the giant lawn was empty but as Prentiss settled into the folding chair and set the milk carton down, the father came to the microphone.
    “Thanks for giving us your time this morning,” said the older man. Like yesterday, when he and his wife had begged for information regarding Esme, he was wearing a dark brown, pin-striped suit and black tie. “We have an announcement to make.” He glanced nervously down at the index card in his hand as cameras clicked furiously. “Actually, it’s more of an introduction. So,” he said, glancing off camera, “let me just introduce Isabelle de Grey.” He walked off in the direction he’d glanced and suddenly the psychic was on screen. The firing of flash bulbs and shutter releases exploded as she replaced the father. The woman was pretty, Prentiss thought, as he spooned a mouthful of cocoa-flavored balls into his mouth. Instead of the hurried shots of her running down the sidewalk or riding in the back of an SUV, the camera focused on just her.
    “As many of you have heard,” she read from a quaking sheet of paper that she held in front of her. “My name is Isabelle de Grey and I have been referred to as a psychic.” Prentiss’s ears pricked up. “But I’d like to state, for the record, that I am not .” Prentiss stopped chewing. “I do not claim to have any abilities beyond those of the every day and the physical. I am not a psychic nor do I believe that such people exist. I have been here,” she glanced off camera but had to blink at the sudden fury of flashing bulbs, “with the Olivos family as a friend and supporter. I see now, though, that my presence has only been a distraction from the real and only reason that any of us should be here: to see Esme safely returned to her family. Therefore, I’m leaving and I apologize to the Olivos’s for any harm I might have caused.”
    With that, she simply folded the paper in half and left. A cacophony of