August, present day…
Ronan O’Mara was in heaven. As the creator, organizer, planner, fundraiser, and king of the neighborhood ice cream social, he was surrounded by happy people and gallons of ice cream. Dressed in cargo shorts paired with anI Scream For Ice Creamtee and a sparkly Uncle Sam hat sitting at a jaunty angle atop his head, Ronan strolled through the party, trying to decide if he wanted a super-duper hot fudge sundae from Carson and Truman’s stand or a homemade ice cream cookie sandwich from Jude and Cope.
Both, Ronan decided. There was no reason to deprive himself on the most scoopalicious day of the year. “Carson! Hit me with all the hot fudge.”
“That’s two tickets, please,” Carson said, grabbing a paper bowl and his ice cream scooper.
Ronan pulled out his string of tickets and put two into the fishbowl. It had been his idea to use a cash-for-ticket system after Fitzgibbon used all his spare pocket change to pay for his treats last year. Ronan had been super excited to tally up all the money raised at the end of the day until he got to the mounds of pennies Fitz had contributed. “I’ll have the cookies and cream, please.”
Carson didn’t budge. He stood frozen, with his eyes locked on something in the distance.
“Carson?” Ronan asked, snapping his fingers.
“Oh, sorry.” Carson shook his head, as if he were trying to knock away what he’d just seen. “What kind of ice cream?”
“Oreo.” Ronan studied his friend as he scooped ice cream into his bowl. He knew from experience that Carson had seen something courtesy of his gift when his head had seemingly been somewhere else. “Are you okay?”
Carson gave his head a little shake. “Can you keep a secret?”
Ronan nodded. “You know me.”
“Yeah, you’re the biggest gossip on the block.” Carson laughed and ladled gooey hot fudge over two scoops of the frozen treat.
Ronan resisted rolling his eyes. So he liked to talkabouthis neighborswithhis neighbors, big deal. He was Fort Knox with more personal secrets when it counted the most. “This will stay just between us. I promise.” Ronan held up his pinkie.
“Fine. You’ll do.” Carson waved Ronan closer, wrapping his pinkie around his neighbor’s finger. “I’ve been having this recurring vision, and I can’t figure out what it’s about.”
Ronan knew instantly he was in over his head. He’d had an accident a while back where he’d knocked himself out in his kitchen. When he came to, he could see and speak to ghosts, just like Carson. He would be able to help his friend if he were dealing with an especially stubborn spirit, but visions were definitely out of his wheelhouse. “Maybe you’d be better off talking to Ten or Cope about—”
“No!” Carson interrupted. “I need to talk to someone who can’t read me or see my vision for himself.”
“Okay.” Ronan noticed Carson’s hands were shaking. He signaled Carson’s husband, Truman, to man the booth and led Carson to his front stoop. “What’s going on in the vision?”
“I’m in pain. More pain than I’ve ever been in before. It hurts so much that I can’t concentrate on anything else around me except for one thing. Each vision lasts a few seconds or so, and when I come back to myself, I’m scared.”
“What’s the one thing?” Ronan asked, worried for Carson.
“Cole’s face.” Carson wore a desperate look.
Ronan studied his friend. In all the years he’d known Carson, he’d never seen the psychic in this state before. He’d grown up an only child and had no experience with a sibling. The closest thing he had to brothers were Jude and Fitz. If he knew something bad was coming for either of them, Ronan wouldn’t sleep until the danger was averted. “You’re afraid that if you talk to Ten or Cope, they’ll know what’s going on with your brother.”
Carson nodded. “I can’t lose him. It was hard enough when Mom died. I won’t survive if something happens to Cole.”
“I get where you’re coming from. When I lost my mother, I couldn’t get out of bed for a week to the point where I almost missed her funeral. I know grief.” Ronan didn’t like to think back to those dark days when he’d lost Erin. He was beyond blessed that he’d been able to connect with his mother through Tennyson and later when he briefly had his own gifts. So many other people never got the chance to right the wrongs they’d made in life, which made Ronan feel doubly blessed. “What if this vision is giving you information on how to save Cole? You know, like the vision you had of Truman before you’d met each other.”
“My vision of love.” Carson sighed wistfully.
Ten had told Ronan the story of how neither Carson nor Cole had psychic gifts when Bertha Craig passed away. On her deathbed, she made her sons promise to carry on her legacy atWest Side Magick. In order to do that, Carson became a con man of sorts, faking psychic readings by drawing on what he’d seen and learned from his father, Cornealius Craig, an infamous grifter who’d abandoned his family years before. One night, Carson touched Bertha’s crystal ball and had a vision of a man with green eyes being shot at a Christmas party. Somehow or other, Carson managed to find and save the man, taking the bullet himself that had been meant for Truman.
“If there’s a chance to save your brother, we need to do everything in our power to make that happen. Whatever I can do to help, I’m there.”
“I appreciate that, Ronan. I’ve had this vision three times now, and I’ve blocked it out from my mind.” Carson sounded more relaxed now. “How do I get it back?”
Thankfully, Ronan’s years as a police officer had taught him a thing or two about recalling lost memories. “When I interview witnesses who are having a hard time remembering details of what they saw, I have them close their eyes and run through their senses. What do they smell? Hear? See? Feel? Are they hot or cold? Wet or dry? Usually, having them focus on something other than what they witnessed helps bring back the memory they’re trying but failing to access. Maybe you could practice later after the kids are in bed.”
Carson nodded. “I’ll give it a try.”
“If the vision comes again, give in to it and follow it through to the end.” Ronan didn’t know much about psychic powers, but the one thing he’d learned from Tennyson was that the vision would keep coming until Carson understood what it was trying to tell him.
