Grace already knew it was Bryant. She’d sensed his presence, the way his mood filled the room before he ever crossed the threshold. She braced herself for his usual brand of stoic concern, and she was not disappointed. Caroline opened the door, letting in a rush of cold and the scent of melting snow. Bryant stood framed in the yellow porch light, hair and coat sprinkled with ice crystals, a set of folders clamped in his left hand.
He nodded to each woman in turn. Grace, then Olivia, then Anna, then Caroline, his eyes lingering on Grace a beat longer than necessary. He shrugged off his coat, shook it outside like a dog, and stepped in. “Ladies.”
“Bryant,” Olivia said, polite but never deferential.
He moved directly to the fireplace, nodded in approval, then turned to Grace. “You okay?”
Caroline snorted. “She’s alive, if that’s what you’re after. Could use a little more blood in her face, though.”
“I meant it,” Bryant said, looking at Grace, not Caroline. “You’re okay?”
Grace felt warmth creep up her neck, not from the fire. She nodded, unsure if she could trust her voice. “Just the usual. Visions, existential dread, and now a healthy fear of outdoor electrical infrastructure.”
Bryant let a rare smile flicker, then set the stack of manila folders on the coffee table with a purposeful slap. “Can’t say the same for the mayor’s ego. He’s upset that the tree lighting ceremony was interrupted, but you probably saved a dozen lives.”
Olivia made a noise between a snort and a huff. “Stupid mayor, not able to see the forest through the trees.”
Bryant ignored this. He surveyed the group, then took a seat at the far end of the sofa. His presence was never exactly relaxing in these situations. He was too much like a coiled spring, always ready to snap into action, but Grace found it soothing in its own way.
She eyed the folders. “What’s that?”
“Everyone who was on the stage,” Bryant said. “The official list from the Chamber, plus their background checks and statements.”
Grace let her gaze drift from the tan pile to Bryant’s face. “You think someone was specifically trying to kill someone on that stage?”
“I think it’s possible,” Bryant said. “Otherwise, someone was just killing to kill, which does happen, but I don’t think is happening right now.” He opened one of the folders, fanned out the photos and papers like a magician. “Whoever did this wanted to kill someone. Maybe more than one someone.”
Anna reached for a file, then paused, her hand hovering over the stack as if it might bite her. “Do you have a suspect?”
Bryant’s jaw worked. He ran a thumb down the edge of the first folder, tracing the manila as if it might yield a confession. “Not yet.”
Grace swallowed. The blanket felt suddenly heavier. “You want me to…what, touch the files and see if I get anything?”
His expression softened, a hair. “You’re the only one who’s been right so far.”
Olivia nudged the wine glass toward Grace with a manicured finger. “If you have to see the future, you might as well be drunk for it.”
Caroline plucked a folder from the stack, flipped it open, and slid it in front of Grace. “Start with Fire Chief Dalton. He’s probably upset some people in his long career.”
Grace hesitated. She’d never done it with so many eyes on her, or with the stakes so absurdly high. She remembered the sizzle of electricity, the ozone tang in her lungs, the vision of white-hot sparks dancing across the stage like evil snowflakes. She was already half-nauseous.
Anna squeezed her hand again. “You don’t have to if you’re not ready.”
Grace forced herself to sit up, shedding the blanket, letting the room’s chill bring her senses into sharper focus. She reached for the folder, her fingers tingling before she even made contact. The photo on top was the chief, a burly man with a gray-flecked beard and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. She let her hand rest on the glossy finish.
Nothing, at first.
Then: the stink of smoke, not the cozy fireplace kind but the choking, bitter stench of burning wiring and cheap insulation. She was standing in a narrow hallway—no, a restaurant kitchen, with stainless counters and a ceramic tile floor slick with grease.The walls were green. The floor had red tile. The heat was unbearable. Alarms were shrieking, flames rolling up the far wall, and someone, Dalton, she guessed, was shouting for people to get out, get out now.
Her own breath grew shallow as the vision tunneled, showing her the chef’s panicked eyes as he realized there was no way out. The door was blocked. He slammed against it with his shoulder, again and again, until the wood began to splinter. She felt the blistering heat on her skin, the strange cold of her body knowing it was about to give up.
And then, nothing.
Grace yanked her hand away, gasping. The vision left a phantom taste of soot on her tongue, her fingers numb and trembling. She blinked and found her friends watching her with a mix of concern and awe.
“Dang,” Caroline said, voice barely above a whisper. “What did you see?”
Grace reached for the wine, took a shaky gulp, and described the kitchen, the fire, the panic. “He’s going to die in a fire. Or almost. I’m not sure.”
