A Plea for Help - Book cover

A Plea for Help

Cristal Sieberhagen

Anger

Lynn surged to her feet, shoving her chair backward, and stormed toward the mirrored wall—standing with her back to Steve. It was the furthest she could get away from him within the confines of the room and failed to settle the panicked beating of her heart or her labored breathing. Both of their faces were reflected on the shiny surface.

She considered the images and hers was unflattering. The hasty bun did an unimpressive job of containing the freshly washed mass of chocolate brown hair, and not having worn makeup in a while, she had not bothered to look at herself in the mirror before leaving the house.

Lack of sleep reddened the whites of her eyes and left her face ghostly pale with blueish, bruise-like smudges darkening the skin under her lower lids. The almost colorless cast of her lips gave her a sickly air. The red jacket, house pants, snow boots, and black, hole-infested cardigan looked like it belonged to a homeless person who had just wandered in off the street.

Her body language reminded her of a horse Steve’s parents kept on their ranch outside the city—a place she often visited with them. The fiery-tempered ebony mare’s nervous disposition rendered her unrideable. She often bucked for no reason, always appeared about to bolt, reared without warning, and refused a saddle. The family wasted money on several trainers before giving up on Macy.

Sierra-Lynn often watched the horse run about the paddock for hours—its smooth stride the epitome of grace and power. The mare rarely stood still, always remained skittish, and almost dared Sierra-Lynn to invade its space.

Mr. Holloway often threatened to sell the beast but never did, as fascinated by its wild beauty as the rest of them.

Lynn took another deep breath and re-established her mental field of flowers after recognizing that same crazed, uneasy, trapped, and about to bolt expression in her eyes. Never having been on the wrong side of the metal table, she disliked the feeling—even with Steve refusing to take her seriously.

He watched her the same way his father once studied Macy, looking sad and angered at all her wasted potential.

One day, a group of mustangs invaded the ranch on their way to the mountains. Macy ran up and down that paddock, nickering, stomping her feet, rearing, and going insane until Mr. Holloway swung the gate open and granted her freedom.

It was a magnificent sight to see that horse run free with the other wild horses, and her fiery nature made her a sparkling gem among the rest.

Four days later, Macy returned with a limp. Bite and kick marks marred her satiny skin. A shallow cut scored a red slash from her haunches to her shoulder, along her dusty coat. Her head hung low, and the fight had gone from her. Despite the open gate, she made her way into her paddock and stayed there.

Whatever happened to Macy in the wild broke something in that horse. Mr. Holloway called the vet, and for the first time, Macy allowed him to treat her without restraints. Two months after her wounds healed, Steve saddled her, and although Macy physically recovered from her ordeal, she was never the same.

In due course, the mare gave birth to a beautiful brown and white colt with something of her former wild streak, minus the skittishness. Spirit became Steve’s favorite horse, and the animal allowed no one else to ride it.

“Steve, I am the ‘Loony psychic lady’ Officer Roberts sent you to interview.”

Her tiredness broke through his resistance, and he frowned at her as he stopped writing long enough to study her with barely concealed anger, confusion, disbelief, and concern. Even if the reflective surface had shown her none of these things, his raging emotions communicated themselves to her perception.

Steve slapped the book down on the table, startling her, and he gave two steps toward her before turning back and seating himself on the opposite chair. He clearly struggled to believe her, despite the evidence that she thought she spoke the truth. She even had the clear impression that he wondered if she needed medical care, and that he noticed that she looked unwell.

Anger flashed through her, and she saw it reflected in the depths of her eyes when she caught onto his thoughts—she had forgotten the strength of their connection to each other.

She was glad he had no idea how often her gift, and that link, allowed her to see into his head. The passage of time strengthened that bond, and her insight into his thoughts gained a disturbing clarity because her gift had become more potent. She doubted if he would appreciate the knowledge or deal well with it. At least it rarely happened with other people.

“I’m psychic, and I always have been. I haven’t slept in days, and I’m tired but not sick—either mentally or physically.” Her icy tone did not sit well with him, and judging from the precipitous chill in the atmosphere, he heard her loud and clear as antagonism and dislike cascaded off him, his desperate attempt to understand aside.

Steve disliked unexplainable things—the singular quality in him that always prevented her from telling him the truth.

Tommy was her soul mate, and even he could not deal with it—either dismissing any mention of her gift or making mocking remarks until she stopped speaking of it. Back then, she rarely allowed her ability to show itself, and Lynn kept the insights she gained to herself, searching for evidence to support her hunches before sharing her information.

In those days, her ability lacked both clarity and definition. It took an effort to make sense of it, and her unwillingness interfered with her interpretation of what she saw.

“Is this a belated April Fool’s Day?” Barely concealed contempt gave his statement a testy edge that boiled her blood.

She turned on her heel to face him, but he refused to even glance at her. If he had, her arms crossed over her breasts, feet planted slightly apart, along with the tilt of her chin and the fire in her eyes, would have warned him that he had stepped over the line.

How did it come to this? She should have left when she learned this was his case, but it had been so long, and she hoped time might have mellowed his judgments, but the opposite happened.

“Really, Steve? Has your memory of me grown so unclear? Do you think I would resort to childish pranks about something you have such powerful feelings over? To what end?” her reserved fury made him raise his head.

Cool blue eyes met her bitter, tortured blue-grey ones. She knew the dregs of the woman he remembered with such affection hid in the shadows of her gaze, drawing him in, despite his defiance. Their connection and past would never allow this to work, and a wiser woman would have chosen another precinct.

“You’re overworked and emotionally stressed. Now, you think you see things.” Even he could not believe the patronizing words coming from his mouth and wished to take them back. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride, Steve scoffed.

Maria, his childhood nanny, said, “hurtful things, once said, cannot be unsaid, or the damage undone.” She called sorry “a meaningless term of regret. If you said it, then you thought it, and if you thought it, you meant it.” Sorry only implied that you regretted saying your opinions out loud. More accurately, you betrayed your sentiments to your detriment.

Sierra-Lynn’s blue-gray eyes darkened to a stormy shade he rarely saw in this woman, who used to take pride in her self-control. Her demeanor turned stony with anger.

“If you are not prepared to take my statement or incapable of the professionalism of your position, Senior Detective Holloway, please assign someone better qualified. I do not care if you throw my statement in the trash the moment I leave; at least I will sleep tonight. I doubt whether you will rest with the same ease.” Her displeased frustration lashed out at him with an unexpected edge, and her earlier fragility vanished.

His lack of response increased her agitation, but he was seldom dumbstruck. Common sense told him he had to calm her down since his superiors might not look kindly on this incident if she filed a report. Sierra-Lynn would never have done such a thing, nor would the old Steve have said those words.

“Roberts, please take Miss Parker’s statement!” Steve instructed Eric over the phone, recovering command of himself, but then noticed with trepidation that she had not. He never thought to see that expression of disdain directed toward him—the look Sierra-Lynn reserved for the worst of criminal miscreants.

“Eric Roberts will take your statement,” Steve instructed.

Her anger had drained the last of her energy. She wanted to sit, needing to rest her head for just a minute, but refused to show weakness in front of Steve.

She assumed he would leave, but he seemed in no hurry. She listened to the drone of Eric Roberts describing procedure to her and wanted to shout that she knew the damned process, but she was incapable of expending the effort, and he was just doing his job.

“Miss Parker knows the procedure. She was an ADA,” Steve interrupted Eric. His tone spoke volumes, and a slap through the face would have hurt Lynn less than his attempt to aid in her comfort.

“Miss Lynn Mills is a Private Investigator, SD Holloway. I have no record of her being an ADA. Sir,” Eric disagreed with reserved respect, “this is the prescribed procedure.”

Steve frowned at Eric, and she almost grinned. The information accessed by her fingerprints should have brought up her past, but it wouldn’t, and that would concern him. He wondered about the Lynn Mills thing—why she dropped Sierra and took back her maiden name. Let him wonder. It was none of his business.

“I would prefer it if you left, Senior Detective Holloway,” Lynn requested. Her voice lacked inflection, and she did not need to see his face—his reaction came across well enough as his fury washed against her in a tidal wave.

She had enough of his doubt, scorn, and passive-aggressive manner. Lynn factored in shock as a reason for his unacceptable behavior, even concern for her mental state, but she would not condone his rudeness. She also suspected he would soon dig into her files to determine how her past had disappeared. Good luck to him, she thought, and seated herself beside the table again.

Eric Roberts did not have the guile to hide his sentiments. She did not care what the officer thought, and he had no power to influence her feelings or affect her gift. It would be much easier to speak to someone who did not mistrust her intentions, question every word she said, or doubt each statement without bothering to keep those opinions to himself.

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