Crumpled, almost broken, his slender face slack, his glossy red hair bloodied.
My heartbeat slowed, and as though my feet were made of concrete, rooted to the spot, I watched the split second play out when Gable Norton had fought for his life.
Chapter 3
Oh, Holy Night
Written by Adolphe Adam, Placide Cappeau, John Sullivan Dwight, 1847
For sure, one man was Gable; I’d know his towhead and hulking frame anywhere. At one time, he’d been the golden boy of Marshmallow Hollow, the star quarterback at our high school (go Chickadees!), and all the girls had wanted him to take notice of them. Even though he’d been a year behind me, he’d played varsity football, and being a bit of a football fan when I was in school, I saw him play at most of the games.
The other man, just as Uncle Darling had told Stiles, definitely had a black knit facemask on, but he wasn’t nearly as large as Gable. He was average height but broad-shouldered. They were shouting at one another, but the words were as muffled and hazy as my heartbeat.
They tussled for a moment and, of all the curious things, a tube of lipstick fell on the ground near Monty. A tube of hot-pink lipstick with no cap…
Then there was a loud boom and then blood everywhere.
Dear Goddess, the blood…
“Hal!” someone hissed with urgency in my ear. “Hal, listen to me. You’re having a vision. I’m going to grab your hand to keep you steady. Come back to the land of the living.”
I blinked, my eyes dry from the forced-air heat of the store, my legs wobbly and weak.
“Hal? You okay?”
I gripped what turned out to be Stiles’s hand and nodded with a slow nod. “Yes…”
“What did you see?”
I leaned against his chest for a moment. He’s a good deal taller than me, and my head only reaches his pecs. “The murderer, I think…I think I saw…the guy who murdered Gable.”
His grip on me tightened as the world came back into focus. “Who? Who was it, Hal?”
“I don’t know,” I murmured in frustration. “I don’t mean I saw him-saw him, you know? But it was just like Uncle Darling said, there was a man in a black knit facemask, and a tube of…lipstick? Hot-pink lipstick. What does that mean? Was it Uncle Darling’s?”
He was, after all, a drag queen. He had tons of lipstick. In fact, he’d showed me how to contour my cheekbones and make my lips look fuller. He rarely traveled with his makeup if he wasn’t on tour or doing a show, but I suppose it was possible he or even Monty had it.
Stiles shook his head and rasped a sigh. “I don’t know, I didn’t see the scene directly, and I haven’t heard anything about a lipstick, but I’m sure if there is one, they’ll ask Uncle Darling about it. Guaranteed. Anything else?”
Sighing, I scrunched my eyes shut and popped them back open. “I don’t have much more than what he already told you. I’m sorry…”
We’d had a long conversation about the last murder I’d kind of infringed on, and the visions I’d had associated with said murder, and we’d agreed that my visions could have been helpful in solving the crime. If Stiles couldn’t reveal what I told him to his superiors, at the very least he could be aware of what I’d seen and keep a keen eye open when looking for clues.
I know he had to be careful about any details he shared, and I didn’t ever want him to jeopardize his work, but I did promise to share any future visions I had with him in case they could help.
Stiles patted me on the back and dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “Don’t be sorry. I’m used to half the story when it comes to your migraines,” he said. “But if you have another one with more clarity, text me, okay?”
I pushed off from his chest and nodded, my breathing returning to normal.
“She okay? Another migraine?” Brett Messer—tall and lanky with brown hair and pleasant hazel eyes—asked as he braced his hands on the heavy belt that held his gun.
Brett was two years older than us, and he’d lived in Marshmallow Hollow all his life—he was aware of my “debilitating migraines.”
I held up a hand. “She is. Thanks for asking, Brett.” Turning to Stiles, I asked, “Can I take Uncle Darling to the hospital now, or do you need him for more questioning?”
“You’re good to go, and I’m sure I don’t need to say this, but tell him not to leave Marshmallow Hollow.”
I rolled my eyes. “As if he’d ever in a mill leave Monty.”
Now Stiles held up his hands in defense of his words. “I’m just doing my job, Kitten. I gotta go, but I’ll check on you guys later, okay?”
Taking a deep breath, I gave him a thumb’s up before I went to gather Uncle Darling and Hobbs and head to the hospital.
But before I did, I sent out a small prayer to the universe.
Please, please let Monty be all right.
Please.
“We should have stayed at the hospital and waited, Hal,” Uncle Darling sobbed forlornly over a cup of his favorite hot tea Atticus had all prepared as soon as we’d walked in the door. “No! Instead, I should do a healing spell and make it all go away with the snap of my fingers!”
I reached for his chubby fingers and gripped them, pulling his fist to my cheek. “You know you can’t do that, Uncle Darling. We mustn’t interfere with mortal matters, and Uncle Monty is mortal.”
His round face sagged as tears rimmed his eyes again. “You’re right, Lamb. I know you’re right, but… I should have stayed with him—waited for him. Healed him.”
Monty had a hematoma from a blow to his head. I’m not sure if the man in the mask hit him, or he hit his head on the stall in the bathroom, but they had to relieve the pressure on his brain, and that meant surgery and possibly an induced coma to hopefully bring the swelling down.
The prognosis at this point was iffy, and I was doing my best not to show Uncle Darling how terrified I really was.
Uncle Darling had been beside himself when Doc Jordan had told him the news, but Hobbs had managed to convince him to come back to the house and at least try to rest.
Hobbs had gone home to grab Stephen King and take him out, and was due back at any moment, but he’d been an enormous help in soothing my distraught Darling.
I rubbed his back and pressed another tissue into his hands, planting a kiss on his round cheek. “You know you can’t interfere with fate. Healing him is out of the question, and you heard what Doctor Jordan said, Uncle Darling. Monty’s going to be in surgery for a while. There’s nothing we can do right now. It’s much better if we wait here for the text from the staff nurse when surgery is over than watch you pace a hole in the floor and drive yourself crazy with worry. You can’t be with him right now, so it’s better you’re here with me—with us. He’s in good hands, and so are you, I promise.”
With a shudder, he took a sip of his tea as another tear rolled down his face. “Thank you for this, Atticus. I’m gagged you’d think of me.”
“Gagged?” Atticus twittered, settling on the island counter. “Is this some sort of drag queen speak, Andrew?”