What the hell was wrong with him? He was long past his twenties, when every nice pair of breasts and long legs had brought his hormones to attention. And Lily Browning, of all people, should be the last woman in the world to make his mouth go dry and his heart speed up.
He forced himself to speak. “How long have you been a teacher at Westview Elementary?”
She answered in a hushed voice. “Six years.”
He wondered why she was speaking so softly. The skin on the back of his neck tingled. “Is someone else here?”
Suspicion darkened her eyes. “My accomplices, you mean?”
He answered with one arched eyebrow.
“Just Delilah and Jezebel,” she said after a pause.
A quiver tickled the back of his neck again. “What are they, ghosts? Spirits trapped between here and the afterlife?”
A smile flirted with her pale lips. “No, they’re my cats. Every witch needs a cat, right?”
“You’re Wiccan?”
A frown swallowed her smile. “It was a joke, Lieutenant. I’m pretty ordinary, actually. No séances, no tea leaves, no dancing around the maypole. I don’t even throw salt over my left shoulder when I spill it.” She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. The lines in her face deepened, and he realized her expression wasn’t a frown but a grimace of pain.
“Do you get headaches often?”
Her eyes swept down to her lap, then closed for a moment. “Why are you here? Am I a suspect?”
“You called me, Ms. Browning.” He relaxed on the couch, arms outstretched, and rested one ankle on his other knee. “You said you saw Abby Walters—how did you put it? In your mind?”
She clenched her hands, her knuckles turning white.
“Why call me?” he continued. “Do I look like I’d buy into the whole psychic thing?”
“No.” Her tortured eyes met his. “You don’t. But I don’t want to see her hurt anymore.”
He didn’t believe in visions. Not even a little. But Lily’s words made his heart drop. “Hurt?”
“She’s afraid. Crying.” Lily slumped deeper into the chair. “I don’t know if they’re physically hurting her, but she’s terrified. She wants her daddy.”
McBride steeled himself against the sincerity in her voice. “How do you know this?”
Her voice thickened with unshed tears. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like I have a door in my mind that wants to open. I try to keep it closed because the things behind it always frighten me, but sometimes they’re just too strong. That’s what happened today. The door opened and there she was.”
Acid bubbled in McBride’s stomach, a painful reminder of too much coffee and too little lunch. “You actually saw her?”
Lily nodded slowly. “She was crying. Her face was dirty and she was afraid.”
“Can you see her now?”
Her quick, deep breath sounded like a gasp. “No.”
Tension buzzed down every nerve. “Why not?”
“It doesn’t work like that. Please…” She lurched from the chair and stumbled against the coffee table. A pair of cut-glass candlesticks rattled together and toppled as she grabbed the table to steady herself. Out of nowhere, two cats scattered in opposite directions, pale streaks in the darkness.
McBride’s heart jumped to hyperspeed as he hurried to Lily’s side. He caught her elbow. “Are you okay?”
Her head rose slowly. “Go away.”
“You can’t even stand up by yourself. Are you drunk?”
“I don’t drink.” Her head lolled forward, her forehead brushing against his shoulder.
“Drugs?”
He could barely hear her faint reply. “No.”
He wrapped one arm around her waist to hold her up. Her slim body melted against his, robbing him of thought for a long, pulsing moment. She was as soft as she looked, and furnace-hot, except for the icy fingers clutching his arm. Her head fell back and she gazed at him, her eyes molten.
Desire coursed through him, sharp and unwelcome.
Ruthlessly suppressing his body’s demands, he helped her to the sofa, trying to ignore the warm velvet of her skin beneath his fingers. “What did you take for the headache?”
“I ran out of my prescription.” She lay back and covered her eyes with her forearm, as if even the waning afternoon light filtering through the curtains added to her pain.
“I can call it in for you. Do you have any refills left?”
“Just leave me alone.”
He should go, and to hell with her. It was probably another con. But she wasn’t faking the pain lines etched across her delicate face. “I can call a doctor for you—”
“The prescription bottle’s in the drawer by the fridge.” Tears slid out from beneath her forearm.
Her weak capitulation gave McBride an uneasy feeling as he headed to the kitchen to find the prescription.
He was back in fifteen minutes, using the keys Lily had given him to let himself back into the house. It was a few minutes after six and night had fallen, cool and blue. He fumbled along the wall for a light switch, but couldn’t find one.
Pausing to let his eyes adjust to the dark, he saw the pale sheen of a lampshade a few feet away, outlined in the glow coming through the windows from the street-light outside. He felt his way to the lamp and turned it on. The muddy yellow circle of light from the low-watt bulb barely penetrated the darkness in the corner where it stood. But it was better than the unrelenting darkness.
Lily lay on the sofa, her arm still over her eyes.
“Ms. Browning?”
She didn’t answer.
McBride crossed to the sofa and crouched beside her, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. She was asleep, without the benefit of the pills he’d just spent more than fifty dollars buying for her.
No matter. She’d probably need them when she woke up.
She shifted in her sleep but didn’t awaken. Waiting for her to settle back down, McBride gave in to the male hunger gnawing at his belly and let his gaze wander over her body, taking in the tempting curves and planes. At some point in her sleep, the hem of her T-shirt had slid up, baring a thin patch of smooth, flat belly and the indentation of her navel.
Heat sluiced through him, unexpected and unwanted. Dragging his gaze from that narrow strip of flesh, he pushed himself to his feet and stepped away from her.
He distracted himself with a quick, cop’s-eye survey of the living room. Clean. Spare. Simple furniture in neutral tones with just enough color to ward off boredom. He moved closer to the wall to study a framed watercolor, a delicate rendering of a tulip in colors that would be subtle even with full illumination. A neat signature in black appeared in the bottom right corner: Iris Browning. Mother or sister?
Movement to one side caught his eye. A Siamese cat crouched, frozen, near a small iron plant stand, staring at him from between the leaves of a philodendron. McBride barely made out glowing turquoise eyes in a chocolate face.
A shudder ran through him.
Suddenly, a scream split the quiet, snapping the tension in his spine like a band. Off balance, he stumbled backward into the lamp, knocking it over. The bulb shattered, plunging the room into darkness.
With his heart slamming against