“Yeah.” Then he hesitated. He didn’t do this in front of people; what made it alright now, he supposed, was that the girl (why hadn’t he asked her name?) thought he was some kind of forensic analyst. She had no clue that he was doing anything out of the ordinary. He was in disguise, but that didn’t mean it was a good one.
He swept his thumb and forefinger over his eyelids. Brian’s coat sleeve crept up his wrist. A small tattoo, stylized imagery of a third eye, shown from the inside. He blinked at her. “I’m going to close my eyes. If I say something weird, don’t worry, okay?” He waited a moment before following through on his promise.
Once his eyes were closed, Brian tried to clear his mind and think not of the girl before him, but the woman who had stood there a few days before, and the man who had killed her. Long seconds crept past, seconds in which he was distantly aware of the cold, damp air. He was not purely psychic; what he saw usually depended upon the sensation of touch, but there was something itching at the back of his mind. A connection just barely missed, like a whisper he was straining hard to hear. Once he noticed it, he wasn’t willing to leave until the ends met.
It led him to move closer to her, and when he thought he was near enough, Brian said, “Don’t move.” He breathed out and placed his hand against the wall. Then he had it. Another memory, a late-night meeting around the back of the garage. Two people -- a woman and a teenage boy -- fooling around. His hand twitched and he closed his fist. Suddenly the memory got scrambled up with an image of a wooden brush combing through long hair, a mirror reflecting an overhead light.
Re: Lost Sleep
He swept his thumb and forefinger over his eyelids. Brian’s coat sleeve crept up his wrist. A small tattoo, stylized imagery of a third eye, shown from the inside. He blinked at her. “I’m going to close my eyes. If I say something weird, don’t worry, okay?” He waited a moment before following through on his promise.
Once his eyes were closed, Brian tried to clear his mind and think not of the girl before him, but the woman who had stood there a few days before, and the man who had killed her. Long seconds crept past, seconds in which he was distantly aware of the cold, damp air. He was not purely psychic; what he saw usually depended upon the sensation of touch, but there was something itching at the back of his mind. A connection just barely missed, like a whisper he was straining hard to hear. Once he noticed it, he wasn’t willing to leave until the ends met.
It led him to move closer to her, and when he thought he was near enough, Brian said, “Don’t move.” He breathed out and placed his hand against the wall. Then he had it. Another memory, a late-night meeting around the back of the garage. Two people -- a woman and a teenage boy -- fooling around. His hand twitched and he closed his fist. Suddenly the memory got scrambled up with an image of a wooden brush combing through long hair, a mirror reflecting an overhead light.
Brian’s hand had snagged in the girl’s hair.
“Oh shit. I’m sorry.”