I moved to my closet and rifled through the hangers.
CIA and potentially FBI today, what did I want to wear?
I pulled out a pair of gray dress pants and a pale-blue, short-sleeved summer sweater. With my phone, panties, and bra gathered, I took everything into the bathroom to get ready.
And wait for the phone call.
Yup, Spyder had poked his Anansi-trickster head out from his hidey-hole.
A lifelong family friend of my parents, after Dad’s death, Spyder took up the role of a second father. I loved Spyder for everything he has taught me through the years. My ethos. My code. My stability.
If Spyder said jump into the lava lake, I’d jump knowing that he would have weighed everything and trusted that I could successfully swim to the other side.
Somewhere, there was lava.
And Spyder had said jump.
Chapter Three
Emerging from the bathroom, I lifted my nose to the scent of coffee wafting up the stairs.
Bless you, Striker.
I’d admit it, last night’s row-dream was ill-timed. I didn’t feel game-ready. The shower hadn’t done the trick. But the coffee…
I hustled down the stairs to the kitchen, where Striker leaned his hips into the counter. He was wearing his butter-soft, over-washed jeans that were missing their top button—and nothing else. He crossed his ankles comfortably as he cradled a mug.
I looked up at the kitchen clock and then back at the staircase.
If only the call would come in from the FBI, I’d know if there was time to jog up the stairs and work off some stress with a little sheet-aerobics.
“Chica,” Striker said as I turned back to cast a longing look down the length of his body. “If you keep licking your lips while you eye me like candy, I’m turning your phone to airplane mode and throwing you over my shoulder to take you back to bed.”
“Promise?”
He stalled with a tip of his head, then reached for the mug he’d already doctored for me with milk and Splenda.
“Lexi, you need to pace yourself. This isn’t going to be the easiest of weeks.”
I accepted the mug, sliding onto one of the kitchen chairs, repositioning to face Striker.
“It’s your mom’s birthday. Were you dreaming about her last night?”
I lifted my chin, asking with my body language why he guessed that.
“Row, row, row your boat?”
“Ah.” I took a sip from the mug. “I’m sorry if I kept you awake. Yeah, I’ve had a flood of memories about my parents over these last few days. It’s the most curious thing…”
“Tell me.”
I waggled my hand toward my back. “It’s like they’re both right there, looking over my shoulder.”
Striker’s brows laced. He was probably afraid of what new woo-woo channel was playing on my psychic network. While Striker usually dealt with my psychic senses just fine, he still didn’t love that I could see, and sense, and do things in the ether where he had little dexterity beyond the senses typically developed by SEALs in the field.
During his military career, Striker built those capabilities—the sense of eyes on him. Reading a room. A hovering foot that just knew there was a tripwire hidden. But that was the extent of it.
And for me, that was baby talk.
“Your parents are just checking in?” His voice sounded one part hopeful, two parts braced. “I don’t remember you mentioning ghosts as part of your experiences.”
I waggled my hand again, like an antenna trying to home in on a signal. “Ghosts? That doesn’t sound right. It’s not the term I’d use. Presence? Yeah, I don’t know that I’ve experienced my parents hanging out with me in quite this way since either of them died.” I scratched at my chin.
“No words? Just a sensation?”
“Exactly. Like they’re worried. Like…” I looked up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I don’t know—just kind of hanging out over my right shoulder.
Striker rubbed the back of his neck. “All right, Chica. But if you pick up a knowing, I get to hear about it straight away.”
I gave him a mock salute and picked up my coffee, taking a deep, satisfying inhale before I put the mug to my lips.
A knowing was the word I used when a psychic phrase came to me. It used to be that they happened all the time as a child. Simple silly things like waking up to the nursery rhyme Humpty Dumpty, and I would know that Dad would be making eggs for breakfast.
Since Mom died, the childish knowings had stopped. Just like before, information was presented as children’s rhymes, baby songs, or even kid stories. But they were never innocent.
Now, they usually presaged life or death horror.
It was understandable why Striker was worried that last night’s “Row, row, row your boat” had worked its way into my dreams.
I stilled. Shit. Was it a knowing?
With that thought, my phone buzzed on the table. The vibrations bobbled it against the hard surface, sending it spinning.
I snatched it up.
“Hello?”
“Lynx? It’s Finley.” Steve Finley used my Iniquus call sign. He was an FBI special agent whom I had crossed paths with on many an assignment. His lane was domestic terrorism. That he was the one calling was information.
“Good morning.”
“I got a text saying this wasn’t too early to call.” Finley’s voice sounded tired. “Five is a shitty time to reach out, but this was my window. I hope you understand.”
“No worries. I was waiting for you while I got a cup of coffee in me.”
“I’ve been chugging coffee for the last twenty-four hours. If I got shot, I’d bleed caffeine.”
“No evil eye, no evil eye, no evil eye.” I chanted with a grin.
“Ha! That’s right. No need to curse myself into not making it through today.”
