Page 48 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“Tell me everything,” I say.

Loralee draws a slow breath. “Glass shattered in front of me. There was a flash of red, but I couldn’t tell whether it was fabric, clothing, or something else. Smoke. Cinnamon and scorched sugar. A child screaming.”

“What kind of glass?”

“I don’t know.”

“Window? Bottle? Display case?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where were you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Inside or outside?”

“Rocco …”

“Details matter.”

“I understand that.”

“Then think.”

She turns fully toward me. “You believe I’m withholding details?”

“I believe memory improves when questions create structure.”

“It wasn’t a memory.”

“What would you call it?”

“A warning.”

“Warnings contain information.”

“Not always in the order you want.”

I tighten my hands on the steering wheel. “A gun, a screaming child, and blood are not symbols I can treat casually.”

“I am not treating them casually.”

“You touched the cash box before it happened. That may connect the vision to the theft concern.”

“I know.”

“The red could be the candle vessel.”

“I know.”

“The smoke and cinnamon could come from the food-vendor lane.”

“I know.”

“And the crack you heard may not have been a gunshot.”

Her silence changes. I glance toward her.