Intuition. Carol Ericson

He stacked some bills on top of the check and anchored it with a salt shaker. “I want to find out what happened to Bree. I want to give that family some peace and closure. But I also want to get paid.”

      “Then we need to get our hands on that police report.”

      “That’s the first thing on my list.” Matt pushed back from the table. “Do you want to wait here or meet me outside? I have to use the men’s room.”

      “I’ll meet you outside because I need to use the ladies’ room.”

      Kylie slipped into the bathroom, cranked on the water and studied herself in the mirror. So Mr. Harris was paying Matt more money than Mrs. Harris was paying her. Why hadn’t the couple made a decision together?

      She had never talked to Mr. Harris. She’d figured he was handling his grief differently. But since he’d hired Matt to do the same job, maybe Mr. Harris didn’t have any faith in psychics.

      She’d have to prove him wrong.

      Straightening her shoulders, she tossed the paper towel in the trash bin. She poked her head into the crowded dining room of the restaurant where the clink of dishes and silverware set her on edge.

      Matt had to be outside already. As she crossed the room, she dodged waiters and waitresses balancing plates in their hands and up their arms. She pushed out the front door and Matt shrugged off the side of the building.

      “Ready to tackle that police report?”

      “Yep.” Kylie took two steps, and the door of the restaurant swung open behind them.

      “Excuse me?” Their waitress, her foot propping open the door, was holding out a card or piece of paper. Did Matt stiff her on the tip?

      “You left this on the table.”

      Since Kylie was closer to the waitress, she took what she now saw was a photo, from her hand. “We didn’t leave…”

      Kylie’s mouth went dry as she stared at the picture pinched between her shaky fingers. Matt hovered behind her. “What is it?”

      She held up the photo, facing him. “It’s a picture—a picture of Bree. Where did it come from?”

      Kylie swiveled her head toward the door of the restaurant, but the waitress had already gone back to her other customers.

      Matt plucked it from her hand and turned it over. “Just great. This is more than a picture, Kylie.”

      He shoved the photo beneath her nose and Kylie gasped at the block letters on the back of the picture. Another day, another message.

      She’s dead.