Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Sybil stared at Doug and marveled that he wanted to hear about her life. In those few seconds, her spider sense didn’t scream or warn her he would turn on the slick operator and bullshit her. Good sign.

She gave herself time by taking a small sip of wine. “I was interested in the paranormal from the time I was a little kid. My parents let me read anything I wanted, so I found all the scary books I could, and the scary movies. I hid that interest from other people, because I realized some children thought I was weird because I liked the esoteric.”

He pushed his plate aside, having demolished his food. “When I was a kid, I was more interested in sports like football. Any kind of sports.”

“I’ll bet nothing strange happened to you until the dreams you had about your wife, right? And seeing her by your bed.”

He leaned toward her a little. “How did you know that?”

“I’m skilled sometimes at reading people’s moods, their inspirations, their likes and dislikes, the things they’re thinking.”

“That sounds like a good skill to have.”

“It can be. It’s a good survival skill. Some people don’t appreciate it, though, when you point out to them what they’re thinking and you’re accurate.” She shrugged. “It can be problematic. The survival part comes in figuring out what it is people want to hear. To keep them from being angry with you. To survive bullying and abuse or to circumvent it.”

He nodded. “Understandable. I can see why you developed that skill and why you used it.”

She gave him the inside scoop on how she could effortlessly mask her thoughts and feelings about a subject. It felt dangerous as hell to tell him. She rarely spilled her guts like this to anyone. Almost no one.

Why? Why are you telling him this, Sybil?

Good question.

“It started in grade school. The bullying,” she said. “Bullies can tell who is vulnerable. My parents were flexible on some things. But my mom had trouble with depression. My dad...well, as you know…” She looked around for a second, afraid someone could hear her.

He grimaced. “Sorry about that. That was the cop in me. Sometimes I blurt out shit like that when I’m in polite society. Police work made me paranoid.”

“I don’t blame you. I knew when you did the background check it would come out one way or the other. Can’t say that it didn’t freak me out, but it couldn’t be helped.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “It gets difficult to hide something that awful.”

His eyes softened with compassion. “I’m glad you’re not holding that against me.”

She took a deep breath and continued. “I met Letisha when I was four. We were wholehearted in our support for each other over the years. She believed in my abilities.”

“That you’re psychic and see dead people.”

“Yes. And I’m an empath. Someone who can feel other people’s feelings and sometimes even detects that person’s feelings before they do.”

“I swear my Aunt Janice is like that.” He smiled, and the warmth in that grin made her feel at ease.

“I kept it to myself. My parents, expressly my father, didn’t believe in it at all. After my father called me an idiot one day when I was six, I just never mentioned it to him again.”

The sympathy in Doug’s eyes put her even more at ease. “Your own father said that to you?”

She looked at the table and heat filled her cheeks. She wrestled with a desire to hide what happened. “Yes. It gets a lot worse. Mom and I didn’t know what Dad was doing when he was out on those long hauls in the semi. But after everything happened and his crimes were out in the open...” She shrugged and looked at him. Dared herself to see if his eyes would reflect the abhorrence she’d seen in so many others’ expressions when she was a teen. All she saw in his gaze was curiosity and genuine concern. Tears tried to flood her eyes.

“Um...” She scooted to the edge of the booth. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. Be right back.”

Sybil didn’t wait to see his reaction and hurried away.

Damn it. You lost control. Lost control of your emotions.

She found the restroom and rushed inside. The large room was empty, thankfully. She used the facilities and washed her hands as she allowed a few tears to fall. She had been told multiple times that embracing the pain, the grief, or any emotion was preferable to stuffing it. Right now, she didn’t want to feel any of it. She dried her hands and face and returned to the dining area.

The noise hit her, her shields not up. Yet unlike when she was a kid, she could notice it all without it always overwhelming her. All around her, people chattered and laughed. She didn’t look at them, choosing not to see them because if she looked around the room, the noise would become louder. She didn’t want to see all the things, because doing that would mean another layer of overexposure, of the potential for overwhelm. The television flashed news of a coming snowstorm with a higher precipitation level than reported earlier. She cut through a gathering of loud families, passed occupied barstools. Finally, her booth came into view.

Doug spied her, and his welcoming smile wiped away some of her lingering emotional sensitivity.

She slid into the booth and said without thinking, “Did I miss anything?”

“Only Clinton. He was worried when he saw me by myself. He asked me if I’d done some boneheaded thing to run you off. I told him no.” He sobered. “Unless I did. Are you okay?”

She gave him an authentic smile and took a sip of her wine. “I’m fine. And no. You didn’t chase me away.”

“Talking about your father upset you.”

She nodded. “It did. But that’s not your fault. I hadn’t talked about him in a long, long time. I was sixteen when we learned killing those women years. There were a lot of horrible details.” She looked at Doug, afraid he’d become bored with the topic and the baggage and trauma. “So, like I said, sometimes the emotions just hit me, and they’re a little hard to control.”

“I understand. Look, you don’t have to control them in front of me. Okay?”

She hadn’t expected that. “Thank you. Not too many people react that way when I talk about this stuff.”

“What if we do this for tonight? Take the pressure off. No more reveals of our past. So it isn’t pressure on you. But you can tell me this stuff anytime.”

“Okay.” She held up her wine. “A toast to transparency.”

“Transparency.”

They clinked glasses and smiled.

“We could talk about what kind of ice cream we like,” he said.

“Great idea. Let’s do it.”