by Kaylea Cross
“You’ll have to tell me more about Moira later,” Skelly said, rising. “But at the moment, I need to get to make-up. I’m taping this afternoon’s show in a quarter of an hour.”
“Well, then.” Keelin stood. “I’m at the Hotel Clareton–”
“Hey, I’m not chasing you out. Stay and watch the telecast. We’ll do lunch.”
Do lunch? Realizing Skelly meant they should eat together, Keelin thought Americans certainly had some unusual ways of expressing themselves.
“You’re certain I wouldn’t be in the way?”
“You’re too polite to get in anyone’s way.”
So, a short while later, Keelin found herself sitting in a back corner of the busy control room. Having lived a simple life mostly close to the land, she was a bit intimidated by all the technology and the fast pace that was part of Skelly’s world. Looking through the plate glass window to the studio, she could see technicians adjusting lighting and sound equipment. In the control room, others talked over headphones, while images flashed across the monitors, some at double speed.
One particular image caught her interest. A man’s face filled the screen. His features were handsome, strong, magnetic, his expression intense. From the pale eyes looking out at her as he spoke – the sound was down, so she couldn’t hear his words – Keelin sensed both strength and heartbreaking emotion. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the monitor, and so when the next image flashed across the small screen, she felt as if she were suddenly sucked inside.
A young girl, barely a teenager, her light brown hair flying around her pretty face.
Something about the girl… Keelin felt a strong connection.
Then the monitor went blank.
And Keelin sat staring, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the raucous voices in the booth.
She didn’t know how long she sat there in stunned silence, mind spinning away. It couldn’t be. She was in denial as the show began. Teasers introduced the day’s stories, but the words didn’t mean anything to Keelin until the girl’s image multiplied on several monitors.
“… and then we have a story we see every day,” Skelly intoned in an authoritative voice. “Teenagers vanishing from their homes. But did Cheryl Leighton run away as the police report indicates, or was she the victim of foul play as her father, real estate magnate Tyler Leighton, wants us to believe?”
Sitting through the first two stories and myriad commercials of the half-hour program was the most difficult twenty minutes Keelin ever spent. She kept telling herself she was mistaken. There could be no connection. She’d imagined it.
But Cheryl Leighton had disappeared…and her dream had been of a runaway, the setting some unknown American city.
On edge, she watched footage of the girl and her father at some kind of building christening ceremony, as Skelly explained, “Two nights ago, fourteen year old Cheryl Leighton disappeared from the North Bluff home she shared with her widowed father. So far in the investigation, the police have turned up no evidence of foul play.”
Then, before that same home, a mansion on a bluff overlooking the lake, her father spoke to the camera. “Cheryl wouldn’t have run away,” Tyler Leighton insisted. “She had no reason. She was a happy kid. A normal kid. She wasn’t involved in gangs or drugs. We had a great relationship. We never even fought.”
But a flash of something unsettling in his pale blue eyes put a lie to those words, Keelin thought. Something he wasn’t saying.
Why did he do it? Why? Now that I know, everything is ruined…
Fragments of the dreams whirled through Keelin’s head. She replayed them to the best of her ability. In her mind, the girl was fiddling with her bracelet, taking succor from the familiar sound of the tinkling charms, when Keelin caught sight of the very same bracelet on the monitor. Her eyes widened as the proof transfixed her.
Then his image returned to the screen. The father. The reason the girl had run.
“All I want is my daughter back,” he was saying grimly. “Home and safe. I’ll do anything to make that happen.”
And Keelin realized she would do anything, as well. This couldn’t turn out like the last time. Dear God, she would never be able to live with herself if something desperate happened to Cheryl Leighton.
But how to go about finding her?
Putting her trust in a cousin who had no idea of what he was dealing with, she cornered Skelly directly after the taping, insisted they return to the privacy of his office where they could talk without being overheard.
The moment the door was closed behind them, she said, “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I have a connection to the Leighton girl.”
“What kind of a connection?”
“The kind I sometimes get through a dream.”
“A dream,” he echoed, settling a hip on the edge of his desk.
She’d seen that look before. Mocking disbelief. Not that she could blame him. Pacing to assuage her nerves, she told Skelly what she had to. Only the minimum. Not the details of her worst night terrors. She focused on the current situation, briefly capsulizing both incidents.
“In the past, the dreams have always been connected to someone I knew or at least met,” Keelin then told him. “This was different. I thought maybe it was just a simple dream because I had no idea of who the girl was. Or where she was, for that matter. Now I know the big American-looking city in the second dream obviously is Chicago, because Cheryl Leighton is the girl.” She indicated her wrist. “That unusual bracelet she was wearing in the news footage…I saw it twice before.”
Unable to discern if Skelly believed her or not, she tensely waited for his reaction.
That he said “You know this sounds absurd” didn’t thrill her.
“The dreams are not something I asked for or want, Skelly…no more than Gran did. It’s part of her inheritance…at least for me.”
He scowled. “Dad did say something about his mother being considered a bit fey.”
“You don’t have to believe, Skelly. Just help me. Help Cheryl Leighton.”
“If you really know something that’ll help find her, you should go to the police.”
“No authorities.” Once was enough. She shuddered, remembering the consequences. “I’ve had a bad experience with that,” was all she would say, though.
“What, then?”
“First, help me get to Tyler Leighton.”
Skelly was thoughtful. “That’s do-able. He runs L&O Realty.” Then his expression grew shrewd. “I tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. I help you get whatever information you need…then you help me. We find the Leighton girl and I get the exclusive. We can do a whole program on this case and your abilities–”
“No!”
“No?”
“Absolutely not!” Keelin could hardly believe what he was suggesting. “I won’t be paraded before your countrymen like some kind of freak.”
“Not a freak. A sensation. Talk-show hosts will be clamoring for you–”
“No,” Keelin repeated, more calmly this time. “I won’t let you exploit something that even I don’t fully understand.” Intending to leave, she moved toward the door. “I’ll find Tyler Leighton on my own.”
Skelly put an arm out to stop her. “All right. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He sounded sincere when he said, “I’ll help you in any way I can. No strings. If you change your mind, though–”
“I won’t.”
He nodded. “We’ll see.”
Making Keelin think her American cousin was possibly the most cynical man on earth.
Chapter Two
TYLER LEIGHTON WAS ABOUT TO ENTER HIS BUILDING on north Clark Street after a late lunch that he’d barely touched, when he heard the rumble of his name. He glanced over his shoulder to see Nate Feldman, his chief business competitor, having exited a chauffeured limousine at the corner, rush in his direction. In contrast to his exclusive designer suit, manicured nails and styled hair – or what he had left of it, for th
e man was balding fast – the ever-present stinking cigar stuck between his thin lips reflected Feldman’s true nature as far as Tyler was concerned.
“Slumming?” he asked, for at a recent social event, Tyler had heard Feldman disparage his location to potential customers. Feldman’s office was in the Gold Coast, a real estate mini-step-up from Lincoln Park West.
Without removing the cigar, the man slurred, “Hey, what sort of greeting is that for an old friend.”
Never, in any stretch of the imagination, would Tyler consider them friends. And he didn’t need this aggravation on top of the worry eating him. The only reason he was working at all was because couldn’t figure out a damn thing he could do personally to get his daughter back. He was working so that he wouldn’t go crazy. Not that he was doing a great job of it. He swore every minute Cheryl was missing took a day off his life.
“What’s on your mind, Feldman?”
“I wanted to congratulate you on getting the Uptown job.”
Tyler’s company had recently been awarded the management of a classic movie theater of the thirties that had been boarded up for decades. During its coming renovation, the building would retain its architectural integrity while being transformed into a multi-usage arts space. Feldman had bid for the management, as well, but had lost out to L&O Realty because of Tyler’s personal vision for the place. Again. And Nate Feldman hated to lose at anything, Tyler knew.
He said, “That’s big of you,” and waited for the man’s real motivation in seeking him out.
With a show of exaggeration, Feldman finally removed the cigar and issued a warning. “You won’t be so lucky with the North Michigan Avenue project.”
Ah, there it was. And some said he was a cynical devil. Tyler merely considered himself realistic. “Do you know something I don’t? Or is it someone?”
“Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t,” his competitor said with a feral grin. “What I have doesn’t matter so much, though, when you’re tied up in that nasty lawsuit over the Wicker Park incident. That changes the balance of things, doesn’t it? Let’s just say I have the upper hand on this one.”
Tightening his jaw – how could Feldman call the death of a kid an incident? – Tyler said, “I’m forewarned then.”
“That’s the idea.”
“But, if you don’t mind, I’ll hold my congratulations until it’s a done deal.”
“Hold anything you want, for all I care. How about your breath?” Laughing at his own crude humor, Feldman stuck the cigar back in his mouth and signaled the limousine driver. “No holds barred on this one, Leighton. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Tyler didn’t wait until the man crept back into his extravagant lair. He immediately entered the first floor offices of L&O, from which prime real estate was sold and luxury apartments and townhouses were rented. He felt all eyes on him as he made his way to the stairs. Worried eyes. Eyes filled with pity.
Cheryl, baby, where are you?
The agonizing question followed him to the second floor that held his private office as well as that of his partner Brock Olander and their administrative assistants. Brock oversaw the sales and rental part of the business, while Tyler headed the building management end. Alma, their receptionist, was nowhere to be seen, and Tyler figured she must be running an errand. He stopped to scan her desk for any messages…anything about his daughter. Nothing. Maybe on his desk…
Hopeful, he was on his way to check when he noticed a woman rising from a chair in the waiting area. “Mr. Leighton?”
The soft voice stopped him cold. He gave her a quick once-over – a cloud of shoulder-length dark auburn hair, clear gray eyes, delicate if ordinary features – all unfamiliar to him. All appealing. Something about her spelled fresh. Innocent. Maybe the loose flower-print dress that skimmed her slim body, topping ankle boots and bright green cuffed socks. Definitely not professional apparel.
And yet he found himself asking, “Do we have an appointment?” He’d been so distracted since Cheryl disappeared that anything might have slipped his mind.
“No, that we do not. I just took a chance on your seeing me.” Drawing closer, she held out her hand and said, “Keelin McKenna.”
She spoke with a melodic inflection that was distinctly Irish. Her low voice stirred him for a moment and he stared, caught by some odd connection, the sensation deepening when their hands clasped. Her gaze meshed with his, and from the surprise he noted in the depths of her eyes, he would swear she noted it, also.
Then reality set in.
Cheryl was missing and his thinking of anything more personal was inappropriate.
Releasing the woman’s hand and taking a step back, Tyler said, “I’m sorry. Today’s not a good day.”
“But I must speak to you,” she insisted.
“Ty, there you are.” Coming from the stairs, Brock stalked him. “We have to talk. Now.”
Mr. Popularity. Suddenly everyone wanted his attention at the same time. Tyler was oddly relieved by his partner’s demand. “All right. In my office.” He started to go.
“But Mr. Leighton–”
Interrupting the woman, he spoke in an impersonal tone even as he kept on walking. “My administrative assistant should be back any minute. Perhaps she can take care of you.”
“But it’s not her I’m here to see.”
He followed Brock inside his office, turning to say, “Then she’ll give you an appointment for later in the week.”
Please, God, let Cheryl be found by then.
The woman crossed her arms over her chest and raised her chin. “I am not vacating the premises until I’ve had a word with you about your–”
“Sorry.” With regret that went deeper than a fear of being rude, he closed the door in her face and turned to his partner, who seemed reluctant to look him in the eye. That certainly didn’t bode well. “Brock, what’s the problem?” He was expecting his partner to bring up a new twist in the law suit against L&O Realty.
Planting his stocky body directly next to Tyler’s massive mahogany desk, Brock muttered, “I know my timing stinks…but I want out.” He followed the explosive statement with a big breath and ran a hand through his silver-shot hair.
“What?” Tyler stopped short. Surely he misunderstood…
“This has to be a shock, especially now with all you have on your mind. I was planning on telling you yesterday, but then Cheryl disappeared, and it didn’t seem like the time.”
Tyler was stunned. He hadn’t misunderstood. Brock wanted out of the business. “This isn’t the time.” If ever.
“Yeah, it is. It’s actually been a long time in coming.” Brock’s hazel eyes were steady when he explained, “We’re full partners, Ty, but not so that anyone would know it. When someone mentions L&O Realty, people think of you.”
Not that their partnership had started out that way. Tyler had always had more drive than his laid-back partner. Things had evolved as they were over years. Brock had never before complained.
“So this is about ego?” Tyler asked.
“It’s way beyond something so simple.” Brock seemed almost regretful as he explained, “I’m tired of being pigeonholed. Unappreciated.”
“I appreciate the hell out of you, Brock.”
“Only because I do the work that doesn’t interest you any more. You can focus on redeveloping buildings, redeveloping dreams, while I handle the boring day-to-day details of rentals and sales.”
Tyler felt as if he’d been blindsighted. How had he missed this? He couldn’t conceive of a decade-long partnership ending without warning.
“If you’ve been dissatisfied, why haven’t you said something before?”
“I’ve tried in a dozen different ways. Maybe not directly enough…Why couldn’t you have been listening?”
Not the first time he’d been accused of being so focused on his own goals and desires that he couldn’t recognize someone else’s needs. Guilt rocked Tyler. He regretted that he’d failed the man with whom h
e’d built his success. Surely it wasn’t too late.
“Look, Brock, give me some time, would you? I’m not all here right now, but I know I don’t want this to happen. And I hope you don’t really, either. If we put our heads together, we can work things out. I promise I’ll try to give you whatever it is you need.”
Tyler moved around him, planted himself before a window overlooking Lincoln Park. Arms crossed before his chest, he stared out at the lush trees and flowerbeds near the south pond with blind eyes. Everything seemed to be caving in on him. The accident at the Wicker Park site. The lawsuit. His daughter. Feldman. Now this.
“All I can concentrate on right now is Cheryl,” he said, trying to forget the rest.
“You know how much I love your girl. She calls me Uncle Brock for Crissakes.”
Desperate, Tyler thought of something that might make Brock feel more needed while taking a worry off his shoulders. He turned to face the partner he didn’t want to lose.
“Listen, Brock, Nate Feldman’s breathing down my neck about the North Michigan Avenue project. You could take over for me, there.”
“Feldman?” A pregnant pause was followed by Brock’s careful, “What do you think he’s up to?”
“Probably something devious.”
“Hell!” Brock’s tense expression intensified.
“Put this split idea on hold, would you, Brock? At least until I find Cheryl.”
At the mention of his daughter’s name, the door burst open and his assistant, Pamela Redmond, ran into his office so fast the chestnut top knot she wore to make her look taller threatened to topple. “The Whole Story,” she gasped, clearly out of breath as if she’d run straight up the stairs. “Channel 8!”
Tyler retrieved the remote control and turned on the television in the wall unit to see his own face staring back at him.
