Gypsy Cradle: a psychic paranormal thriller (The Gypsy Medium Series Book 2)

by Andrea Drew

  Then deathly silence.

  Maybe if she waited here long enough, the heartache would be over, death would sneak up and throw its cloak around her. Everything would stop, the heartache, the pain, the not knowing. Some things simply weren’t knowable, it seemed.

  And so she waited.

  Sunday 20th January, 7.38am

  Connor pulled shut the door quietly behind him, listening for the click as it locked. He didn’t want to wake Gypsy. The goings-on of the day before had sapped nearly every reserve of strength he had. He looked forward to the distraction of other people’s problems. Gang-related homicides and fatalities left him thankful for what he had. Carnage seemed to put things in perspective.

  He had Gypsy, Christie, a satisfying career where he’d finally regained back the respect lost last year during the Aaron saga.

  Connor pressed down on the security pad to enter the police building. Usually at this time of day, there were very few signs of life. On his morning run, Connor had chewed over last night’s events. His mislaid belief that two of the most important women in his life, Gypsy and Christie, would find common ground and possibly form a friendship was in vain. He’d been living in a fantasyland. Time to face reality.

  As Connor powered up his computer and eased into his office chair, he wondered if his intense love for both women had clouded his judgment. Since the death of her grandfather, Christie had taken to visiting her brother in jail when previously she’d written him off as a waste of space, an aberration of the family gene pool. She’d begun mentioning him in conversation, and had shown a greater interest in her nephew Bailey, who was under the watchful eye of his ex-wife Jill. He’d even discovered she’d taken to babysitting him, not like her at all. Children were to her an afterthought, something for her to think about in later years. Christie had always enjoyed her freedom and independence, and he wondered what was going on in that head of hers. Connor had moved on. He hadn’t the slightest urge to visit his nephew.

  Of course, he of all people knew what grief could do to someone—alter their perception, change the way they viewed the world, and shift alliances. He’d seen it happen with Aaron. He’d be damned if it would happen to Christie.

  He logged in and opened his emails, and noticed one from head office advising the team that Ryan Martin would not be in; he’d taken the day off sick.

  Retrieving his mobile phone from the jacket thrown over the back of his chair, he dialed the number, bringing it to his ear but there was no answer. Instead, he sent a text message. Hope all is well mate. Give me a call when you can. Best to keep it low key and casual.

  What struck him was that Gypsy had known that Christie’s hair was falling out. Not that he doubted Gypsy—hell, he’d struggled with his own abilities enough times to know where she was coming from. He had no idea why it was called a ‘gift.’ More like a curse if anything. He’d let his sentinel abilities lay dormant. Using them would open the door to drama and danger, and he went through enough danger at work. He certainly didn’t need anything extra in that department. He knew Gypsy well enough to know that she would follow the vision to determine its ultimate meaning, even if it disturbed Christie and Ryan and made them uncomfortable. Hell, if he admitted it fully, the wriggle of discomfort crept up on him at times, despite being a sentinel. Both secrets would leave him too exposed, and if there was one thing, he’d learned in the police force, chinks in the armor were best kept close to one’s chest.

  He could lose Christie, his only niece, probably his only child. With Aaron locked up, his brother and sister-in-law dead, he wasn’t prepared to jeopardize his relationship with Christie. Gypsy would need to let this one go, and if anyone could convince her of that, he could.

  As he picked up the investigation book to go over a recent homicide, he toyed with the idea of getting in touch with this Isabella character again. A night with Gypsy at home would do both of them the world of good. He’d check in with Christie on Monday when the dust had settled, maybe take her out to lunch.

  Sunday 20th January, 1.54pm

  I took a step down from Ryan and Christie’s front porch, limbs like jelly.

  What just happened? I knew they were pissed off, but seriously. This was something more, beyond what had happened Saturday night. Ryan’s door slamming fury seemed out of character. For the year I’d known him, he’d been a caring, at times abrupt but ultimately supportive boyfriend in Christie’s background. His reaction was weird. I knew Ryan held secrets close to his chest. His reaction had been too extreme.

  Since the loss of Christie’s grandfather, Ryan seemed to be a supportive partner to Christie and his usual impatience had faded away into insignificance. Obviously, it was back with a vengeance. How had he morphed into a raging hothead slamming doors in my face? It didn’t make any sense.

  There was something he wouldn’t tell anyone, and I would be the one to find out.

  Summoning up my determination, setting my shoulders and fixing my gaze on the interior of my parked vehicle, I unlocked my car and started it up. I drove to a safer location a couple of streets away, where I could speak to Connor in peace without being concerned that Ryan might turn green and bust open his shirt with muscles bulging, and storm over to smash the windows to rage at me.

  Surprisingly, although he was at work, Connor answered my call at once. “Gypsy, what’s up?”

  “I’m just outside Ryan and Christie’s place.”

  “Oh, god.” There was a silence of a few seconds that seemed to go on forever.

  “Look, I wouldn’t have gone over there, but I saw Renee today and Isabella has visited her, too.”

  “Shit. I wish you hadn’t done that, it’s still too raw after last night. I thought that’s what we agreed on. What happened?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to talk to either of them. I said no more than a few words. Ryan was screaming at Christie. I heard him through the door—which he slammed in my face after hurling abuse my way, too. I’m still shaking.”

  Another steely silence. Then, “Gypsy, don’t go over there again without me. Next time−”

  “Connor, there might not be a bloody next time! Isabella knows who it is.”

  “What? Who?”

  “It’s someone Christie works with. Ryan seems to think I pointed the finger at him, which I didn’t. I only told her what Isabella told me.”

  “I know that.”

  “So what do we do? Can we go over there together?”

  “Leave it with me. I need to work out the best approach.”

  “Fucking hell, Connor, tomorrow is Monday. Christie’s back at work then and we both know she’s walking into a death trap.”

  “I have to go, I’m sorry. We’ll talk tonight. Don’t do anything more until I see you, okay?”

  I sighed. “Yeah, okay, Connor.”

  I started the car up and got moving. Connor definitely had a soft spot when it came to Christie, but then she was possibly his only child. He and Jill, his ex-wife, had tried to have children, navigating the maze of IVF, but no dice.

  Tonight I had to get through to him. We had to visit Christie. Even if she and Ryan refused to budge, we had to do something. Maybe we could leave a note under the door. An easy way out to appease Connor but it might save her life. If anything happened to Christie, I knew my conscience would destroy me, and I’d become my own executioner. There was no way I’d be going down that road, no matter how much I loved Connor.

  Sunday 20th January, 8.14pm

  After dinner, I lolled around on the couch with a book. I read the same page at least four times, casting glances at Connor, who remained silent as a stone. He watched a movie, staring at the screen with a blank face. I knew from experience that when turmoil hit, he’d clam up and shut down. A storm brewed.

  It was his way of punishing me and it drove me crazy. Sure, the man was hot, and amazing in so many ways, but giving me the silent treatment was infuriating. The time had come for him to knock it off.

  As the credits roll
ed, I decided I’d go to bed, even if I went to bed without him. I stood up and considered Connor. He’d rolled the full length of his limbs out on the floor, resting his head on a cushion.

  “I’m going to bed. Coming?” I had to get one parting shot before I called it a night. He didn’t show that he’d heard my question. Either he’d succumbed to tiredness or something else brewed. I knew he was involved in an intense investigation at work. Maybe the sulking meant he could switch off from the serial assault case he’d mentioned briefly, or he wanted to punish me for forcing him to face his paternity issues. It didn’t make sense—he’d seemed fine earlier.

  “Come on. We need to see what Isabella has to say. Tomorrow’s the big day.”

  He murmured something, but with his chin tucked into his neck, I couldn’t make it out.

  “What?”

  “I’ll sleep here, on the couch.”

  “What the hell? When did you get so moody? What’s going on?”

  He sighed and pulled his frame up from the floor to lie across the couch. He settled there with one hand propping up his head.

  He mumbled, staring at the floor, “I’m not sure about this Isabella business. There’s no accountability, no proof. She could be some random dead kid playing mind games. Where does that leave us with Ryan and Christie?”

  “You mean, where does that leave you with Ryan and Christie. I don’t believe this. You’ve done a 180-degree turn in a couple of hours. What gives?”

  “If Christie is my daughter, where does that leave me—leave us? She can’t stand the sight of either one of us. Because what? Because some ghost told us she’s going to be poisoned? What if Christie isn’t in danger? I lose my niece—possibly my daughter—forever. I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me for meddling. I had to talk her and Ryan into the reading and when it did happen, it was a damn disaster. She still doesn’t trust you.”

  “Of course she doesn’t, but that says more about her than me.”

  His eyebrows flicked upward.

  “Seriously, Connor, how do you know she’s not in danger? She certainly doesn’t, and won’t accept it. I’m not willing to chance it, are you? So she hates me for a bit. Big deal—she’ll live!”

  “She’s all I have left.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Connor! What the hell am I, then?” He’d wimped out. Fucking hell.

  I sighed and uncrossed my arms, letting them drop to my sides. “At least one of us has to stick their neck out here. I thought it would be both of us, but I guess it’s just me. I always knew you as a man of integrity, Connor. I’m not so sure tonight.”

  I couldn’t believe this. At the time it had hit the fan, all had been well, my relief palpable. Suddenly now, after the fact, he’d decided we weren’t on the same team anymore. What had got into him?

  “You’re telling me you’ve changed that quickly? I don’t believe it for a fucking minute.”

  Connor pushed himself up and approached me with dark eyes. I backed toward the kitchen bench. He grabbed me around the waist.

  While I loved the man, his unpredictability at present was my undoing. He’d always been so supportive, even tempered, my stable rock amongst a sea of chaos. Right now, my rock had crumbled.

  Not only was I overwhelmed, he was really starting to piss me off.

  “What’s up with you? You’re bouncing from one moment to the next what−”

  Then he kissed me and his lips crushed mine. His kiss, usually tender, was firm and demanding. Taken aback, I placed my arms on his chest and made a muffled noise, which gradually faded away.

  Despite myself, my body flooded with warmth and I returned his kiss.

  Connor and I had never made love when angry. This was a first. What was going through his head? Staking his claim? That wasn’t like the man I fell in love with at all. This was weird but as he’d clammed shut, I didn’t plan on getting an explanation.

  He cupped my buttocks with his hands, lifting me up and onto the bench.

  I opened my mouth and Connor’s tongue began probing, searching, as his hands pushed up my skirt. I threw my arms around his back and he pushed me back onto the bench.

  As he pushed himself against me, I felt that Connor was erect. My skirt was pushed up to my waist, and the next moment his lips, his tongue, his teeth were on my neck. I trembled with desire, warmth surging through my chest. Yet as Connor reached up to remove my underwear, I paused.

  I attempted to push him away yet again, firmer this time. Connor was my object of desire—hell I had a sneaking suspicion he was the object of other women’s desires too, he was gorgeous to look at—but did I want to be with him like this?

  Did I really want this, regardless of the situation? Did Connor?

  As Connor pulled away to gaze at me with hooded eyes, his lips swollen and wet, I realized I didn’t want to be part of Connor’s fury, an outlet, a release. Even though my heart thudded in my chest and my body cried out for him. Not now.

  “No, Connor. Not like this,” I said.

  “What?” he said. His lips were engorged, and his face flushed. He brought his head back down to my neck. “I know you love me. You want this too…”

  My hands moved to his chest, and I pushed him, lightly at first. Connor took a step away from me. His breathing sounded ragged, and he ran his fingers through his hair.

  “I thought…,” he mumbled.

  I stood pulling at my skirt and rearranging my clothing. “I can’t resist you, you know that. Not like this, though. It’s not−” I let the remainder of the sentence hang in mid-air, gathering my thoughts.

  A muscle twitched in Connor’s cheek and he moved toward me again. “You won’t know until you try it,” he whispered and began kissing my neck again, and a shiver ran down my spine.

  “No,” I said, and nudged his shoulders, increasing the space between us. I couldn’t meet his gaze.

  “Not like this. I’m sorry, I just can’t.” Adjusting my clothing, I headed for the stairs. I placed one hand on the railing and turned to him. “I hope you understand.”

  Connor shook his head.

  “Are you coming to bed?”

  “No,” he said and disappeared, presumably to find bedding to sleep on the couch. I made my way up the stairs and undressed before sliding under the covers.

  In the year, Connor and I had been together, this had never happened. I understood his fear of having the talk with Christie. What I didn’t understand was how he seemed to be responding to it. Of all the times to make love, why now?

  I tossed and turned in bed, wondering what caused Connor’s mood.

  I wondered if he was attempting to mend bridges. If so, this wasn’t the way to do it, surely he knew that. If he was trying to distract me from the Christie issue, he didn’t have a chance in hell.

  Chapter Nine

  Monday 21st January, 2.38am

  The glow from the computer screen lit up the figure hunched over the desk in the corner of the lounge room. Brenton had tried to go back to sleep, but thoughts rolled around in his head, one leading to the next and to the next until the room began spinning. Time to get up and work out how he could put his master plan into action. This would need a thoroughly mapped course with every eventuality considered.

  Of course, he loved Christie, there was no question of that, but he loved Ryan more. He had to have him, every inch of him, every thought, and every part of his life. Of course, Ryan protested that he wasn’t that way inclined. Of course he would, it was to be expected. He’d convinced himself that Christie was the only one for him, but Brenton knew that anyone could convince themselves of anything given the right circumstances. All they usually needed was a gentle push in the right direction to shake their convictions off.

  Once Ryan was torn up by the grief of Christie in hospital, he’d need comfort, support, guidance, someone to pick up the pieces, and Brenton was the man to do it. Ryan would fall into his arms. He’d have nowhere else to fall.

  Brenton had done his research, a
nd the easiest way would be to slip something into her morning coffee. After nearly an hour of searching, he smiled as he found what he was looking for. It was traceless, colorless, and odorless. It had a sweet taste, and could be used in place of sugar. Medical tests would not uncover it, unless hospital staff specifically looked for it, which of course they wouldn’t, considering at first Christie would appear drunk, followed by a seemingly miraculous recovery a day later. However, by the second day, her internal organs would go into failure, one by one, while Christie appeared to all intents and purposes to be recovering nicely. Hyperventilation, shortness of breath, followed by heart failure would leave hospital staff frantically searching for an undiscovered genetic heart defect, and nothing would be found.

  By the third day, Christie would suffer kidney failure. Brenton figured this gave him three days to decide when to make the call and inform the hospital staff (anonymously, of course) of what to look for. He wasn’t convinced of her death, he loved her, just a scare to help Ryan see what was truly important—Brenton had a great deal of affection for the woman; she’d just been born highly strung, is all. Besides, by the third day, he and Ryan would be a long way away from Melbourne, far enough that they could never be traced.

  Brenton left his office chair and headed to the garage. He flicked the outdoor light on and, grabbing the step rail, clomped down three concrete steps to the small garage.

  The sensor flicked the lights on as he entered. The smell of encrusted dust, which had settled onto the light fittings and shelves, reached his nose. Weaving past the lawn mower, his small, rarely driven car and a long forgotten bicycle, Brenton found what he was looking for.

  Perfect. That should do it. He poured a cupful into a plastic bottle and sealed it tightly before tucking it under his arm.

  He made his way back up the stairs, humming quietly to himself.

  He left the bottle inside a bag, which he would take with him in the morning. Brenton dropped his shoulders.