Superstition by Karen Robards Page B

additional touches of the exotic to what Nicky knew from experience would be an arresting TV image.
    On TV, as in life, Leonora James was nothing if not compelling.
    “Happy, lighthearted—the emotions of the one entering the room are buoyant. Then . . . fear.” Leonora’s eyes popped open. “Just overwhelming shock and fear.”
    Frowning slightly, Leonora started walking, stopped in front of a wall of cabinets, and pulled one door open. It was about six feet tall, narrow, no shelves—a broom closet, Nicky guessed.
    “Here,” Leonora said. Her voice was softer, almost sounding as if it was coming from far away. “The person was in here. Hiding. Waiting. I’m getting waves of anger. Hatred. This person came to do harm. The feeling I’m getting is of evil . . . evil . . .”
    Leonora glanced over her shoulder, then turned away from the broom closet, leaving the door standing open. She took one hesitant step toward the center of the kitchen, then another, and a third.
    “So afraid . . . so afraid . . .” Leonora murmured mournfully, clasping her hands together in front of her waist again and staring into space. She took another faltering step forward. “The emotions are so strong, I—” Stopping, she sucked in her breath sharply. “It was here—a girl, I think . . . she was surprised . . . she turned around and saw someone . . . a man, I’m getting that it was a dark-haired man . . . jumping toward her and she screamed and then . . . the knife went in . . . oh, oh—” Leonora clutched her arm just below her shoulder. “Somebody help me! He’s killing me! No . . . no . . .”
    Those last horrified cries, uttered in a voice totally unlike her own, stopped abruptly. Leonora’s eyes closed. Her chin dropped to her chest. A long shudder racked her body from head to toe. Watching, Nicky felt a prickle run down her own spine. No matter how many times she had witnessed her mother at work, it still occasionally had the power to make her blood run cold. Like now, when she knew her mother was reaching into the past, reliving the horror of that long-ago night as if it were happening to her at that very moment. She only hoped the TV audience was having the same visceral reaction that she was.
    “Tara. That’s the name I’m getting: Tara.” Leonora looked up suddenly, blinking. Her lips parted, and she drew in a long breath. “Tara was first attacked in the kitchen. Someone hiding in that cabinet jumped out at her. She fought, and was stabbed . . .” Leonora squatted, her purple gown scrunching up around her knees, to touch the floor near her feet. The tile was white, pristine. Watching, Nicky could almost feel the hard, cold smoothness of it beneath her own fingers. “There was a puddle of blood here, right here. She bled and bled—so much blood. I can feel it . . . it’s warm, sticky . . .”
    Leonora’s voice started to go soft and distant again, and Nicky knew she was once again being drawn into the past.
    “Can you talk to Tara? Can she tell you who attacked her?” Nicky prompted softly. This was good. Vintage Leonora James at last. The eyes of the audience at home should be glued to their screens.
    “No.” Leonora rose, glancing around the room with the slightly bewildered air of one who had just become aware of her surroundings. “Tara’s not here. No one’s here. We need to go upstairs.”
    Nicky heard the slightest of whirring sounds and glanced around. The camera was being pulled back out of the way fast, and repositioned so as not to impede Leonora while at the same time capturing everything she did. The cameraman was Gordon Davies. He was around forty, short and thick-bodied, with strong, coarse features and thick, dark hair that he wore in a ponytail at his nape. They’d been working together since August, and Nicky considered him a friend as well as the ultimate professional. His expression was intent, absorbed. It was clear that he was focused, not just on his job but on Leonora herself