Crazy in Chicago by Norah-Jean Perkin

She’d always seen or sensed impressions, snatches of people’s lives, even of conversations. And yes, sometimes what she’d sensed had been unpleasant, disturbing, frightening.
    But this was different. This voice had been talking to her. To her and to no one else.
    She reached the door, then turned back to face the street.
    Should she have told them? Indecision gnawed at her. It was always the same. Tell the truth and face ridicule and disbelief. Don’t tell the truth and suffer guilt and worry over what might come.
    It was clear Mr. Walker had believed little of what she’d said. His friend, however, seemed more open-minded. Perhaps . . . .
    She shook her head and reached for the door. No. She’d done enough. What would be, would be.
    * * *
    The rhythmic motion of arms cutting through the water, the repetitive nature of swimming lap after lap in the apartment building’s indoor pool, and his growing exhaustion, encouraged Cody. He touched the side and executed a racing turn. Forty-six.
    Four laps later, he stopped, done in. He propped himself against the side of the pool and reveled in the relief seeping through him. If this didn’t make him sleep, nothing would.
    Roberta stood on the deck at the other end of the pool, preparing to dive. Her simple, plum-colored, one-piece suit complimented her high breasts, small waist and full hips. Plump wasn’t the word he’d use to describe her.
    He watched as she executed a clean dive and performed a competent crawl through the water toward him. He’d been surprised when she hadn’t talked about Madame Carabini’s unsettling suggestions on the way home. He’d had trouble thinking of anything else, however ridiculous they’d been. Erik and Allie linked to his disappearance. He snorted.
    Roberta stopped beside him. She hung onto the side of the pool and slicked her wet hair back. Drops of water hung like dew drops on her dark lashes. “Had enough?”
    â€œYes. Fifty laps is more than enough for me. Let’s go.”
    Cody hauled himself out of the pool. Roberta followed. After drying themselves off and donning robes, they headed upstairs.  
    When they reached her door, Roberta turned to him. “Coming in for some warm milk?”
    â€œI thought you’d never ask.” From her serious expression, Cody suspected the milk was a ploy to get him to discuss what the psychic had said. He knew it wasn’t a ploy to get him into her bed.
    He followed her inside. The living room exuded a comfortable, lived-in feeling. He hung his towel over the back of a chair and followed her into the kitchen. He could see himself spending a lot of time here.
    Roberta busied herself preparing the milk. The white terry cloth robe, wrapped primly around her, accentuated her golden skin, and set Cody’s mind to wondering the best way to get her out of it. But she had other things on her mind.
    â€œSo what did you think?”
    â€œAbout what?” Cody pretended obtuseness.
    â€œAbout what Madame Carabini said.” Roberta grimaced.
    â€œBunk,” he said flatly. “I think it’s all bunk.”
    Roberta sighed. “But what about the light? We didn’t tell her about that. And she certainly acted frightened.”
    â€œActed is probably the operative word.” Cody folded his arms across his chest. “The lady’s been doing this sort of thing for a long time. She’s a master at it. The light was a lucky guess.”
    The microwave beeped. Roberta retrieved the mugs of milk, stirred them, and handed one to Cody. She leaned against the counter. “Are you going to talk to Erik? Investigate his background?”
    â€œWhy would I bother?” Cody took a sip of milk. “It’s all foolishness.”
    â€œBut you don’t have anything else to go on. What have you got to lose?”
    â€œIt’s just too weird, too . . . ephemeral. Blue lights. Strange, cold places.