Methra passed a mug of fresh black coffee to me as I finished the last sips of my Starbucks.  I never underestimated the value of a good assistant. 

Name: Nona Isabella Flores

Age: 33

Height: 5’6”

Weight: 135

Eyes: Brown

Hair: Brown

How would she stand out from anyone else?  Normal height and weight – not short, not chunky, not distinguishable in any way – the proverbial face in the crowd.  Yet, during that testimony, there wasn’t a local who didn’t know her name and face.  Tourists didn’t come to town for our journalism.  They preferred avoiding the papers altogether – as long as their name wasn’t printed anywhere, it was much easier to keep whatever happened in Vegas staying in Vegas.

I perused her file, less for her history and more for a feeling, an aura, a tingle of something.  It didn’t work that way with my intuition – I wasn’t some medium who could hold a photo and tell the police the location of a suspect – but I longed to connect with Nona.  There was a sense of sadness, emptiness, but I credited that to the fact the picture in my hand showed a dead woman.  No longer smiling for the camera, Nona’s body would be analyzed and dissected by doctors and forensic specialists who could care less about her.  Laboratories provided solutions to mysteries, little consolation to the young Flores children who only wanted their mother back. 

Methra nudged the door so as not to startle me, set a handful of papers in my inbox and let herself out.  I had a solid hour and fifteen minutes before my next client, sufficient time to Google Nona Flores.  I wasn’t surprised at the content, but the sheer volume – twelve pages! – of commentary concerning the Sanchez trial caught me off guard.  No need to check out XXXNAKED NONAXXX; several bloggers detailed her sordid past to destroy her credibility.  Two stints in jail for drugs, a third for assaulting a patron of the Dragon Lounge where she danced, but otherwise she was clean.  No link to any escort services, regardless of how adamant SandMan69’s claims were that he “paid and laid her” regularly on Friday nights.

I reexamined the photograph, trying to connect it to one of the faces from my dream. 

The intercom on my phone beeped.  “Doctor Davis?  Your daughter on line two.”

“Paige?  What’s up?”

“Are you busy?”

“There’s time for you.”

“I don’t want to interrupt a session.”

Stalling tactics from a fourteen-year-old.  She knew I wouldn’t accept the call if I was with a client.  Besides, nine-thirty meant she should be in biology class.  I set the file on my desk and massaged the bridge of my nose.  “Is everything okay, Paige?”

“I hate to be a burden.”

She must have heard Franco and me arguing last night.  Franco argued how he was inconvenient – between Paige, the office, and my speaking engagements with UNLV, the only time left for him was when I was asleep, and wearing my CPAP apparatus was as sexy as Kathy Bates eating oatmeal.  Sleeping alone usually turned out to be a better option anyway.  I’d given him a shiner once during a particularly gruesome nightmare – this was before my breathing machine – so we ran the tests to discover I stopped breathing ten times an hour.  He thought my journaling was creepy too, but he hated how I refused to let him read it.  If I let him in, he pleaded, maybe he’d become more than one more object to juggle.

“No, sweetie, you’re never a burden.  What do you need?”

“I don’t feel well.  Can you come get me?”

I checked the clock, knowing full well I couldn’t make the loop in time for my 10:15.  “Cramps?”

“Worse than ever.”

Paige and I had spoken about my intuition before, unsure if the premonitions were hereditary.  It hurt me to know my little girl was suffering, but menstrual cycles were part of becoming a woman.  As was responsibility. 

“Did you bring your Midol?”

“I ran out yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that last night, when I could have done something about it?”

“In front of Franco?”

“What about the nurse?  Can’t she give you some?”

“Not without written permission.”

“Can I fax it over?”

“Mom.”

Her whine informed me the debate was over.  Either I’d cancel my appointment with Will Engram and leave a hormonal adolescent at the house all day or I’d disappoint my little girl and suffer the consequences indefinitely.  Whoever said psychology was like raising children had no kids – the latter was far more difficult.  To compound matters, Methra held up two fingers and mouthed “Franco.”  The phone’s second extension blinked red.  I slashed my throat with my fingers and Methra returned to her desk to take the alternate line.

“I’m sorry, Paige, but you’re going to have to make it through this.  Be a woman about it.  Be strong.”

Paige cursed and hung up; line two’s light died as well.  I sighed and rechecked the clock, as if I could have misread it before.  The telephone startled me, so I collected myself as Methra announced, “It’s the school again.”

I put it on speakerphone so I could rub both my ears.  This was already shaping up to be a two-to-three pot of coffee day. 

“Doctor Davis?”

A man’s voice?  “Who is this?”

An icy claw gripped the back of my hair and pulled.  I shivered it off and grabbed the receiver.  “Who is this?”

The line stayed live, but no more words were spoken.

Was he speaking to me?  Worse, was Paige there?  It made as much sense as the dream last night.  When was that woman – or when did I commit adultery?  I searched the room for a focus object so I could collect my bearings.

Beneath the quiet breathing on the other end, a school bell rang twice, indicating the break between second and third period.  As it tolled, my abdomen seized, the worst cramps I’d felt in years – on par with Braxton Hicks.  I hugged my midsection and groaned.  Though the beginnings of menopause had found me, I knew this was something else entirely.

Nona French and Will Engram were going to have to wait.

Fighting the pain, I sat erect, retrieved a pen and prescription pad from my top drawer, and yelled to Methra to clear the rest of my schedule.

She popped her head through the open doorway, saw my face.  “Another earthquake?”

I shook my head and grabbed my purse and briefcase and headed out.  “I wish.”