Chapter 37
[Claire's POV]
Aaron stepped between me and the excavation site, his hand raised in a firm but gentle gesture. "Claire, you need to stay back. This is a crime scene now."
I stopped just a few feet away from where Samantha had struck the plastic, the smell of decomposition already making my stomach churn. Aaron knelt beside the partially exposed garbage bag, his medical training taking over as he examined what we'd uncovered.
"Based on the initial assessment," he said, looking up at Marcus, "the death occurred over two months ago. Maybe closer to three, given the level of decomposition and the condition of the plastic."
The words hung in the air like a physical weight. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the spring weather. "This is exactly what I dreamed," I said quietly. "The tree, the location, even that pearl earring."
Aaron's head snapped up, his golden eyes sharp with sudden interest. "You dreamed about this?"
"I dreamed about both cases at Trinity State too," I continued, my voice gaining strength. "Jade's murder, Brandon's death—they weren't coincidences. I saw them all beforehand, in my dreams."
Aaron reached into his kit and pulled out a packet of wet wipes and a small bottle of hand sanitizer, offering them to me. His movements were automatic, professional, but his gaze never left my face. "Have you seen anyone about these... experiences? A psychiatrist, perhaps?"
I took the wipes, grateful for something to do with my hands. "I've been to psychologists. Had full medical evaluations, brain scans, the works. Everything came back normal."
"But do you think this is believable?" I asked, turning the question back on him. "I mean, really? If someone told you they could see murders before they happened, would you believe them?"
Aaron was quiet for a long moment, his forensic mind clearly working through the implications. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured but carried an undertone of professional skepticism. "Perhaps we should investigate your specific whereabouts during the timeframes when these crimes occurred."
The suggestion hit me like a physical blow. I stared at him, feeling something cold settle in my chest. "You're asking if I'm the killer."
"I'm asking if you think it's normal to have prophetic dreams about violent deaths," Aaron replied, his tone remaining clinical. "Because from a medical standpoint, that's not typical human experience."
"Facts are facts," I said, my voice hardening. "Neither of us can deny that these dreams exist and that they're accurate. I didn't ask for this ability, and I sure as hell didn't ask to witness people being murdered in my sleep."
Aaron leaned back on his heels, studying me with the same intensity he probably used when examining bodies. "How do these dreams work exactly? What perspective do you experience?"
I took a deep breath. "There are three different viewpoints. Sometimes I see everything from the killer's perspective—I experience their thoughts, their planning, their... satisfaction. Other times, I'm in the victim's position, feeling their terror and pain." I paused. "The third type is as an observer, like watching from a distance. That one's completely out of my control."
As I spoke, images flashed through my mind—fragments of the dream that had brought us here. I remembered looking down from somewhere high, watching a figure digging in the darkness below.
"I think I was up there," I said suddenly, pointing to the apple tree. "In the dream, I was looking down at everything from up in those branches."
I started toward the tree, but Aaron quickly moved to block my path. "This is now part of an active crime scene. We can't have you contaminating potential evidence."
Before I could argue, the sound of approaching vehicles filled the orchard. Marcus's backup had arrived—patrol cars, the CSI van. Within minutes, the quiet apple grove was transformed into a bustling investigation site.
The CSI team took over the excavation while Aaron supervised the recovery of the remains. As they carefully removed layers of soil and debris, the full extent of the scene became apparent. The plastic garbage bag had deteriorated over time, allowing bodily fluids to seep into the surrounding earth. The smell was overwhelming.
I watched several officers and technicians step away from the site, covering their mouths and noses as they fought off waves of nausea.
Marcus appeared at my side, holding out a surgical mask. "This won't help much," he admitted, "but it might provide some psychological comfort."
I gratefully accepted the mask, though he was right—it did little to block the smell of death that seemed to permeate everything within a twenty-foot radius of the tree.
As the team worked to carefully extract the remains, I found myself drawn back to the apple tree. Despite Aaron's earlier warning, I needed to see what I'd glimpsed in my dream. When no one was looking, I grabbed the lowest branch and pulled myself up.
The bark was rough against my palms, but as I climbed higher, I noticed something that made my pulse quicken. The trunk showed clear signs of repeated use—worn patches where someone had regularly gripped the bark, and smooth spots where clothing had rubbed against the wood during many climbs.
"He was definitely up here," I called down softly to Marcus, who had noticed my ascent. "Look at these marks. He must have perched here multiple times, watching everything below."