“Frankie!”

I blinked, back in my own consciousness, the hazy images fading into the familiar, crystal-clear surroundings of the bar. Dean stood between me and the woman who’d unwittingly triggered my abilities by touching my right hand. He didn’t make that same mistake, but Dean was close enough that I had to look over his shoulder to see her. She clutched her hand as though it hurt, her brown eyes wide as she babbled something to the man I now knew was her husband. The same man who’d murder her tonight, if I didn’t stop him.

“I didn’t do anything!” she kept saying. “She just started screaming . . .”

Her husband grabbed her arm. “Screw this creep show, Jackie, we’ll get directions somewhere else.”

“Stop them,” I gasped to Dean, still feeling the phantom effect of fingers on my throat. “He’s going to kill her.”

If anyone in the bar had been minding their business before, that statement directed their attention to me better than a gunshot. Jackie gaped at me, but her husband’s eyes narrowed. He began to push his way past the small crowd that gathered around us, dragging her along.

Dean stood in their path, blocking the way to the exit. “You’re not leaving yet,” he said calmly.

The husband paused, looking Dean up and down. If Dean’s expression wasn’t intimidating enough, the scaly green tattoos covering his skin rippled when he crossed his arms, showing bulky muscles.

“Come on,” the husband muttered. “I don’t want trouble—”

“Look in his trunk,” I interrupted, my voice stronger. “You’ll find work gloves, duct tape, and leaf and lawn bags.”

The surrounding patrons had begun to stare at the husband. He laughed uneasily. “I don’t have to listen to this shit—”