One of the reasons.

"There's no blood trail here." John's voice was matter-of-fact. "So where do you start?"

She glanced at him, wishing she didn't have to prove herself to him this way. But if he couldn't accept and believe this, how would he ever be able to accept and believe the rest? And no matter which way it went, he'd have to believe the rest.

Wouldn't he?

Making up her mind abruptly, Maggie abandoned the I'm-just-an-overly-sensitive-‌person mantra. "I'm a human divining rod for violence," she said, matching his tone. "If there was any here, I'll find where it happened."

He was completely expressionless. "I see."

"I doubt it." Maggie hugged her sketch pad like the security blanket it virtually was and walked into the living room on her left. She didn't look at the comfortable and expensive furnishings or pay any attention to the decorating scheme but just stood in the center of the room, closed her eyes for a moment, and reluctantly opened the inner door to that unnerving sixth sense.

As always, it was a peculiar feeling, at first a distant murmur accompanied by flashes of scenes, like a strobe projector flickering images in her mind's eye. Then she caught the whiff of wine, the acrid smell of wood smoke, cologne or aftershave. Heard voices raised suddenly in an argument, felt her hand sting as if she'd slapped someone. Then hands gripping her wrists and a mouth coming down hard on hers…

Maggie took a jerky step backward to physically break the connection and under her breath muttered, "Shit."

"What?" John was watching her intently, a tiny frown between his brows.

She glanced at the fireplace, where no fire burned today, then looked at the apparently very comfortable couch and sighed. "There's violence-and then there's violence. Dammit. I hate being a voyeur."

"Maggie, what are you talking about?"

"Nothing was done in this room against anyone's will, John. I just picked up on… Well, let's just say the Mitchells have an active and… energetic sex life." He glanced at the couch as she had done, then looked quickly back at her face. "Oh."

Maggie didn't try to read his face or his emotions or waste time wondering if he believed her; she was reasonably sure he didn't. Instead, she moved into the next room. She didn't stop now but walked slowly, looking around her but allowing that inner sense to be the one seeing. And hearing. And feeling.

She caught the flicker of another marital argument in the den that seemed to be about, of all things, a parrot, another scene of rather violent lovemaking in the sunroom, and knew someone had been cut-oddly enough by a broken mirror-in the breakfast room. In Thomas Mitchell's study, many business arguments had taken place, the most recent of which had been between Mitchell and his father-in-law.

Maggie reported each event calmly and without looking at John, speaking aloud as much to keep herself grounded as to supply him with information. She was holding on to her control with all her will, determined not to allow herself to be lost within the emotional turmoil of these people's lives.

It was getting more and more difficult to keep herself separate and apart from what she sensed, and that frightened her more than a little. Could she actually get lost in the violence of past events? And if she did… would she ever be able to find her way out again?

They bypassed the kitchen, where they could hear the murmur of voices, and moved on to the other ground-floor rooms. There was nothing of interest to report in a powder room or exercise room, a butler's pantry or laundry room.

Maggie was beginning to wonder if everybody had got it wrong and Samantha Mitchell had walked out of this house of her own free will, when they reached the game room. Maggie walked into the fairly dark room and was staggered by an overwhelming wave of absolute terror.

It was as brief as it was fierce, just cold terror and iron arms around her and the bitter bite of chloroform-and then darkness so intense it was as if she had fallen into an abyss.

"Maggie."

She came out of it abruptly, shaken. It was John's arms she felt around her then, holding her upright, and the terrifying darkness receded, leaving only the bone-deep cold behind. And the terrible certainty.

"He's got her," she whispered.

In what had once been an ordinary conference room of a New Orleans police station, now transformed by bulletin boards and computers and stacks of files into the base of operations for a very unique task force, Special Agent Tony Harte refilled his coffee cup and then returned to brooding over the photographs pinned to the center bulletin board.

"I just don't see a pattern," he announced.

"Look again."

Tony sighed. "Boss, I've looked so often and so hard my eyes are starting to cross."

Special Agent Noah Bishop looked up from the laptop where he'd been working and said dryly, "Maybe you'll be able to see better that way."

"Personally, I think we've been hexed."

Bishop lifted an eyebrow.

"Hexed," Tony insisted firmly. "That source of yours down in the Quarter talked about voodoo, and I think we should pay attention to her."

"I think you need a vacation, Tony."

"Oh, come on-is it so much easier to believe in telepathy and precognition than in hexes?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Telepathy and precognition don't involve fashioning a doll out of burlap and human hair and sticking pins in it."

Tony pondered that for a moment. "I don't know, boss. I've seen some pretty weird things since I started working for you."

"Next you'll be seeing zombies."

"I could state the obvious," Tony observed, eyeing his boss pointedly. "But I won't."

Bishop didn't rise to the bait. "Hand me that file on the banker, will you?"

Tony handed it across the conference table. "Anyway, if you and Miranda could just have a vision and help us out a little, I'd really appreciate it. Try, why don't you?"

The words were barely out of his mouth when Bishop paled and closed his eyes, an in-drawn breath hissing between his teeth.

Tony watched him intently and had to wait at least a minute or two longer than was customary before the other man's unusually penetrating gray eyes opened. Hopeful, he asked, "About our case?"

"Shit." Bishop massaged his temples briefly, then raked his fingers through his black hair, slightly disarranging the vivid white streak over his left temple. He looked decidedly grim. "Who the hell gave Quentin permission to go to Seattle?" he demanded.

Tony blinked. "Not about our case, then. Beats me. I thought his and Kendra's last assignment was in Pittsburgh."

"It was. But they aren't there now, typing up their reports like good little agents. They're in Seattle, and up to their asses in trouble." Bishop looked toward the doorway, and an instant later a tall, raven-haired, and strikingly beautiful woman appeared. She was absently massaging one temple with her fingers, and her startling blue eyes went instantly to Bishop.

"Out loud," Tony requested automatically.

She looked at him, sighed, then came to the conference table and sat down. "We can't go out there," she reminded Bishop. "Not yet, anyway."

"I know."

"He can take care of himself. Kendra too. You trained them well."

"Maybe. But this… Jesus Christ. Why do I put up with him, can you tell me that?" Bishop asked.

"Because he's good. A good investigator and a strong psychic. Too good to lose even if he does sometimes try your patience."

Bishop shook his head grimly. "Be that as it may, Miranda, it's taken us years to get this unit on its feet and earn enough respect from law enforcement and the Bureau to be taken seriously. Far from gaining the autonomy we want, one major public screwup and we'll find ourselves chained to our desks doing background checks for security clearances. And any time we stick our noses in where they aren't wanted, we run a huge risk of political fallout as well. Quentin knows damned well we don't get involved unofficially in ongoing investigations."