John caught his breath.

It was a sketch of Christina as she'd been before the attack that had ruined her face and destroyed her life. This face he stared at was, John realized dimly, more than simple pencil lines on ivory paper. Much more. The pale brown hair, straight and cut casually mid-length, surrounded a delicate oval face that was unusually pretty, with large sparkling eyes and a beautiful smile with a deep dimple on one side…

It was his sister as he remembered her, so vividly alive he expected her to laugh suddenly or cut her eyes sideways at him the way she always had when she found him amusing or he tried her considerable patience when he was, as she put it, "being big brother."

"Jesus," he murmured.

Maggie tore the sketch neatly from the pad and handed it to him. "If this was all you needed from me, you wouldn't have to believe anything beyond what you understand. I knew your sister, I drew her likeness-there it is. I'm an artist, it's what artists do. Nothing paranormal about it."

"I'm not so sure," John said, handling the sketch carefully. "But thank you for this."

"You're welcome. Do you mind if we leave now? I know you wanted me to go with you to talk to your friend Quentin at this command post you guys have set up, but I need to be home for a while first. I'm a little tired."

John looked at her for a moment, then nodded.

"Quentin said you probably needed to spend time at home alone whenever one of these… events… tired you."

"Quentin was right."

He got his briefcase from the backseat and secured the sketch carefully inside before starting the car. It was several miles before he spoke again, and then it was to ask a slow question.

"So what more do I need from you?"

She didn't hesitate. "Answers."

"About Christina?"

"About all of it. You want to know why she killed herself, but more than that. You want to find the man who destroyed her life. And…"

He frowned. "And?"

Maggie stared out through the windshield. Was Beau right about this man? He was usually right. And if he was right-she had to be very, very careful.

"Maggie?"

"And… you want him to pay for what he did. You may not fully believe there's anything paranormal about my work, but you do believe I can help you find this rapist."

After a moment, he said slowly, "Why do I think that isn't what you were originally going to say?"

She was silent.

"Okay, then tell me this. How is it you're so sure Samantha Mitchell was abducted by the serial rapist? Abducted I'll buy, but how can you know it was him?"

Maggie hesitated, then said deliberately "Because it felt like him."

"You… don't mean felt emotionally, do you?"

"No. It physically felt like him. When he grabbed her from behind, the feel of his arms around her, his chest against her back, the way he… rubbed himself against her as she struggled, were all just the same as with the other attacks."

"You felt that because they did?"

"Yes."

"When you interviewed them? When they relived those memories?"

She nodded.

"Did you go to the places the other women had been abducted from?"

"Only one of them. Laura Hughes was abducted from her high-security apartment building, so I was able to do a walk-through there. But the others were grabbed either in very public places or places where there had been far too many people around later. It would have… muddied the impressions."

"Impressions?"

Dryly, she said, "What do you expect me to call them-psychic vibes?"

"You flatly denied being psychic just the other day."

"Yeah, well, that's always the safe thing to do-at least until I get to know whoever's asking."

He shot her a quick look. "Is that why you're finally being honest with me?"

"Well, I thought it might avoid a game of twenty questions. Obviously, I was wrong."

That surprised a laugh out of him. "Okay, point taken. It's just that I really do want to understand, Maggie."

"And believe?"

He barely hesitated. "And believe. It's just so far outside my experience that I know virtually nothing about it."

"You don't like not knowing, do you?"

"No, I don't. So I ask questions."

Maggie waited until he turned the car into the police lot where she'd left her own to say, "I really don't mind questions, John. But my brain isn't working too clearly at the moment, and I'd rather postpone them, if it's all the same to you."

He pulled into the slot beside her car. "Will you come to the hotel later? I still think we should sit down and go over everything with Quentin and his partner, come up with some kind of game plan from here on out."

"Partner?"

John swore under his breath, wondering if Maggie's apparent psychic abilities included being able to make him say things he had no intention of saying. "Yes, his partner."

"He's a cop, isn't he?" Maggie had one hand on the door handle but was waiting, brows slightly raised. "Quentin's a cop."

"He's here unofficially, Maggie."

"Uh-huh. What kind of cop?"

"Federal," John answered reluctantly. "FBI."

"Oh, lovely. And if Drummond finds out?"

"Then everything hits the fan. But I'm hoping he won't find out-at least until we have something to help his people put this bastard behind bars for the rest of his miserable life."

Maggie shook her head. "You do like to live dangerously."

"Maybe. Will you come to the hotel later?"

She didn't think there was a maybe about it but was too tired to worry much about it at the moment. "Look, I'll see how I feel in a couple of hours and let you know, okay? I still have your cell number."

He nodded but turned the car off and got out when she did, saying, "I want to talk to Andy for a few minutes."

Maggie unlocked her car door and said calmly, "Do you want me to write down the stuff I told you at the Mitchell house so Andy can try to verify it for you?"

John stood on the walkway a few feet away, staring at her. "Shit. Was I that obvious?"

"Let's just say I'm beginning to understand the way you think."

He smiled slightly. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"I'll let you know."

He half laughed. "Fair enough. No, you don't have to write anything down. As it happens, I have a very good memory."

"Now, that doesn't surprise me at all. See you later, John." She got into her car and closed the door. She started the engine, watching him walk toward the station, and muttered under her breath, "FBI. Great. Just great."

Andy hung up the phone and frowned across his desk at John. "Okay, I checked. And, as you heard, an understandably bewildered Thomas Mitchell confirmed. He and his wife did have an argument in their den about a parrot last week, his wife did cut herself on a hand mirror in the breakfast room the week before that, and he and his father-in-law did have a rather loud 'discussion' about business in his study just the other day. Now I've left the poor bastard wondering if somebody's got him bugged. I'm wondering too."

John tried to head him off. "I've got to know more about the parrot. Why'd they fight about that?"

"Samantha Mitchell wanted one as a pet,' Andy answered impatiently. "John-"

"Who won the fight?"

"She did. The bird's on order. John, how the hell did you know about this stuff?"

He hesitated, but only briefly. There really wasn't another explanation and, besides, John had a hunch that if any one of these cops could accept Maggie totally no matter how bizarre her talents seemed to be, it would be Andy.

"I know," he answered finally, "because Maggie told me. While she was walking through the Mitchell house."

Andy didn't even blink. "So she is psychic, huh? Well, I always thought so."

"I'm still not a hundred percent convinced," John said, "but I have to admit she's been pretty damned impressive. I was just a step behind her when she walked into the Mitchells' game room, and I'll swear whatever she was experiencing nearly knocked her to her knees. She says the attacker felt a certain way, his arms, his body behind her. And she claims to have felt those same physical traits when the victims she interviewed relived their attacks."