"We're not certain that man in the truck was really one of Molino's men. I checked with the police and they haven't located him yet."

"If they haven't caught him, there's a good chance he wasn't just a stupid drunk playing demolition derby. I've had Jed Harley in town keeping an eye on Megan and trying to scout around and see if he can come up with any information. But so far he's come up with zilch." He added, "Therefore, I'd suggest you keep that gun more readily at hand for the foreseeable future." He headed for Megan's bedroom. "I'm going to need at least an hour alone with her. It will be better for her if you don't interfere. She's going to have enough to deal with."

Phillip was afraid that was true and the knowledge filled him with frustration. Dealing with Grady was going to be a nightmare for Megan. He wouldn't pull his punches and she was terribly vulnerable right now. "Dammit, don't hurt her."

Grady didn't look back and his reply was absent, his mind already on Megan. "Not if I can help it."

GAVE.

Quarry.

Voices. Voices. Voices.

Hands holding her down. Dark eyes looking into her own, shutting out the voices. Mama!

"Easy, Megan. That's all gone. It's in the past."

No, the voices were there. They were always there.

"Open your eyes. Look at me and they'll go away."

Yes, make them go away.

"No, you have to help. Open your eyes."

She slowly opened her eyes to see Neal Grady sitting beside the bed. He reminds me of a Renaissance prince...

Prince? Grady? She must still be half-asleep. She didn't know any Grady. No, this was a stranger lounging in her chair, in her room. She scrambled upright in bed. "Who the hell are you?"

"No threat to you."

"Don't tell me that. Get out of my room."

"Presently." He got to his feet. "Why don't I get you a glass of water?"

"I don't want a glass of water. I want you out of here. Where's Phillip?"

"He's waiting outside until I tell him that it's all right for him to come in."

"He knows you're here?" She had a sudden memory of Phillip's concerned expression before she'd gone to her room. "Are you a doctor? For God's sake, I'm fine. I don't need a doctor."

"You're not fine." He leaned back in the chair. "And unfortunately you'll be a lot worse before you're better. And, no, I'm not a doctor. My name is Neal Grady." He nodded as he caught her change of expression. "Oh, yes, we've met before. You're beginning to remember on your own. That's very promising …and a little scary. You shouldn't be able to break through like this."

"What on earth are you talking about?" She threw the cover aside. "I'm going to go and see Phillip."

"I'm sorry. You can't do that. You have to listen first."

"I can do anything that I—"

Voices. Screaming. Voices. Pain.

"No!" She buried her head in the pillow, but she couldn't shut them out. Voices. Agony. Screams. Mama, help. Mama, help.

"She can't help you. You know that. But I'm taking them away," Grady said roughly. "Do you think I like doing this to you? But you have to let me talk to you. Will you stay and listen?"

"Take... them... away."

"They'll be gone in a few seconds. Relax. You're too tense." Relax? He had to be crazy. How could she relax when the pain— The voices were gone.

Relief so intense it made her limp poured through her. She drew a deep breath. She had to stop shaking. "Get out of here," she said unsteadily. "I don't know what you did to me, but I want you—"

"You know what I did to you," Grady said. "You just don't want to admit it to yourself." He grimaced. "Or maybe it's my fault. It's hard to only partially lift control when you've been with me for so long. It's usually all or nothing."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She glared at him. "And I don't want to know. I just want you to leave."

"But you're not risking running to Phillip. Because you know that the voices will come back." He sat back down. "Suppose I just get it over quickly and let you absorb it. Let's start with bringing back your memories of me. You were fifteen. You lived with your mother in a cottage on the North Carolina coast. The two of you were very close. I rented a cottage down the beach from you that summer and you and your mother were very kind to me. We became good friends. We went horseback riding on the beach. We played cards in the evening."

Neal laughing at Megan as she tried to bluff at poker.

Her mother shaking her head with amusement as she went past them on the way to the kitchen.

Memories were flowing back to her, surrounding her, flooding her.

Neal helping Megan with her homework in that Latin correspondence course.

"You never really needed help," Neal Grady said quietly. "You just liked the company. You were always a very affectionate girl and you sometimes got lonely living by yourselves on the beach."

"I was not lonely," she said fiercely. "Mama and I had each other. We liked it that way."

"You were lonely. But she did what she thought best for you. She was torn between wanting you to have a normal life and trying to protect you." He paused. "Because neither one of you was quite normal. You both were a little …different."

Megan could feel her every muscle, stiffening, locking. "No, that's a lie."

"That's what Sarah told you to say. You were to deny it to anyone who asked. It was the only way she could guard you. She even lied to you and told you that the voices you heard were caused by a mental problem, didn't she?"

"I'm not listening to you."

"Yes, you are. Sarah had a powerful psychic gift and she passed it on to you. But she never regarded it as a gift but a curse. She didn't want it tainting your life so she ignored it existed."

Panic was soaring through her. "It's a lie."

"You don't have to protect yourself from me." He shook his head. "Or maybe you do. But not from this particular truth. No one is more aware of that gift than I am."

She shook her head. "I don't know anything about any psychic bullshit."

"Then it's good that I know a good deal about it, isn't it? There are all kinds of psychic talents out there. Mind reading, healing, precognition."

"Charlatans."

"Some of them. Others are quite genuine."

She moistened her lips. "Not me. I'm none of those things."

"No. So far you've only exhibited one talent. You're a Listener."

"What?"

"You hear echoes. Put you in a place or situation where something highly stressful or tragic occurred and you can hear the scene play out." He added quietly, "Only there are too many tragedies, too many human beings in pain or distress. The echoes bombard you, push against each other until they're one long scream."

He was wrong, she thought. Each scream was individual and defined and the pain was incredibly personal.