“Your seeing ghosts and not believing in them is a big problem. But I do believe and can help you.” Mrs. Flinton nodded and waited by her chair.

Zach moved forward to seat her.

She smiled up at him and said, “Surely you’ve seen odd things in your life as a law enforcement officer.”

He stared at her. What did she think she knew about him? Had she noticed when he saw the damn crows? The older woman remained serene under his glare. But he couldn’t really disagree with her. He’d seen plenty of screwy things. Some explainable, some not. Even omitting all the damned crow sightings. “Maybe,” he grumbled.

Mrs. Flinton nodded.

Clare pulled out her own chair and slipped in opposite the elderly lady, which left the final chair for Zach, his back to the door. He moved around the table, tapped Clare on the shoulder, and waved to the other place. “Please,” he said.

She frowned.

Mrs. Flinton stood and placed the napkin she’d taken from her plate on the one opposite her. “I didn’t think, Zach. You’ll want to sit where I am, yes?”

Clare stood slowly, blinking at him.

The dog barked again and he tensed, then ignored it.

“Yes, Mrs. Flinton,” he said, then met Clare’s eyes. “I don’t like sitting with my back to the door.”

“Oh, I understand.”

Mrs. Flinton smiled. “You don’t watch a lot of crime shows, Clare?”

“No.” Her gaze flicked to Zach, and she did that smile-and-glance-from-under-her-lashes thing that had lust zipping through him. Bad idea to act on the attraction.

“Bekka Magee and I do. Zach, you’re right-handed, so you want your right hand to be toward the door and not the window. Are you armed, dear?”

“Not right now. This is mostly habit.”

Mrs. Flinton stopped staring at his jacket as if she wanted to see his rig.

“Oh,” Clare said softly, and moved to the center chair with her back to the door.

Zach’s instincts didn’t like that at all, that someone coming in could target her first. To his inner shock, he realized he’d prefer Mrs. Flinton in that chair.

He seated Mrs. Flinton, then Clare, then took his own place, ignoring a yip and a cold draft around his legs.

The scent of food teased his nose, and a couple of seconds later Mrs. Magee came in with a big tray. Zach started to rise, then stopped. He couldn’t handle that tray as well as the older woman, couldn’t help her. Bile burned in the back of his throat.

Mrs. Magee dished out the soup, laid halves of a big sandwich on each plate, and left after accepting thanks from them all. Mrs. Flinton poured the tea.

Even though the meal was much like his lunch, Zach didn’t feel he could leave. He did manage to sidetrack Mrs. Flinton from ghosts to crime shows every time she brought up woo-woo stuff.

Clare picked at her food and occasionally said something that wasn’t in reply to either Mrs. Flinton’s or Zach’s comments, and that weirded him out. But now and then he found himself staring at the curve of her cheek, the form of her lips, a discreet checkout of her breasts. Still extremely sexy to him, physically, and even though he knew what was behind the secrets in her eyes, he remained intrigued with her.

Teatime stretched until he could barely stand it, couldn’t even glance outside the window because now and again he saw a black bird flying.

At last, Mrs. Flinton dabbed at her mouth and put her napkin down. “I think I will rest a little. Why don’t you two walk in the gardens?” Mrs. Flinton asked with a big smile. “Enzo, why don’t you stay with me awhile.”

“I’d like that,” Clare said, and she and Zach left the room. But by the time they’d reached the back door, she knew he’d put an emotional wall up between them. He didn’t touch her, no matter how casually.

Her heart sank. She’d blown the relationship with him by acknowledging Enzo. Stupid!

When he opened the door and said, “I don’t think this thing with us should go any further,” she just swallowed and nodded. How could she blame him for thinking her crazy? She would have taken a huge step back from him if the circumstances had been switched.

“I understand,” she said, her voice husky. Her smile was bright and false but the best she could do. “I’m glad you’ve found a good job and a good home, Jackson Zachary Slade.”

“Thank you; sorry it happened this way.” His voice held a little roughness she didn’t bother to analyze.

She ducked her head to keep her tears from showing and walked through the back door into a lush and lovely garden, and strode down pretty red sandstone flagstones set in thyme . . . until she heard the screen door shut.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure he hadn’t followed her, she pulled a tissue from her purse and heaved a couple of sobs into it before she got hold of herself. After one last blowing of her nose, she glanced around and saw a grape arbor not too far away with a bench and a blue gazing ball on a stone pedestal. Something she’d like in her own yard . . .

No. She couldn’t buy a house if she’d be dying soon; it would be the height of irresponsibility, to make her brother deal with such paperwork, even if she closed this week—have him sell two houses. And she had to face it, her health was bad. She wasn’t eating, barely slept, was cold all the time. Because she didn’t accept her psychic gift, a gift that had run through her family’s Gypsy blood for generations—the gift of communicating with ghosts.

No. That wasn’t real. Ghosts weren’t real. How could she believe that? Not at all logical.

Was it more logical that she was simply going insane, that some humongous disorder she’d had all along was now wracking her when she’d come into a nice fortune? How sane was that belief?

The pressure bearing down on her all day began to crush her. To break her mind and spirit. Broken in two, one part her old logical self, another part Gypsy instincts and heritage shrieking for freedom.

This had to stop!

 • • •

Zach left the house for an interview regarding Mrs. Flinton’s antiques, his mood foul. He walked past Clare’s car in the driveway. A very sensible car that an accountant would drive, just as he’d noted before. How had she gone off the rails so badly? Cold slipped along his spine. If that could happen to a solid woman like Clare, and in such a small amount of time, Zach’s whole worldview might be sliding into another focus again, like a kaleidoscope.

He’d never liked kaleidoscopes . . . changing before you got a handle on the picture.

Realizing he’d hunched over, avoiding scanning the area because he’d see some damn crows, he stood tall, moved even slower, scrutinized the neighborhood. All fine.

He rolled his shoulders to ease the tension, but there remained an ache in his heart where he’d already put Clare and hopes for a connection with her. Since he’d recently been in her presence, his body had a low-level lust ache, too. Irritating that the first woman he’d been attracted to since he’d gotten shot was . . . too far gone into bizarre.

Which made him wonder if he’d be able to live with Mrs. Flinton after all, since she seemed to believe in the weird and illogical.

Opening his car door, getting in, and slamming it shut behind him, he figured he’d finish her case, then reexamine the living arrangements.

 • • •

Clare scrubbed the last trace of tears from her face.

This insanity or ghost business or whatever had to stop!

Now.

Forget Dr. Barclay and whatever time schedule he might have her on . . . that probably included heavy-duty medications or some inpatient treatment somewhere. She had to deal with this now. The sooner, the better.

Today.

She would have to commit herself to one path—fight the illogic of ghosts, the craziness of what was happening to her to her last ounce of strength, or give in to the illogical fact that there were ghosts. She could feel her mind crumbling, her body deteriorating.