Why wouldn't they stop talking to him?

He just wanted to sleep. He just wanted to rest.

Why were they making him do these things?

His hands smelled like… coins. His clothes. He thought his hair did too. Like coins.

Like blood.

Shh. No more voices.

Not tonight.

No more dreams.

He was so tired.

FEBRUARY 22, 1999

It was Sheriff Dunbar who came to get her the next afternoon, and he looked no happier about it than Cassie felt.

"Ben got tied up in court," he said by way of a greeting. "He'll meet us at Ivy's place."

"I see."

"If you're ready, of course."

Cassie thought that if he were any more polite, his face would break. "I'm ready. Just let me lock up."

Five minutes later they were in his cruiser and headed toward town. And the silence was vast.

Despite her casual words to Ben, Cassie was hyper-aware of the sheriff's suspicion and mistrust. She had formed good relationships with a number of cops over the years, but it was true that the first reaction tended to be the sheriff's, and it was always difficult for her.

In the beginning it had deeply upset her that her first role in an investigation was invariably that of suspect; hardheaded and rational cops viewed her descriptions of crimes and victims as obvious proof she had been present in the flesh, and they were difficult to persuade otherwise. It was often only when cast-iron proof in the shape of unbreakable alibis surfaced that some policemen learned, if not to trust her, then at least to believe she was no killer.

As far as Matt Dunbar was concerned, a fair alibi for at least one of the murders was obviously not good enough. Either that, or…

"You think I'm conning Ben, don't you? That I'm conning both of you."

"It crossed my mind," he replied bluntly.

"What would I have to gain?"

He sent her a quick glance, and his smile was cynical.

"How should I know? Maybe you're after fame. Or maybe you just like playing with people."

Cassie felt a spurt of amusement. "Let me guess. Somebody dragged you into a lot of fortune tellers' tents when you were a kid, right?"

"Close, but no cigar. Let's just say I've known a few people in my life who were royally taken by con artists posing as psychics."

Amusement dying, Cassie said, "I'm sorry. No wonder you're suspicious. But I'm not like that, Sheriff. I don't sit in a tent or a room hung with velvet and gaze into a crystal ball. I don't tell anybody how to make their life better, or claim to see a tall, dark stranger in their future. I don't pick lottery numbers or racehorses, or the sequence of cards at blackjack. And I never, ever take money for using this… gift of mine. Didn't all those testimonials give you pause?"

"There's more than one way to con somebody. And more than one reason to do it."

"Meaning I conned them? All those rational, suspicious cops? Do you really believe that?"

Dryly he said, "I think there's at least as much a chance of that as there is that you're genuine."

"So I'm definitely on probation as far as you're concerned."

"Definitely."

Cassie nodded. "Some people are never able to accept psychic ability, and some are afraid of it once they realize it's real." She turned her head and looked at him thoughtfully. "But it would make things easier on both of us, I think, if you could begin to believe that it's not a con."

"And how do you propose to accomplish that? Going to tell me what color panties Abby had on last night?"

"Green," Cassie said. When he glared at her, she grimaced. "Sorry. I know you were being sarcastic. But it was practically branded on your forehead in neon, Sheriff. If you want to test me, you'll have to do better than that."

"Test you," he said slowly.

"Why not? You won't be the first to do it, and I expect you won't be the last. You can go the old think-of-something-I-couldn't-possibly-know route, or you can get more inventive, spring a test on me when I'm not expecting it. I don't really care. Just bear in mind that there are psychic abilities I definitely don't have. I can't foretell the future, and I can't move anything with my mind."

"You can just crawl into somebody else's mind."

"Some minds. Not all." She hesitated, then said, "I can'tread Ben."

"Not even when you touch him?"

"Not even then."

The sheriff was silent for a moment, then muttered, "That rings truer than anything you've said yet."

She looked at him curiously. "Really? Why?"

It was his turn to hesitate, but then he shrugged without answering.

Cassie didn't push him, because his thoughts were so clear he might as well have spoken aloud. He was thinking that Ben had never let anybody really get close, from the time they were kids. That his old man was one of those emotional tyrants you read so much about, especially in stories set in the South, a highly respected judge himself with an iron will and the absolute conviction that his word was law. Matt suspected that one of the reasons Ben had stepped down from the bench himself was that his father had died and so was no longer able to influence his only son.

Cassie rubbed her forehead and tried to shut off the easy connection with the sheriff, but before she could she was also gifted with the information that Ben had been a late child born of the old judge's second and much younger wife, Mary – whom Matt thought of as one of those pretty, childlike women who would either fascinate a man or else drive him mad.

"Headache?" the sheriff asked.

"You could say that," Cassie murmured, resisting the impulse to tell him to stop thinking so damn loud and wondering if Ben had any idea that here was one friend whose shrewd understanding nevertheless left him wondering what it was that Ben Ryan wanted out of life for himself.

A closed book indeed.

The sheriff was silent for several minutes, then muttered beneath his breath, "Green panties."

"They were, weren't they? And bra to match?"

"Yes. Dammit."

The blood in Ivy Jameson's kitchen had dried, and the smell of it was musty and faint. But it remained a scene of violence, and Cassie was overwhelmingly conscious of that the moment she stepped through the doorway.

"We have the murder weapon," Sheriff Dunbar said from his position inside the room to the right of the door. "If it would help to touch it?"

"No." Cassie slowly looked around. "Not if it has her blood on it." She wasn't aware of anything unusual at first. But then she felt a slight but increasing pressure, against her chest or inside it, and breathing seemed more difficult than it had a moment before.

"Cassie?" Ben was standing just behind her, in the doorway. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know. Yes. Yes, I'm fine." She continued to gaze around slowly, unwilling to tell him it was getting harder and harder for her to breathe. Her gaze focused on a pool of dried blood near the work island that was dark and slick looking, and when she blinked it suddenly turned scarlet.

The image was fleeting, a jolt of color gone before she could fully take it in. But when she looked at the blood spattered across the white refrigerator, it, too, turned briefly scarlet. And then a movement caught her eye, and she turned her head to watch scarlet blood drip from the edge of the work island and onto the tile floor.

"Jesus," she whispered.

"Cassie? What is it?"

"Shh. Don't say anything. This is… this has never happened to me before. When I look at it, I see the blood dripping, as if it's fresh. Splashes and smears of color all over the room, bright and wet." She closed her eyes and opened them, but the blood remained red, so red it hurt to look at it, and when she tried to turn her head away, it was as if she caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye.