For an instant her eyes seemed to bore into his, and he felt that touch again, still cool but so firm this time that he almost glanced down to see if she had reached across the table and laid her hand on his chest.
Then Cassie was smiling just a little, and her voice was casual. 'You're right. I am tired.'
'I'll go, and let you get some rest.'
Cassie didn't protest. She walked him to the front door. 'It would probably be a good idea for me to see Miss Jameson's house tomorrow. I don't know if I'll be able to pick up anything, but I should try.'
'I'll come get you – since you're without a car. Early afternoon all right?'
'Yes, fine.'
'Good. Sleep late, okay? Get some rest.'
'I will. Good night, Ben.'
'See you tomorrow.'
Cassie watched him until he reached his Jeep, then closed the door and locked it, and set the security system. She went back to the kitchen, put away the first aid kit, and rinsed out the used coffee cups, the actions automatic. She hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, but wasn't hungry now and definitely didn't want to bother fixing anything.
Her hand ached, but that was her own fault. It hadn't been hurting until she'd dug her nails into the gauze to reopen the wound just before calling Ben's attention to it.
She hadn't really suspected Ben of being the killer, but she'd seen too many outwardly decent men with black souls to discount anyone, at least until she was able to see inside their minds. Unfortunately she had not been able to read him – and she was afraid it was not because she was tired.
He had walls, solid and strong ones.
The kind of walls that few nonpsychics ever needed to build unless they had experienced some sort of emotional or psychic trauma.
Had Ben? Was there, in that seemingly open and honest man, some secret hurt or experience that had left him guarded and wary at the deepest levels of himself? Nothing in his background suggested that, but Cassie knew only too well how inadequate was the public information about a life lived.
It was the most likely explanation, that Ben's walls came from some injury or bitterly learned knowledge in his past. The only nonpsychic guarded minds she had encountered had owed their walls to trauma rather than to design.
He was not psychic.
He was also not the killer.
Cassie owed that certainty partly to her psychic ability. It had come to her as she had watched him gently examine her hand – the sudden memory of the killer who had stood over Jill Kirkwood, gloved hand raised to plunge the knife into her body.
His sleeve had fallen back, revealing his wrist, and on the inside had been a distinct scar.
Ben had no such scar.
It was a relief, but Cassie was not much cheered by it. She dreaded the coming days. Though Ben had shown some awareness of and sensitivity to the fact that this was and would be an ordeal for her, he couldn't really understand what it would cost her.
But he'd been right in telling her that if she remained in Ryan's Bluff, she had to help them. Not only because it was her responsibility to help, as her mother had drummed into her from childhood, but also because she was in line to become a target for this killer, and stopping him was the only way to save her own life.
She was tempted to run. More than tempted. But Ben had also been right in pointing out that there were monsters everywhere. Besides, she had found the first real peace of her life in this place, and gratitude also drove her to help.
If she could. If anyone could.
Cassie made herself a cup of hot tea and soaked for a while in a hot bath, not thinking very much about anything. Then she went to bed early, praying she wouldn't dream.
That particular prayer went unanswered.
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.'
