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it.”
    There was a very pregnant pause on my sister’s end of the line before she said, “Where would one get tarot cards if one wanted to experiment with them?”
    “I’m not sure. I think most bookstores sell them. Why? You thinking of getting a deck?”
    Cat laughed and said, “You know I love this stuff. Who knows, maybe your gifts are hereditary, and perhaps they’ve just been lying dormant inside me, waiting for some tool to access them.”
    I laughed heartily for the first time all day. I didn’t mean to; it was just that the thought of my very all-business, highly polished sister sitting at a table in her three-thousand-dollar Hermès silk suit pouring over a deck of tarot cards struck me as hilarious. “What’s so funny?” she asked, taking offense.
    “Nothing,” I said quickly. “It just struck me as funny. I can see you at a board meeting with all those old curmudgeons sitting around the table and you reading their fortunes . . . it’s just funny! ” I couldn’t help it; I dissolved into a fit of giggles.
    “Frankly I don’t see how that’s funny. In fact, I think that you just may be a little bit nervous that perhaps you’re not the only one in the family who’s gifted.”
    “What?” I asked, quickly stifling the giggles. “That’s absurd.”
    “Is it? Is it really? ”
    “Oh, for God’s sake, Cat, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just had this image in my head, and . . .”
    “Oh, look at the time; I have to go,” my sister said abruptly.
    “Cat, wait—”
    “Good night.” And with that she hung up the phone.
    Ah, the perfect end to the perfect day. I decided to throw in the towel and so headed for bed. As I turned out the light and curled myself around Eggy, I thanked God the day was over.
     
    At ten to midnight, my phone jolted me out of a sound sleep. “Hello?” I said groggily into the receiver as I flipped on the light and sat up in bed.
    “Abby? It’s Milo Johnson. I need you to come down to the police station right away.”
    “Wha . . . ?” I said, shaking my head vigorously, working to make sense of what Milo had just said.
    “I need you to come down to the police station immediately,” he repeated. “I sent a car to pick you up. It should be at your door in two minutes.”
    “What’s happened?” I asked, my heart beating rapidly.
    “It’s one of your clients; she’s been attacked.”
    “One of my clients?”
    “Yes, Cathy Schultz. She was attacked and raped this evening.”
    “Oh, my God! Where?” I asked, now fully awake.
    “At the Farmer’s Market grocery store on Twelve Mile. We need to talk.”
    “Sit tight, Milo,” I said, jumping out of bed. “I’m on my way.”

Chapter Two
    Ten minutes after hanging up the phone with Milo I was at the Royal Oak police Station being escorted up a flight of stairs to the Detectives’ Unit. As I passed through the doorway into the unit I saw Milo sitting on the corner of his desk, looking through a police file.
    “Hey,” I said to get Milo’s attention as I walked over to him.
    Milo looked up at the sound of my voice, his face a mixture of concern and anger—quite different from this afternoon. His jacket hung wrapped around his desk chair, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, revealing corded mocha-colored forearms. His tie had also been removed, giving him a disheveled appearance, and I had an awkward thought that I liked this Milo better. My encounters with him were always with an impeccably dressed man with elegant taste in clothes, but seeing him in a rumpled state made him appear more accessible. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” he said. “I’m sorry to get you out of bed,” he added, noting my appearance.
    I quickly looked down at myself; I was dressed in sweat bottoms and a flannel pajama top, with a zip-up hoodie thrown on haphazardly. Sheepishly I replied, “I guess I was so worried about getting here quickly that I didn’t even think about changing. How’s