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something I think I see. Images are sent from someone who has crossed over to the other side: sent directly to a person in the room where I am. I pick it up from them, and only them.” Her voice rose in frustration. “You have to believe me.”
    No, he didn’t. But he did have to listen. “Okay. Why don’t you tell me what you saw and why this is making you so scared.”
    “It’s making me scared because I can’t pick up something like that, unless it is coming from someone very close. Usually in the room.”
    Usually. There was always a caveat with her.
    “So whoever is acting as the medium, whoever is sending the message—and this one is quite vivid and always, always in black-and-white, which means it is evil through and through—is going to figure out very soon that I know they committed murder.”
    “And you think that person is worried that you will expose them. Even though there isn’t a body. Or a crime. Or any evidence of anything but your…vision.”
    “Yes,” she said, shooting him a look that said he failed in hiding his sarcasm. “And it will become clearer. It already has. It’s just a matter of time before I see their face.”
    “But not the body of the victim? Which, you have to admit, would be helpful.”
    “I don’t know if I’ll ever see the body. Right now, my perspective is from inside a car that’s being forced over a cliff. I’m inside the head of whoever died. But every time, I see more details. And once I know who’s in the other car, who the killer is…” Her voice quavered. “They might do anything to keep from getting caught.”
    “But there is no crime. Just your…” Imagination. “Visions.”
    She stood, pushing back a strand of hair that had escaped the clip. “That can be enough to scare a killer.”
    “I appreciate your concern, but these e-mails—”
    “No, you don’t.” She widened her legs and stared down at him, as threatening as a hundred-pound woman in a flimsy tank top could be. “You don’t appreciate my concern. You want to take those e-mails and figure out who sent them and stop that guy. Fine. So do I. But I mostly want to figure out who’s sending me the visions in the studio, and expose them before they kill me. They might even be related. Have you thought about that?”
    Actually, he had. He stood to take away the slight advantage she had by looming down at him, with her nipples six inches from his face. “I promise you that we’ll investigate every possibility, and use the very best resources to get information. We will be vigilant and careful, but you need to live your life as you normally do, with the added assurance that you have protection.”
    “I intend to. But you need to know this: I’m seeing a murder. And I know, firsthand, that seeing it is enough to scare the hell and sense out of the person who committed it.” She reached over and touched his hand, her fingers warm on his skin. “Didn’t you run an Internet search on me ? Because if you did, you’ll see my mother was shot when I was seventeen.”
    “Yes, I saw that in your file. I’m sorry. There were no details.”
    “Then let me tell them to you. My mother was shot on the freeway, on her way to a crime scene where she was about to identify the killer. Murderers are scared of psychics. We know their secrets. That’s why I called Lucy Sharpe for a bodyguard.” She gave him one last finger-point to the face. “Not because some whacko student wants his graduate thesis to be accurate.”
    She strode toward the other side of the trailer for the perfect exit. A second later, he heard the powder room door latch. He sat back, staring at nothing, his brain cataloguing the facts.
    Now he knew why she’d called the Bullet Catchers, and not one of the dozens of ordinary security firms that provide protection to the stars. Because this was not an ordinary case of celebrity stalking. But why had Lucy yanked him from the job at Stanford to handle this? Why did she think a