Her name is Stacy Anderson,” Raine said into her cell phone. “They think she may be the latest victim of that freak the press calls the Bonfire Killer, the one that has been trolling among the prostitutes in Seattle and Portland.”

“Damn.” Andrew Kitredge sounded more resigned than surprised. “You can’t even leave town for a day without stumbling onto a murder scene.”

She almost smiled. Andrew was one of the few people in the world who was aware of her little eccentricity, as he called it, and took it in stride. His life partner, Gordon Salazar, was another who accepted her, voices and all.

Aunt Vella had understood her, of course, and her father, if he was still alive, would have considered her psychic side normal. But Judson Tallentyre died in a car accident when Raine was six and now Vella was gone, as well.

She had no other close blood relatives. Her mother died when she was a year and a half old. Judson Tallentyre, forced to surface from his precious research in order to deal with the nuisance of caring for a baby daughter, had asked his sister to move into the household. Vella agreed, taking Raine into her heart immediately.

Childcare issues resolved, Judson immediately disappeared back into his lab.

The day of his funeral had been a turning point in Raine’s young life. The small, sad ceremony was conducted in a gray, northwest mist. It was followed by what she had come to think of as the Night of Fire and Tears. She did not recall everything about that fateful evening but a series of frightening and disturbing snapshots had been forever etched in her mind.

A few months after the terrible night, Vella had sunk into the first of what would prove to be a number of long and extended depressive episodes. Aware that she could no longer care for a little girl on her own and terrified that the state would take Raine away and put her into the foster system, she turned to her best friend from childhood, Andrew Kitredge, and his partner, Gordon.

Andrew and Gordon never hesitated. They took Raine and Vella into their lives, assuming responsibility for Raine whenever Vella spiraled downward into one of her episodes. Somehow the four of them had formed a family, shielding Raine from the long arm of the state.

“You don’t have to make it sound like I do it deliberately,” she said to Andrew, trying to lighten the mood.

“I know you don’t,” Andrew said. “But you have to admit that your little eccentricities have a tendency to rattle nerves.”

“Okay, I’ll grant you that much.”

She had been rattling Andrew’s and Gordon’s nerves ever since the summer of her nineteenth year, when she stumbled onto her first crime scene: that of a woman who had been murdered by her stalker-husband.

She settled deeper into the chair, propped her stocking-clad feet on a hassock and studied the view out the window. It wasn’t quite six o’clock but night came early in the Cascades, especially at this time of year.

“Thank God that girl was still alive,” Andrew said. “I can’t even imagine what her family must have gone through after she disappeared.”

“She told Langdon that she doesn’t have any family, at least not one she wants to acknowledge. Evidently she’s been living on the streets for the past couple of years. The chief says that fits the profile of the Bonfire Killer’s victims. They’ve found three bodies so far, all young women with backgrounds like Anderson’s. One was from Portland. The others were from Seattle.”

“Classic serial killer victims,” Andrew mused. “The kind of people no one misses when they disappear. I wonder why Stacy Anderson was still alive when you found her.”

“She said the freak told her that she needed to be punished first by being locked up in the basement. She thinks he intended to finish the job tonight. It was just pure luck that I happened to go through the house today with the real estate agent.”

“Do they think any of the previous victims were stashed in Vella’s basement, too?”

“I don’t know what the cops will conclude,” Raine said, “but I didn’t pick up traces of any other victims. I’m almost positive that Stacy Anderson was the first one the freak stashed in Aunt Vella’s house.”

“I don’t suppose the local cops paid any attention to what you told them.”

“No. I think I made Chief Langdon nervous.”

Andrew’s chuckle was dry. “You do have that effect on cops.”

“What can I say? It’s a gift.”

“When are you coming home?”

Raine crossed one ankle over the other on the hassock. “I’ll stay overnight, as planned, because Langdon said the detectives from Portland and Seattle might want to talk to me. But I can’t do anything about putting the house on the market until the police take down the crime-scene tape so I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“I stopped by your condo this afternoon and fed Batman and Robin. Played with them for a while. They’re doing fine.”

“Thanks.”

The cats tended to get anxious if they were left alone for too long. Anxious cats could do a lot of damage in a small condo. That was especially true with Batman and Robin because Raine had refused to declaw them. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to deprive them of their only natural defense just for the sake of her very expensive woven wood window treatments. She knew all too well how important it was to have some defense mechanisms.

“I suppose Chief Langdon is going to take all the credit for the big break in the case?” Andrew asked. “The way Bradley always did?”

Andrew and Gordon had never entirely approved of her arrangement with Bradley Mitchell.

“As it happens, Langdon is very photogenic,” Raine said, amused. “He’s the rugged outdoor type. He’ll look good on the evening news.”

“Bradley always looked good standing in front of a camera, too. Going to be interesting to see how many more interviews he gives now that you’re no longer solving his cold cases for him.”

“Mmm.” She kept her tone deliberately noncommittal.

As hurt and pissed off as she was, she had not yet decided what to do about her working relationship with Bradley. Their personal relationship—what there was of it—was finished but she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to stop assisting him on certain cases. In some way that she could not explain to Andrew and Gordon or even to herself, she needed to use the psychic side of her nature. Denying it was like trying to deny that she could see and hear and taste and touch and smell.

“Do you want Gordon or me to drive up to Shelbyville?” Andrew asked.

“No, don’t worry, I’m not a suspect,” she said quickly. “I spent an hour answering questions for Chief Langdon and I told him to call Bradley if he wants a character reference. He seemed satisfied. Glad to get rid of me, actually.”

“You told Langdon to call the bastard?” Andrew demanded, outraged.

“Bradley’s a professional when it comes to police work. He’ll vouch for me.”

“What about the real estate agent? What was his name? Spicer? How’s he taking this?”

“He was pretty shaken. Got a hunch that after he gave his statement to Langdon, he went back to his office and had an attack of the vapors. One thing’s for sure: if Aunt Vella’s house was a tough sell before this, it’s going to be almost impossible to move now.”

“Maybe you can dump it on some unsuspecting buyer on eBay.”

“You know, that’s not a bad idea. But first I’m going to have to clean out the place. I’d forgotten how many crates of paintings are stashed in the basement. Aunt Vella always painted like mad when she was here in Shelbyville.”

“It was her own personal form of therapy,” Andrew said.

“I know.”

The room phone rang.

“Sounds like you’re getting another call,” Andrew said.

“Probably Langdon with a few more questions.”

“Better take it. We’ll see you tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you. Bye.”

She cut the connection and reached for the room phone.

“Yes?”

“Miss Tallentyre, this is Burton down at the front desk. There’s a man here to see you. Says his name is Jones. Want me to send him up?”

The delicate cup she was holding, with its yellow-and-green floral motif, froze in midair.

“Jones?” she repeated, very carefully. There were a lot of Joneses in the world, but within her own private, tightly controlled and contained sphere the name stood out like the ominous light of an oncoming train.

“A cop?” she asked, hoping against hope that coincidences did, in fact, happen occasionally.

There was a low murmur of masculine voices. Burton came back on the line.

“Says he’s a private investigator.”

That gave her pause. Maybe the name really was a coincidence. Maybe one of the families of the Bonfire Killer’s victims had hired a PI named Jones to look into a daughter’s disappearance and somehow Mr. Jones had heard about the day’s events and managed to track her down tonight.

And maybe she could hop on a broomstick and fly.

Adrenaline splintered through her. The primitive fight-or-flight rush left her edgy and profoundly wary. Briefly she considered asking Burton to tell the mysterious Mr. Jones to leave. But she had dealt with reality often enough to know that it was a remarkably stubborn force. It didn’t go away just because one wished it away.

A thought chilled her to the bone. What if the Mr. Jones downstairs in the lobby was the same Mr. Jones who had frightened her and Aunt Vella so badly that night all those years ago? If so, he was in for a surprise. She was no longer a six-year-old kid scared out of her wits.

There was no help for it. She would have to find out why Mr. Jones had tracked her down here in Shelbyville.

“Send him up, please, Burton,” she said.

She tossed the phone into the cradle, put the cup down on the tray and rose from the sofa. It dawned on her that she was wearing only her trouser socks. Quickly she sat down again and tugged on her boots. The added couple of inches of height fortified her confidence.

She went to stand at the window, stomach clenched, all her senses revved to the max, and listened for footsteps in the hall. It was full dark now. In spite of her determination to show no fear, she felt like a gazelle at the waterhole. The realization made her mad, which proved to be a good thing. Anger gave her strength.

She heard the footsteps only faintly and only just before the crisp, authoritative knock on her door. Mr. Jones did not make a lot of noise when he walked.

She took a deep breath, steeled herself and crossed the room to open the door.

She had no preconceived notions of what Mr. Jones would look like. Her memories of the Night of Fire and Tears were not clear on that point. The events had taken place against a backdrop of shadows, shouts and chaos. She had hidden her face against Vella’s shoulder, afraid to look at the very dangerous Mr. Jones. Even at the age of six, long before the psychic side of her nature had developed, she had sensed the power in the man who stormed into her father’s lab that night.

One glance told her that this Mr. Jones was not the same one who had frightened her and Vella all those years ago. The first Mr. Jones would be in his sixties by now. This man was only a couple years older than she was. She could not take any comfort from that fact, however, because the aura of power that surrounded him was as strong or stronger than the one that had emanated from the other Jones.

The Mr. Jones standing in front of her was tall. Even with her boots on she was a couple of inches shorter than him. He was lean and virile, a man who was centered and comfortable in his body and his masculinity, a man in full control of himself. His hair was short and dark and his eyes were a shade of blue that made her think of glaciers and gun-metal. He wore a black leather jacket, black crewneck pullover, dark pants and low boots.

She knew immediately that this Jones was every bit as dangerous as the one who terrified her on that long-ago night but for some crazy reason, she wasn’t frightened. The invisible energy he generated stirred the hair on the nape of her neck but she wasn’t scared, she was curiously excited. A heightened sense of awareness fluttered through her. Mentally she groped for a one-word description of the unfamiliar feeling that was sweeping through her. Her brain supplied it immediately. She was thrilled.

“Raine Tallentyre.”

He said her name as a statement of fact, not a question, as if he somehow recognized her, which was impossible because she was very, very certain they had never met. She would have remembered, she thought. There was simply no way she could have forgotten him or that low, controlled, compelling voice. It was a voice that could coax a woman into bed or challenge a man to a duel at dawn. It sent another shiver of raw sensation through her. She took a step back trying to put some distance between the two of them while she pulled herself together.

“I’m Raine Tallentyre,” she said.

“Zackary Jones. Call me Zack. I’m here to make a deal with you.”

Okay, obviously she had just fallen down the rabbit hole.

“What kind of deal?” she managed.

“I need your help.” He held up a manila envelope. “In exchange, I’ll give you this.”

She glanced at the envelope. “What’s in there?”

He smiled the slow, confident smile of a man who is very sure he is holding all the high cards. “The missing pieces of your family history. Inside this envelope is your heritage, the one you were denied when your father was kicked out of the Arcane Society.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. I’m the man with the answers to the questions you’ve been asking all these years.”