Right next to the body I could see the slightest of haze in the atmosphere, and I knew that the woman who told me about being struck over the head in her hotel room was right now trying to figure out who the body on the driveway belonged to. Yoo-hoo! I called in my mind to get her attention.

I had this sense of the woman considering me curiously for a few seconds before making her way over. Immediately the five feet around me became cold as ice, and people crowding around shivered, rubbed their arms, and unconsciously moved away from where I was standing, which was a relief, because I was beginning to feel really scrunched.

What’s your name, sweetheart? I asked. Her answer was clear; it sounded like the words so and fee. Hi, Sophie, I said pleasantly. Can you tell me what happened to you in the hotel room?

Immediately a series of disjointed pictures played out in my mind. I was looking at a brass plate hung on a door with the numbers three, two, and one on it. Then I had a very quick glimpse of a room decorated with celery green and yellow-striped wallpaper, cream carpet, and dark wood furnishings. On a table in the center of the room was a mess of papers. I had the sense of searching for one particular item within all that clutter, but something shiny shook loose and fell to the floor, where it caught the light and sparkled. As I reached down to pick it up I became aware of footsteps right behind me, and before I had a chance to react I felt a searing blow to the back of my head, followed by the fuzzy, confused haze of where I stood now.

I reached out to grab the column the police tape was secured to, feeling very wobbly on my feet.

“Ma’am?” someone said to me. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

I blinked a few times and rubbed the back of my head, then realized that an EMT was standing quite close to me with a concerned look on his face. “I’m fine,” I said, eyeing the body on the ground. “What happened to her?” I asked him, thinking about feeling that hard knock to the back of my own head and how Sophie had ended up here.

The EMT looked me over again, probably to assess whether I really was okay; then he said, “Looks like she might have jumped from the roof.”

“She jumped?” I asked.

The EMT nodded. “Right now they think it’s probably a suicide. Cops are trying to figure out the trajectory of jumping off a six-story building, but the angle’s right.”

I gulped. “You sound like you’ve seen this before.”

“I’ve been an EMT for twenty years. You see a lot in this line of work.”

I looked back to the body, then up at the building. My eyes hovered around the third story. I also became aware that the EMT was still talking to me. “. . . cops are looking into whether she was a hotel guest or just someone who managed to find a tall roof to jump off of. No one saw her do it, so it’s tough to tell.”

“She was a guest,” I said. “Her name was Sophie, and she was staying in room three-twenty-one.”

“You knew her?” the EMT asked in surprise.

“Only casually,” I admitted, very much aware that Sophie had gone back to the covered figure lying on the pavement, utterly confused about her surroundings and why she felt such a strong connection to the body beneath the blanket.

That was when I also became aware that the EMT was calling over one of the cops. “Yo! Ayden! This woman knows your vic!”

One of the faces in the crowd of officials turned and eyed us. He was about Steven’s height, with thin black hair and square features, and I gulped as I realized his sharp blue eyes were focused intently on me.

He walked toward me with purpose, and I braced myself for the encounter, knowing I was very likely going to get a whole lot of resistance to the fact that I’d just picked up that tidbit of info about the woman under the blanket from her dearly departed soul.

“Afternoon,” he said when he got to me. “I’m Detective Ayden MacDonald. You knew our victim?”

“Er . . . not really,” I said honestly. “I’ve actually just flown in from Boston, but the woman contacted me when our cab pulled up to the hotel and told me her name and the room she was staying in.”

“Excuse me?” he said, those blue eyes blinking hard to follow along. “What do you mean, she ‘contacted’ you?”

“I’m a psychic medium,” I explained. “I’m here to do a show for television on haunted possessions.”

MacDonald’s face looked like he was waiting for me to get to the punch line. When I didn’t comment further he turned somewhat serious and said, “I see. And this woman’s ghost told you what, exactly?”

“She said her first name was Sophie and she was a hotel guest staying in room three-twenty-one. She showed me that she was in her room trying to sort through some paperwork when someone came up behind her and hit her on the back of the head. The next thing she knew, she was out here on the driveway surrounded by police.”

MacDonald turned and regarded one of the uniformed policemen behind him. “Stanslowski!” he called. When a beefy-looking cop with a receding hairline looked up, MacDonald said, “Go inside and ask the desk clerk if there’s a woman, first name Sophie, staying in room three-twenty-one.”

The cop nodded and hustled away. We waited in a tension-filled silence as the scene continued to buzz with people and energy. From inside I could hear the sound of jackhammers and construction, and for the first time I noticed a small poster on the outside of the hotel that begged patrons to excuse the noise and the dust.

After just a few minutes Stanslowski came back out and hustled up to MacDonald. “Desk clerk confirms a Sophie Givens is staying in room three-twenty-one, Detective. Do you want me and Reynolds to track her down?”

MacDonald glanced at the body on the pavement, then back to me. “Yeah,” he said, his eyes wide with surprise. “Have management take you up to her room and see if she’s there. If not, see if you can find some photo ID and bring it back to me.”

“On it,” he said, and whistled to another uniformed policeman.

“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” MacDonald asked me.

“I figured you’d say that,” I said wearily. “And I’d love to answer them all, but I have a condition.”

“A condition?” he repeated with an arched eyebrow that told me I didn’t fully comprehend the precariousness of my position.

“Yes,” I said, undaunted. “If I answer all of your questions, and if you discover that my story checks out, I want to cross this tape before they take her body away.”

“Nope,” said MacDonald, and his tone suggested there was no room for negotiation.

I looked at him for a long moment, wanting to argue but struggling with that motivation. Finally I opened my purse and handed him my boarding pass. “My plane got in an hour and a half ago,” I said, digging around in my purse again. “From that point on we went on two errands, here and here.” And I handed over the receipts from the sporting goods store and the hardware store. Going back to my purse I scrounged around for my card and one of the e-mails from Gopher to Gilley that I thought was particularly interesting.

“What’s this?” said MacDonald as he took the e-mail.

“That’s some correspondence from my business partner to the television production team that has invited me here to San Francisco,” I said. “I’m the real deal, Detective, and the issue here isn’t proving that to you as much as it is needing to get Sophie to understand that her body has died and that it’s all right to move on, because right now her soul is suffering. It’s clear to me that she hasn’t made the connection that her body has stopped working and she can never come back to the land of the living. And the longer you and I stand here and trade credentials, the longer her suffering continues.”

Just then the detective’s cell phone beeped. He answered it quickly, and the voice coming through the earpiece was loud enough for me to hear.

“It’s Stanslowski,” said the voice. “I’m up here in room three-twenty-one, and we got ourselves a crime scene, Detective. There’s blood on the carpet, and the place has been ransacked. Also, we found the lady’s purse—her passport photo matches the woman on the pavement, sir.”

MacDonald’s eyes bored into mine, and his lips became pencil thin. “Secure the scene, Art,” he said. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

I smiled at him and motioned back to the area where Sophie’s body lay. “All I want is two minutes over there. I won’t touch the body; I can even stand on that patch of lawn next to the ambulance. I just need to get close enough to grab her attention and send her on her way.”

“You can actually talk to this girl?” asked the detective, his eyes traversing her body.

“I can.”

After a moment he sighed and said, “Fine.” Then he took my arm in one hand as he lifted the crime-scene tape with the other, instructing, “I’ll take you over there, but before you send her wherever you need to send her, I’ll need to ask her some questions about what happened to her.”

I pulled my arm out of his grip and stood back. “It doesn’t work like that, Detective.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t work like that?” he asked, still holding up the yellow tape.

“I mean that my primary directive is not solving your case. My job is to relieve her suffering. Right now she’s completely lost and confused, and if I don’t get to her quickly, she’s going to start to panic and freak out. Trust me on this: There is nothing worse than watching someone stuck in a ghostly state as they have a complete mental breakdown when they realize no one can hear them and no one can help them. She’ll soon become unreasonable and even inconsolable, and I won’t be able to help her until she calms down again—which could be years.

“So you see, sir, I’m not going to risk sending her into that state of terror by giving her the third degree. If she’s willing to listen to me, I’m going to get her over to the other side. Pronto.”

MacDonald lowered the tape and stood up tall. His eyes seemed to be taking my measure. Glancing down at my card, he said, “The way I see it, Ms. Holliday, you don’t have much of a choice. My lieutenant would eat me for lunch if he knew I let you close to the body, so if you don’t have anything else to offer me, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to follow protocol.”

I looked over again at Sophie’s body, and I could see a thin vapor hovering around the crime scene. The vapor was shifting back and forth, and I realized that she was already beginning to get anxious. I could sense her emotions building and the panic beginning to form. “Damn it,” I swore, and looked back to the detective. “Fine, have it your way. I’ll ask her your questions, but the moment she begins to get too upset, Detective, I’m going to get her to move on, with or without your case wrapped up.”

MacDonald lifted the crime-scene tape again. “After you,” he said pleasantly.

I ducked low and stepped under, with MacDonald right next to me as he took firm hold of my elbow again. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes—the guy obviously thought I was some kind of liability ready to trample all over his crime scene—and I allowed myself to be guided over to within five feet of the sheet covering Sophie.

We got a few curious looks from the uniformed cops and CSIs standing nearby, but MacDonald didn’t explain anything to them and ignored their inquisitive stares. “Okay,” he said softly when we came to a stop. “See if you can get her to tell you how she came to land faceup on the pavement.”

I closed my eyes and reached out to Sophie. Sophie , I said in my mind. My name is M.J., and I’m here to help you. Can you hear me?

There was a kind of mental nod in my head. I had her attention.

That’s great! I encouraged, but even then I could feel her energy drifting back to the sheet, as if she were distracted by it. I knew she was uncertain as to why she felt such a strong connection to it. So far she hadn’t put two and two together, and I planned on keeping it that way for just a bit longer. Now, Sophie, I said, I understand something happened up in your hotel room.

The energy wafting back to me registered confusion, or rather, it felt a bit slow on the uptake, so I elaborated. I’ve sent someone to check your hotel room, I explained. They say that they found it to be a mess. Do you remember someone coming into your room and maybe threatening you or trying to hurt you?

Sophie’s vapory energy began to shimmer with alarm.

“What’s she saying?” asked the detective.

I opened one eye and scowled at him. “Shhh!” I hissed. “I’m trying to work here!”

He frowned but nodded. Sophie, however, was starting to make some noise. Where is my file? she demanded. I had it in my hand! He’s stolen it!

Who’s stolen it? I asked. Honey, if you tell me who came into your room, I promise I’ll help you find your file.

Something’s wrong with my head, Sophie continued. He hit me! He hit me and stole my file!

I could feel Sophie’s increasing agitation. I knew I was pushing it and decided to ask one more time before I focused on trying to get her across. Sophie, I said gently in my mind, I’m so sorry he did that. But I’ve got the police here, and they’re ready to take your statement. Just tell me what the man looked like and we’ll get them to find your file.

And then I could feel something like shock reverberate across the ether, and I knew that Sophie was now fully aware of all the police and the CSIs around her. Her surroundings were becoming clearer, and the fog was starting to lift. The dots were going to connect in the next instant, and I knew I was about to have a hell of a time doing anything for her if I didn’t say something else, and quickly.

SOPHIE! I yelled as loud as I could in my head. And it worked; I got her attention. I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully. You’ve been in a terrible accident , I said. And it’s time for you to leave us. You have to realize that there is nothing more you can do here, and you’ve got to let go. Do you understand?

My file! she said. He can’t get his hands on that file! I need to turn it in to the authorities, or he’ll get away with everything!

I’ve found it! I lied. I’ve given it over to the police and it’s safe. But you need to move forward now.

Sophie’s energy went back to the covered form on the pavement. Is that me? she asked, the tone in my head sounding pitifully sad.

Yes, my friend, I said carefully. It is. I’m so sorry.

Sophie’s energy seemed to shudder, and I hoped the realization wouldn’t throw her into a state of panic. Finally, however, she asked, What do I do now?

I felt my shoulders sag with relief. She was a strong woman; that was for sure. If you look up, you’ll see a beautiful ball of light about ten feet above your head, I instructed.

There was another slight hesitation, and then I felt a sort of mental gasp. I see it!

Excellent! I encouraged. Sophie, that ball of light is your magical elevator ride, and it will take you to your next destination. All you need to do is call it down to you—just think of it descending slowly around you, and when you’re completely surrounded by it, you’ll be taken away from here to reunite with your deceased loved ones. I waited two heartbeats and felt Sophie follow my instructions. That’s it! I said to her. Now, we only have a few seconds, I said quickly, so when you feel it completely envelop you, I’ll need you to let go. Just let the light take you. I promise you’ll be safe and sound, and you’ll arrive home on the other side in no time. Okay?

Again I felt that mental nod and also the lowering of the light around Sophie, and then there was a whoosh feeling all around me, and in an instant she was gone.

I let out the breath that I’d been holding and opened my eyes. MacDonald was looking down at his arms and the hair that was visible where his shirt was rolled up. “Something just happened,” he said, indicating the way all the hairs on his arms were standing straight up on end.

“Yep,” I confirmed. “She’s gone.”

“What’d she tell you?” he asked, and the look on his face suggested he thought I’d tricked him.

“She said that someone broke into her room and stole an important file she had in her possession, and that’s why she was attacked and murdered.”

The detective’s brows furrowed. “A paper file or a computer file?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I’ve no idea,” I said wearily. Already it’d been a long day.

“M.J.!” I heard from near the entrance, and I looked over to see Gilley and Steven standing just on the other side of the crime-scene tape. “Is everything okay?” Gil said.

I nodded. “I’ll be there in a second,” I reassured them before turning back to the detective.

“So, she’s gone for good?” he said to me, and I smirked at the way his eyes were roving around, as if he were looking for her.

“She is,” I said. “I got her across when she started to panic. The only thing she told me about what happened was that some unidentified man came in and took her file.”

“Did she give you a name or tell you if she knew this guy?”

“No,” I said. “Again, I really couldn’t get much out of her.”

“Not very cooperative, huh?”

“Well, how cooperative would you feel if someone had just murdered you?” I asked seriously.

That got MacDonald to smile. “I see your point,” he said, then looked up to the third floor, where Sophie had likely been pushed out of her window. “Say, can you use your magic powers to come up to her room and maybe get an impression about what happened? You know, like those psychics do on TV?”

Great. Now I was a novelty item. I sighed tiredly, not exactly feeling very charitable after that kind of statement. “You know, that’s not really my forte. And besides, I’m pretty tired after traveling cross-country.”

The detective’s face fell. “Okay, fine,” he said. “Sorry I asked.”

I felt the guilt seep into the middle of my chest. “Okay, okay,” I said grudgingly. “Just let me tell my business associates what’s going on so they can at least get me checked in, all right?”

MacDonald guided me again over to the crime-scene tape (I was seriously starting to feel like an errant child with all this leading-around-by-the-arm stuff), and, after he left me with my friends, I explained quickly what had happened and why I needed to leave them again.

“What do you think you can pick up in the room if you’ve already crossed this woman over?” asked Steven.

“Well, probably a lot,” I admitted. “The more violent the act in that room, the better I’ll be able to feel it out.”

“How?” he wondered.

I thought for a moment about how best to explain it. As I was thinking, Gilley—who’s had a lot of experience with paranormal research—explained. “Think of it as if the space all around us is one giant sponge, and it can absorb physical actions like a liquid or a stain. Some stains are faint—your simple everyday routine, for instance—hardly noticeable. But other things, like a car accident or a violent outburst that causes intense pain or an act of murder, are darker, more acute stains that people like M.J. can clearly pick up on. They’re able to describe the event because it leaves a more intense impression on the sponge. Am I right, M.J.?”

I smiled at Gil. “You are,” I said. “That was a great analogy.”

“So, you are going to clean up the stain?” Steven asked, and I could tell he hadn’t quite gotten it.

“No,” I said. “I’m going to go into her room and hopefully tell them how the event unfolded. The atmosphere up there should have acted a bit like a movie camera—if we’re lucky, it should have recorded the event that took place there, and I might be able to visualize the images for the police.”

“Ah, now I am understanding,” said Steven with a nod. “We will get you checked in and take your luggage to the room. I will send a text to your cell phone to let you know what room we’re in.”

“Awesome,” I said as Detective MacDonald came up to me again carrying a duffel bag.

“Ready to go, Ms. Holliday?”

“Let’s do it,” I said, and we left Gilley and Steven to make their way to the check-in counter.

“What are these for?” I asked.

“In case you need to touch or hold anything in the room,” he said, before reaching into his duffel and pulling out some little blue booties. “These go over your shoes,” he added as the elevator door opened and we got on.

“I feel like I’ve just stepped onto a movie set,” I mumbled as I leaned my back against the elevator wall and popped the booties over my boots.

MacDonald didn’t comment as he did the same, and when we reached the third floor he led the way to room 321. It wasn’t hard to find; there were about three uniformed policemen close by. One was sealing the area around the room with yellow crime-scene tape, while another was knocking on doors, and yet another was interviewing a man in the hallway.

MacDonald stopped in front of the uniformed cop setting up the tape, and the two whispered in low tones just out of my earshot. The uniformed officer looked curiously back at me a few times, and I saw his eyes ogle me a bit. I sent him what I hoped was a winning smile and waited to be allowed into the room.

Not long after that MacDonald waved me forward, and I approached with my hands clasped behind my back. Even though I now wore gloves, I didn’t want to be tempted to touch or disturb anything. MacDonald stepped into the room first, and I followed him warily.

My eyes roved the room, which appeared to have been hit by a tornado. The sheets on the bed had been torn off and lay in a messy, trampled pile to one side. Several pillows were strewn about, and the mattress itself was pulled entirely off the bed and was leaning against the far wall. Long gashes had been sliced into the mattress, and the stuffing lay in large, fluffy tufts all about the floor.

Drawers from the two nightstands had been tossed aside, much like the pillows, and the table that, by the indentations in the carpet, had once resided by the window was now overturned and in the middle of the room.

Dresser drawers were pulled open, and clothing had been thrown about like confetti. The television had even been gutted, and even though it was still perched on top of the dresser, it was now facing backward with its wires pulled out like it had undergone an electronic autopsy. “Jesus,” I whispered as I stared around the room.

MacDonald too was taking it all in, and I saw him out of the corner of my eye making a quick sketch on his notepad, marking with little arrows where things were. He didn’t say anything, so I figured he must be waiting for me to do my thing. I braced myself and focused all my energy on picking out whatever might be lying about in the ether of the room.

My eye went immediately to the table, and almost subconsciously I walked to it, barely resisting the urge to pick it up. I left it where it lay and went over to where it had once rested, by the window. Here I had a clear impression of Sophie working on a laptop, and I looked around the room, but no computer was evident. “Did they find a laptop?” I asked MacDonald.

“Hmm?” he murmured, looking up from his sketch.

“Did your uniformed cop find a laptop in here and take it out of the room?”

MacDonald turned to the cop he’d first sent up here to investigate room 321. “Art, did you guys find a computer?”

“No, sir,” he said, “we didn’t.”

I looked back at the empty space and turned in a circle. A broken chair lay in three pieces behind me, and I shuddered. My eye then darted over to the bed, and I approached the crumpled remains of the comforter on the floor. I bent down and carefully held my gloved hand just above the comforter, wincing, while my other hand went up to my throat, and I found it difficult to swallow. I stood up then, and my head snapped over to the sliding glass door to the balcony, which was closed, but a section of the curtain had been caught in the door when someone shut it.

“I know how it went down,” I said gravely.

“Spill it,” said MacDonald, flipping the page in his notebook.

“She was working on her computer,” I began as the impressions sorted themselves out in my mind. “She has a connection to Europe,” I added, “England specifically, but London most specifically.”

MacDonald shot his eyes over to the uniformed cop in the doorway, whose jaw, I noticed, had dropped a fraction.

“Her passport lists her current address in London,” he confirmed.

“There was a knock on the door,” I continued, pointing over to where the cop was. “Sophie answered it and right away things got bad. I feel like she was shoved violently onto the bed, and her attacker began to strangle her. There was a struggle, but she was really outmatched. Somehow she got out from under him and she tried to flee. He grabbed that chair,” I added, pointing now to the remains of the chair on the floor, “and whacked her over the head with it. He then ransacked the place and was about to leave when I think she either woke up or showed signs of coming to. That’s when he took her out to the balcony and tossed her over the railing.”

No one spoke for several seconds, and truthfully, I was grateful. The events that played in my mind and the carnage of the room made me want to find a shower and scrub myself from head to toe. I hated being in that room, and really wanted to leave.

Finally MacDonald said, “Can you describe the guy?”

I shook my head. “No.” When he looked at me as if to ask why not, I explained, “I don’t see these things quite the way you think I would. They don’t happen like a moving picture in my head—it’s more like the sense of something, as if I were watching something through a haze where the finite details get obscured. I know he was tall. I know he was much stronger than she was, but other than that, I can’t give you a mug shot.”

“Do you think she knew him?”

I frowned. I had an urge to say yes, but I realized I wanted to say that because I was afraid of what it might mean if he were some creepy stranger prowling the hotel for innocent victims—after all, I was staying here tonight. “I don’t know,” I said after considering it. “There is something familiar about his energy with her. Almost like she knew him, but might not have recognized him at first.”

“What do you think he was after?” MacDonald asked me next, and he pointed his pen around in an arc at the chaos in the room.

“Her file,” I said simply. “Only now I really think it was a computer file, and I don’t think he found it on the computer. I think she might have put whatever it was on a flash drive and hidden it. Whether he found it I can’t say, but I do know she was really worried he’d stolen it, so that tells me it must have been here in this room.”

The detective scribbled some more in his notebook, then looked up at me and smiled kindly for the first time since I’d met him. “Thank you, Ms. Holliday. I won’t take up any more of your time for now, but can I call on you in the next day or so if we need you again?”

My first impulse was to say no, but then my conscience got the best of me. “That’s fine,” I agreed, feeling the pocket where my cell phone was buzzing. Pulling it out, I looked at the screen and said, “My associates have just let me know I’ll be in room four-twenty-one. You can leave messages there until we’re finished with the shoot and head back home day after tomorrow.”

“Great,” said MacDonald. “We probably won’t need you, but I appreciate it.”

As I left Sophie’s room and took off my booties and gloves, I had the distinct impression that I hadn’t seen the last of MacDonald or this investigation, and this thought unsettled me for some time.