Jo turned down Main Street. They moved past barrels of red geraniums and park benches painted dark green to match the canvas awnings lining both sides of the street. Two young mothers stood talking in front of the post office, one with a baby on her hip, the other pushing a stroller.

“But, being Danny, he blamed himself,” Jo continued.

Cleo didn’t want to hear any more about Daniel Sinclair. Not because it was too horrible to bear; she’d seen horrible things, had lived through horrible things. No, it was because she didn’t want to know about him, about his personal life, his triumphs, his pain. She didn’t want to know him.

“Just shortly after that, Lucille died. Lucille once told me she wasn’t afraid of death, but she was afraid of what would happen to Beau if she died. So Danny moved back home to take care of Beau. But if you ask me, it was the other way around half the time. Danny was drinking. A lot. He’d stay drunk for days, and Beau would take care of him. So I offered Danny a job. It keeps him out of trouble most of the time, but he still goes on the occasional bender. Beau keeps me informed.”

To Cleo’s relief, they finally arrived at the police station, a one-story white building located next to the courthouse and across the street from the fire station. Jo swung the squad car into a parking place reserved for the chief of police. Then they made their way along a wide sidewalk, up a few steps, and through heavy double doors.

Inside, Cleo was introduced to Parker Reed, the secretary. “He keeps this place running,” Jo said.

And it was quite a place. In one corner was a potted palm that had grown all the way to the ceiling, had taken a turn, and was now heading toward a nearby window. In another corner were a recliner, a lamp, and a table with two potted and profusely blooming purple African violets. Underfoot were woven throw rugs similar to the rugs Cleo had noticed at the Sinclair house.

“I make these rugs in my spare time,” Jo said. “I take old clothes, old sheets, old blankets, even old plastic bread wrappers, and cut everything into strips, then weave it. I’ll show you my loom sometime.”

“Okay,” Cleo said vaguely.

Was it her lack of sleep that was making things seem so weird? First the creepy motel room and the bad dreams, now Jo and her police station that looked like an old lady’s living room.

“Danny’s office.” Jo flung open a door, revealing a cramped room with a single small window, a desk, a phone, and not much else-and, thankfully, no Sinclair. Next was Jo’s office, a more lavish and personal version of the front room. Mixed in with the clutter on her desk were small, cheap picture frames, the kind you could pick up at a discount store for a couple of bucks. On the wall were more photos, many of Jo herself shaking hands with this person or that person, none of them anybody Cleo immediately recognized. Something told her if she showed the slightest interest in anything in the room, she would end up getting a monologue about the item in question.

Jo crossed the room to a wall safe, dialed the combination, and opened the thick door. “Here’s where I kept the key,” Jo said, standing to one side in case Cleo got the notion to peer into the darkness.

“Does anyone else know the safe’s combination?” Cleo asked.

“You aren’t here to launch an investigation,” Jo said, seeming surprised by the direction Cleo’s mind had taken. “The obvious questions are my job. I just want you to concentrate on that key. I don’t want your head cluttered with extraneous details.”

“I’m simply trying to get an idea of what’s going on.”

“I want you to get some vibes from this vault, then we’ll go across the street and talk to Harvey to see if you pick anything up there.”

Never in her life had Cleo picked up anything from an inanimate object. There had been the missing little girl, but it had never required a conscious effort on her part. She’d never actively tried to get information. It had just come, unbidden.

Leaving the safe ajar, Jo went to her desk, sat down, pulled out a huge black ledger, wrote a check, and handed it to Cleo.

Five thousand dollars.

“Five thousand in advance, another five thousand if you come up with the key. Fair?” Jo asked.

Cleo carefully tucked the check into a pocket in the side of her bag. “Fair.” Oh, God. Why had Jo paid her now, when there was nothing more Cleo wanted than to get far, far away?

Cleo moved to stand directly in front of the safe, the dark, deep pit level with her face. She reached up and touched the cold metal of the door.

“Feel anything?” Jo whispered from just beyond Cleo’s shoulder, inches from her ear.

Startled, Cleo jumped, her heart racing.

Peering into the darkness, Cleo put a hand on either side of the safe and closed her eyes. Careful to keep her expression blank, she silently counted to twenty, all the while thinking about the five-thousand-dollar check in her bag. Five thousand dollars. In her mind’s eye, she pictured a home. Nothing lavish. She didn’t ask for much. Just a tidy room with waxed floors and sparkling windows that let the sun in. In her imagination, there were no cockroaches or creepy landlords or crackheads living in dark hallways. In her daydream, the sun was warm on her face.

She turned the corner and found herself in a kitchen. There, above a stainless-steel double sink, was a potted geranium, its red blooms cascading happily down the green tiled backsplash. Near the back door, sweaters and jackets hung from pegs.

Five thousand dollars would get her such a place, at least for a while.

Cleo let out a heavy sigh and slowly opened her eyes.

“Well?” Jo asked expectantly.

“I’m not sure.”

“Did you feel anything?”

“I need time to digest the images.”

Jo shut the heavy door and gave the lock a couple of spins. “Let’s go talk to Harvey. Maybe you’ll pick up on something there.”

They found Harvey polishing the fire truck. On the surface, he seemed like your average middle-aged guy. But when he began talking, it quickly became apparent there would be no sidestepping the issue. His lazy drawl might have been southern, but his unblinking, no-time-for-bullshit attitude was pure New York City.

“I didn’t take your damn key,” Harvey said, wiping his hands on a towel. Damn was pronounced dai-yum. Key was pronounced with a long a.

Jo went on as if he hadn’t spoken, introducing Cleo and explaining her position in the entire conundrum.

“Howdy,” Harvey said grudgingly. He probably would have been halfway polite under normal circumstances.

After the reluctant hello, he turned back to Jo. “You know I don’t believe in that bullshit.”

“You don’t have to believe. She’s going to do all the work. I want her to pick up any vibes you might be giving off.”

“Like a human lie detector.”

“You could say that.”

“You’re pissing off the whole damn town,” he told Jo. “You know that, don’t you?”

“That’s your opinion. Cleo?” She motioned for Cleo to step closer. “Stand in his aura.” She sniffed and made an arrogant face. “If he even has one.”

Take the money and run.

Cleo stepped closer.

Harvey wasn’t an especially tall man. Not much taller than Cleo, which would put him at about five-eleven. His eyes were very brown.

Jo put a hand to Cleo’s shoulder and shoved. Cleo took a stumbling step, and she and Harvey stood nose to chin. “Um, okay.” Cleo closed her eyes and counted to twenty. When the time was up, she opened her eyes and stepped back.

“Well?” Jo asked in a repeat of their earlier performance. “Get anything?”

“I don’t know,” Cleo said, putting a limp hand to her forehead. “I’m suddenly feeling very tired.”

“I’ve heard that can happen. That clairvoyance takes a lot out of a person.”

“I’m going to have to rest and absorb the information.”