Trish is staring at me, but with the shocked, glazed expression of one whose thoughts are turned inward. I can only imagine what terrible images are projecting themselves inside her head.

“Trish? Talk to me, honey.”

Comprehension creeps into her eyes. Like a drowning man who has been pulled from the sea, she draws a deep, ragged breath. Her chest heaves, but there are no tears. She begins to shake. I slip out of my jacket and hold it out to her. But once again, she draws back.

“How did it happen?” she asks.

The picture of Carolyn’s battered face and the knowledge of what had been done to her comes rushing back. But I could no more tell Trish any of that than I could remind her of why she is here. I lay the jacket on the back of a chair, using the time to gather my thoughts before answering.

“The police aren’t sure.” It seems the least painful response.

But she grasps the ambiguity and it sparks a flash of anger. “Don’t,” she snaps. “Don’t treat me like a child. You know what happened to me. You know the part my mother played in it. Was she killed like Barbara? Was she killed because of me?”

I realize now that the image Trish projected when she first walked into this room had nothing to do with Sorrel. Trish wanted desperately to believe the things that happened to her were a nightmare from which she had finally awakened. Twenty-four hours in a safe environment and the possibility that her life might be her own again had made her giddy with youthful optimism.

God, I do not want to be the one to shatter the illusion. And yet, this is the second time I’ve been the bearer of bad news. Telling her about Barbara was bad enough. How on earth can I tell her about her mother?

I’ve never felt so helpless. I’m the adult. I should have instincts about this sort of thing. But seeing the distress in her face and the dread in her eyes renders me speechless.

I wish my mother was here.

The door opens, and for just an instant I irrationally think maybe it’s my mother come to rescue us.

But of course, it’s not. Frey comes in and his expression softens when he looks at Trish.

“Anna told you about your mother? I’m so sorry.”

Trish goes to him, letting him put his arms around her, leaning against him and accepting from him the kind of solace she refused from me.

It’s a bitter rebuff. If I’m to believe Sorrel, Trish is my niece. I should be the one comforting her. I take a step toward them.

I look into Frey’s eyes and he seems to be reading my reaction. He shakes his head gently in a warning to respect Trish’s feelings.

It stops me. I know he’s right. Trish needs to have someone she can open up to. I’d hoped it would be me. But we’ve only known each other one day. Frey is a teacher she likes and respects. It’s natural she would choose him.

I don’t have to like it, though.

Frey guides Trish over to one of the chairs and gently lowers her into it. She sits, clutching one of his hands as if afraid to let go. He smiles down at her and then turns to me.

“There’s someone outside who wants to talk to you,” he says.

“To me?” I ask, surprised. “Who knows I’m here?”

He shakes his head, sitting down beside Trish. “Don’t worry. It’s someone you know. He’s waiting for you outside the door.”

His words are a subtle push for me to leave the two of them alone. I bend down to look at Trish, to engage her eyes. “I’ll be right outside, Trish. If you need me, Frey will come get me.”

She is looking at me, but I can’t tell whether my words are registering. All I see in her eyes is a dreadful void.

I straighten up. “Frey, can I talk to you outside a minute?”

He seems hesitant, but the expression on my face must convey the meaning behind my words. I’m not asking. He opens his hand, freeing himself from Trish’s grasp. She gives a little gasp and reaches for him again, but he strokes her hair and says softly, “It’s all right. I’ll be right outside the door.”

She doesn’t look reassured but she lets her hand drop into her lap and offers no objection.

Frey follows me out of the room. As soon as the door is closed behind us, I round on him.

“What are you going to say to her?” I snap. “You don’t know what happened to Carolyn.”

Frey is looking past me.

I turn, too, and at the same time a familiar voice interjects itself into my head.He knows, Anna, I filled him in.

And there is Chief Williams, out of uniform now, but looking as clearly at home in these surroundings as he did an hour or so ago in his office.

Chapter Thirty

Why does it not surprise me that you’re here?

Before he can answer me, Frey must send him a telepathic message, because he says,Yes, go back to the girl. Anna and I will talk in my office.

I put a hand on Frey’s arm to stop him. “Wait a minute. I’m not leaving.”

Williams motions Frey to go on. “My office here. We’re not going anywhere.”

Frey obviously says something else that, since I cut our psychic link by biting him, I’m not privy to. By the weary expression on Williams’s face, I can guess it’s not anything complimentary nor is it anything with which Williams takes umbrage. It has to be about me.

When Frey leaves us, Williams’s temper erupts. “You bit Frey? What were you thinking?”

“What was I thinking? You let me leave your office this afternoon thinking he was a monster. He wouldn’t answer my questions. What the fuck did you expect me to do?”

“And if I had told you that Trish was safe with him, would you have believed me?”

Of course not. I don’t say it aloud or project it, but it’s the obvious answer and Williams knows it.

He lowers his head and peers at me. “Besides, you should thank me for getting you out of there. Otherwise, you’d have Frick and Frack from the FBI on your tail as we speak.” He jerks a thumb. “My office is right down the hall. We can talk there.”

With a glance at the door behind which Frey and Trish are no doubt discussing her mother’s death, I reluctantly follow Williams. Disappointment and a feeling of inadequacy squeeze at my heart. I want to be there for Trish, to be the one she turns to for comfort and healing. I’m family. Frey is a stranger.

She doesn’t know that, Anna.

Williams’s tone is not harsh or severe, but is laced with a kind of sympathy. Not typical in his dealings with me. He’s stopped in front of another of those nondescript doors that line the back of the great room. He holds it open.Come in. Please.

Please? A courtesy? You must be feeling guilty about letting me think the worst of Frey.

He reads the disdain in my tone but shrugs it off.Frey is the one who should be angry about that. After all, he’s the one you attacked because of it.

Contempt isn’t fazing Williams. He must have something really important to discuss.

Unlike his spacious quarters at SDPD, this office is small, nondescript, austere. It looks to be the same size as the one I shared with Trish. The only furnishings are a metal desk and two straight-backed chairs-one behind the desk and one in front of it. There is nothing on the desk, not a telephone or computer.

Williams pulls the chair from behind the desk and positions it beside the other. He motions for me to sit.

“Why not?” I respond. “I’m sure you have a lot to explain. Might as well get comfortable.” But as my butt hits the cold, hard seat, I amend that. “Well, at least as comfortable as possible. I take it you’re not such a big shit here, huh? Don’t warrant padded chairs.”

But Williams acts impervious to my insults. His expression never wavers from polite concern, and his eyes don’t spark or flash with anger or annoyance. A warning spasm of alarm erupts inside me.

What’s going on?

Williams sits back in his chair, looking hard at me, keeping his thoughts to himself. I let it go on for a moment before I repeat, “What’s going on? What did you get me in here for?”