A family tree!

Back at her desk, she looked at the family tree, all the way back to Bohemia and the generations there, then returned to the later generations, tracing the chart with her right index finger. Someone had emphasized certain names in deep purple: Orun, Amos, Sandra, Clare; at the next colorful name her breath just squeezed out in a whoosh.

“Ah, ah, ah.” She tried, but breathing was hard. Darkness edged her vision; pinpricks of black floated before her eyes.

She felt a thump against her back, hissed out the last of her air as Enzo leapt through her, head and shoulders appearing above the desk, then sinking.

“Eeeee!” She sucked in a breath on a long, shocked squeak.

Her chair and desk began a slow room-spin as if she were drunk.

BREATHE! Enzo shouted. Count with me to seven.

She did. Her breathing and pulse steadied; her chair stopped midswoop, then righted.

“Dora,” she squeaked when she had breath. “My niece Dora—” She couldn’t say the words.

But Enzo was there nodding at her. Yes, if you had not believed, the gift would have gone to her.

“She’s only nine!”

A ripple of a shrug went down Enzo’s back. It’s a family gift, it stays in the family. His head tilted. I’m going in the backyard to play. You and Sandra are no fun when you are on the big toys. Not even anything to see but words, words, words. His tail slapped against her arm and he took off for the back door and the enclosed yard.

Clare didn’t call him back.

Now she could stab her fingers in her hair, and, of course, the more she did, the more she ruined the smooth sleekness, and it stood out from her head and the locks curled against her face and neck.

“Dora lives in Williamsburg, Virginia,” Clare said aloud, not even pretending now that she was talking to anyone—Enzo, any ghost that might traipse through her house; she was talking to herself. She’d never approved of that—it showed a disordered mind—but she continued to whisper, “Dora likes living in Williamsburg, likes colonial history.”

Clare had been tired but wired—body sagging with weariness, mind zipping around at a million miles a minute. Now she propped her elbows on the desk and sank her head in her hands, staring down.

Another reason she couldn’t opt out. She loved energetic, optimistic, slightly nerdy little Dora. A girl who’d grow into a strong, vibrant woman.

If she didn’t have some stupid family psychic gift thrust upon her at the tender age of nine.

Sweat coated Clare’s body. Her light sundress stuck to her, the ceiling fan drying it with cool sweeps that she still didn’t appreciate. She’d been so cold for this entire week that she’d fought her gift that she didn’t think she’d ever like winter again—and Denver had cold winters; perhaps she should move . . . Hawaii?

Enzo growled. He was back. You should stay here. Your gift is formed by your location. THIS CITY, this STATE is where you belong. We belong.

More damned rules.

“Wha—what happens if I don’t stay?”

His expression became disapproving. You’ll still encounter ghosts, but they will be easier to control if they are ghosts you understand. He smiled and she thought it was genuine; she didn’t like the often shifting from cute dog to Scary Specter. Like cowboys, and gunfighters and miners and ranchers and railway men and pioneer women . . .

“Uh.” She rubbed her head, feeling as if each strand of her hair were bursting out of the coating of taming conditioner, turning into the uncontrolled curls she’d fought all her life. Again she felt tears rising under her eyes, prickling. Tears and pity for herself. Wah, wah, wah. Too much wallowing now, get over it.

Granted, she wasn’t in the best physical or emotional shape, so it was easy to cry self-pitying tears, but she would not give in again. She had more spine than that. She straightened said spine.

Enzo licked her hand. When she stared down at him, he had his own soulful doggie eyes. I love you, Clare.

Swallowing, she stroked him; it still seemed like plunging her hand into ice cubes. One scritch of the ears and she lifted her hand. “Yes, I love you, too. So, um, is Colorado my limit?” Maybe she could handle this . . . though . . . she frowned. “Didn’t Aunt Sandra spend some time in New York City and other big cities back east?” Had to be mobsters from the twenties and the thirties everywhere; even Denver had its gangster factions. And what had been Aunt Sandra’s time range? A grudging feeling coated Clare; did Aunt Sandra only have about three decades? And what were Clare’s limits? She’d thought about 1850 to 1900. She glanced at the tower of journals.

But Enzo rubbed against her, answering the question she’d forgotten she’d asked. You can go to Montana or Utah or Nebraska or Wyoming or California or Idaho or—

“I get it. Ghosts of the Old West.”

Another chill lick of her fingers. You are SO smart, Clare.

Smart enough to try to figure out the parameters of this weird infliction plaguing her. She stood and stalked to the box of disks, pulled out the ones for her brother and his family and her niece and turned them over in her hands. She had a sneaking suspicion that Aunt Sandra had a whole other set—and other instructions for her attorney—if Clare died fairly quickly, before probate was all tied up.

Which reminded her that she should make a will, should have done so before now. Thank heavens she was thinking clearly. It seemed as if her brain had de-iced.

She would not use the Chicago attorney; better to keep her business affairs local. She’d call her old boss for recommendations regarding a law firm and interview a few.

Setting the videos aside carefully, she understood she was also compassionate enough not to want Dora to have this terrible gift foisted upon her. Somehow Clare would have to try to prepare her niece . . . dimly she recalled Aunt Sandra talking to her about “special gifts” when she was a child . . . but whatever help Aunt Sandra might have given her over Clare’s youth had been lost since she’d lumped Aunt Sandra in with her feckless and partying and traveling parents.

Though she knew right now that Aunt Sandra must have worked hard and shown a knowledge and dedication to her work that Clare had never given her credit for.

More tears came and these she let flow unchecked, tears for Sandra, tears for Dora. Groping for the remote, she set Aunt Sandra’s video to play once again from the start, then plucked a tissue from the box on the coffee table and blew her nose. She wandered into the kitchen wondering if she had any lemonade; she could really use some iced and tart lemonade.

And it was darn well time to rev up the swamp cooler in the living room again.

 • • •

Zach’s self expanded during the time he spent with the police. It was good being back in a cop shop, getting some respect from folks he also had respect for. The paperwork, as always, was crap.

Nice bullshitting, talking a little about the case, until he was done giving the report—that took hours he didn’t grudge at all—and stood with the help of his cane. Then pity draped over him like a shroud, from the two who’d been talking with him. He thought he might have even seen a touch of fear in the one young man’s eyes. Yeah, Zach wasn’t that much older than the guy to have his career cut short.

And he walked stiffly away from the place, more because of his foot than any pride. A police car waited to drive him to his ride southwest of the main station, and he was dropped off at the paid parking lot with thanks that he returned.

He’d paid enough to take the time to sit and think a little, slump in the softer seat than the one he’d been in at the station. He let all the leftover tension drain from him, rolled it from between his shoulders, even left the door open to massage his foot, and that felt good enough that he knew he’d have to schedule a regular therapist to work on his ankle and foot.