Enzo appeared, stared hard at the woman with those unfathomable misty eyeholes. The mantle of the Other was upon him. Tell her it was time for the child to die.

Clare gasped. Are you crazy! That’s . . . that’s horrible. And trite!

TELL HER. I can see what will comfort her. This will work for her.

Shivering with stress and the chill emanating from the dog, more to share comfort in this surreal experience than anything else, Clare sat down and put her arm around the sobbing woman’s shoulders. “It was . . . it was time for your Mary to die.”

The woman’s head came up. “Really!”

God called her to partake in the joy of being with Him, Enzo said.

Clare would never believe such words if something happened to her child, never. She didn’t have such faith.

But Mrs. Creedy’s gaze had latched onto Clare. Being serious was not a stretch, nor was keeping her voice soft. “God . . . God called Mary to partake in the joy of being with Him,” Clare said, and hoped she wasn’t struck down for saying words she didn’t believe, couldn’t understand herself.

Mrs. Creedy’s expression eased.

“You should talk to your minister about this.”

“That’s what Bill says.” Mrs. Creedy turned to look at the men.

Zach stood with deceptive casualness; something about the way he held his stick showed Clare that he wouldn’t hesitate to use it as a weapon.

She stood and urged the middle-aged woman to rise with her. “Well, your husband knows you the best, doesn’t he?” She groped for more words of solace, hated this; it all made her feel fake. Terrible! “You have your husband, too. He is grieving, too.”

Zach’s face paled and his lips thinned. He’d be remembering his brother.

“Cleave to your husband, give and take comfort from him,” Clare said thickly, hoping against hope those were the right words to say. She thought of the photo and how cheerful the little girl had looked, summoned up standard sympathetic sentiments. “She . . . was . . . is . . . joyful.”

“Yes, yes she is!”

Clare straightened to her full height. “Go in peace and with peace in your hearts.”

“Oh, yes! Thank you!”

“You’re welcome.” Clare had done nothing.

Mrs. Creedy turned and took a stumbling step to the car. Zach set his free hand under her elbow, helped her to the vehicle and opened the door. “Just you sit and rest, now,” he said.

The guy reached into his jacket and came out with a wallet. Clare moved close to him. “Don’t you give me anything. I don’t want it, and I certainly don’t deserve it.”

His eyes narrowed and his head tilted.

“Take care of her. Show a little sensitivity. Don’t bring her back, and don’t give my name to anyone. I’m not in the medium business. Just go away.” She flapped her hands. “Go. Now.”

With a shake of his head, he stuck his wallet back into his pocket and went to the car.

They drove away. Clare sank to the stoop again and put her head in her hands. “No, I am absolutely not doing any darned consulting! That was horrible and I didn’t know what to say and I couldn’t help them anyway!”

“He’s not grieving.”

“What!” She lifted her head and glared at Zach.

“He didn’t abuse his daughter, but he wasn’t interested in her.”

“How do you—cop instincts?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen plenty of loss and I’ve been on the inside of a family who lost a child. I don’t think Creedy wanted the kid, and he won’t miss her.”

“That’s awful.”

Zach shrugged and lowered himself to sit beside her.

“How did they get your name?” he asked.

The question jolted Clare. “I . . . I don’t know.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

Zach put his own arm around her and drew her closer.

“Cold?”

“Enzo . . .” Had she ever told Zach that Enzo wasn’t just a ghost dog? She didn’t think so, and this whole scene made her want to be as normal as possible. “Enzo said he knew what to say to Mrs. Creedy.”

Zach grunted, then repeated, “How did they get your name as a medium?”

Clare winced. “I’m not a medium! I don’t like that word.”

“What do ya wanna call it?”

“Ghost . . . ghost seer, I guess. Would Mrs. Flinton have told them about me?”

“Doubtful. She must have gone through similar scenes.”

Shuddering again, Clare said, “So despairing and desperate.”

“Yeah. You’ve kept your life pretty level,” Zach said.

She pivoted to face him, glare at him. “Have you forgotten all the crap I’ve been through lately?” Flinging out her arms, she said, “This wouldn’t have happened to me without my gift.” Tilting her chin, she said, “And maybe I like my life easy . . . as an adult. And as an adult I can choose an easy life.” She inhaled deeply. “Yes, my former life disintegrated around me and I’ll be rebuilding it. I’m dealing with the change. I’m handling it.” She was. “But I prefer to craft it according to my own plans.” That sounded good.

Enzo yipped. You are doing good!

“Thank you, Enzo.” She met Zach’s eyes. “But I won’t be hanging out a shingle as a medium. Not like Great-Aunt Sandra did. And I certainly didn’t get the word out—however the word of something like this spreads—that I was open for business. I don’t want to be, or be seen as, some sort of fraud.”

You are NOT a fraud! Enzo hopped around her. Sandra wasn’t either!

“I want to take this slowly, what’s wrong with that?” Clare demanded.

Respect showed in his eyes, a corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Nothing. Word did get out, though. I wonder if they have your phone number, too.”

Blood simply drained from her face. “I’ve had my cell off.” She fumbled in the pocket of her skirt, glanced at it. “Fifty calls. Fifty!”

His smile became sardonic. “You’re the new sensation.”

“To heck with that!”

“Clare,” Zach said reasonably, taking one of her hands. “Who could have known about you?”

“I don’t know!” She jerked her hand away so she could rub her temples, then dropped her fingers and went back into the house. After Zach came in, she closed and locked the front door, then stomped to the backyard and the little concrete patio and picnic table.

“Who did you talk to about . . . your gift?” Zach asked, taking the seat opposite her.

Enzo barked. Zach looked in his direction, then away as if uncomfortable. The man had been great with the Creedys, but Clare got the idea his patience with paranormal stuff was wearing thin.

So was hers, but this was her life, now.

She turned her mind to the problem. “Like I said, Mrs. Flinton, Bekka, you . . .”

“Not us,” Zach replied.

“The only one I told about the ghosts was Dr. Barclay.”

“I can’t see that guy breaking client confidentiality.”

Clare shrugged. “His assistant and receptionist might have heard something while I was coming and going, but I don’t know . . . and I don’t know whether they’d gossip about that or not.

“Pretty juicy gossip, seeing ghosts. And one or the other of them could be a believer . . . unlike Barclay.”

Zach nodded, “Unlike Barclay.”

Clare sighed. “Maybe they thought that me seeing ghosts wasn’t illogical and a mental problem, but a . . . a real psychic gift.” The admission still felt bitter in her mouth.

“Could be.” Now Zach shook his head. “Useless talking to them, they wouldn’t admit discussing a patient.”

“No.”

“Anyone else?” Zach asked.

“I didn’t tell anyone else.” She grimaced. “Maybe someone at the auction house—”

“I don’t think so.” Zach grinned. “You were acting a little strange, but so were other people.”

“Oh.”

“Want some lemonade?” He came around and kissed her.

“Yes, please.”

“Right.”

“Um,” Clare said. “I can’t think of anyone else, unless, of course, the ghosts told someone,” she ended with forced humor.