And had she found the ear?

Yeah, sure, that was truly a burning question.

But they’d made a deal not to check up on each other . . . words that echoed hollowly in his mind from a couple of days before. So it would be pushy if he called, especially since though her words bugged him, maybe even really got under his skin and stuck like barbs in his brain, he didn’t want to talk about it.

And that deal was Before. Before she dumped him. Before he left and accepted the dumping.

An hour later he’d found Mrs. Flinton’s antiques, about three quarters of them along with the silver set. So he met with her and Rickman in Rickman’s office.

They sat in a well-appointed conference room that looked out over the mountains. Only Zach glanced at the panoramic view of brown hills and gray peaks that held tiny streaks of snow on their faces—the weather had been hotter than usual up there, too, though not as bad as in Denver.

“Zach?” rumbled Rickman, obviously wanting backup for a quietly sobbing Mrs. Flinton. “Why don’t you go over it again?”

He’d given one report, and he didn’t think Mrs. Flinton could hear him well over her “happy tears,” but he limped over to the conference table and the pics Rickman had printed from Zach’s phone.

“Clare found notations in one of the ledgers that seven pieces, including the silver set, were sold to a family friend. And those stayed together for a couple of generations. I found them in a garage. Sorry the photos aren’t great.”

Mrs. Flinton swallowed and lifted tear-blurred eyes to him. “They look like they’ve been cared for.”

“In general, yes, but the lady I talked to said they’d been her mother’s and grandmother’s and those ladies had used them.” He cleared his throat. “The Arvada neighborhood is upper middle class, and the woman didn’t seem to know what the items were worth.”

Rickman rubbed his new buzz cut. “The sale looks to Clare like it was legal?”

“Yes, sir.”

After blowing her nose in a fancy handkerchief, Mrs. Flinton lifted her chin and said, “I want them back.”

“I think a check would make the current owner very happy. Neither she nor her children want the furniture, but keeping it together might mean something to them.” Like her great-aunt Sandra’s had meant to Clare and her brother. All still in the family.

Sitting up straight, Mrs. Flinton nodded. “And they’d know where the pieces were and that they’d be cherished.” She blinked. “Do you think she’d welcome an appraiser?”

“If you paid for it,” Zach said.

“You think she might shop around for another buyer if we sent an appraiser?” Rickman asked.

Zach leaned on the table, glanced at the grainy photos. “She’s a nice lady. I don’t think so. They’ve just been sitting in one side of her triple garage for a couple of years. I’m sure she’ll run it by her family, though, her husband and her three girls, but I anticipate they’d sell. I was up front about the whole deal, seemed a case to be that way.”

Mrs. Flinton took out her smart phone from her bag, scrolled through her contacts. “I have an appraiser I trust. You can contact him and the lady and set up the appointment?”

“Sure, we can,” Rickman said. “You don’t want to be there with the appraiser?”

“No.”

“I think we can get this done in the next couple of days,” Zach said.

“That’s lovely.” Mrs. Flinton pushed back her chair. Zach helped her and steadied her while Rickman got her walker. But she held out her hand to Zach. “Thank you, Zach. I’m so pleased.”

“Good job,” Rickman said gruffly.

Zach shrugged.

“And give my thanks to Clare, too,” Mrs. Flinton said. Canny old lady, she knew something was up between him and Clare, but he wasn’t about to confirm that.

“We can give her a finder’s fee, standard rate,” Rickman said, moving to the door to open it.”

“I don’t think she’ll want that,” Zach said. “She doesn’t need the money.”

“A laborer is worthy of her hire,” Mrs. Flinton said. Zach thought that was from the Bible. “You can tell her that. She’s a sensible girl.”

Yeah, she was, even with her new “gift.”

 • • •

The drive home seemed endless, traffic heavier and slower, the light brighter even against her sunglasses, Enzo either chirpily offering comments, noting ghosts in buildings as she drove through towns, or a little too quiet.

By the time she pulled into her driveway, a headache raged between her temples and she yearned for the cool dimness of the house and a tepid bath with fragrant herbs and soothing music. She fumbled for the garage door opener, but it didn’t seem to work.

Crap! So hot and weary and not nearly as pleased at a task well done as she would have been after a good audit. This ghost bit was tiring and strained her mind and imagination . . . not to mention her sore body, especially her hands. Working with figures was so much more personally rewarding.

She turned off the ignition and sat a moment. She’d only have a couple of minutes before the heat in the car became insufferable. No, she wouldn’t deal with the darn bottle and its contents right now—whatever shape the thing might be in. She’d leave bottle and all tucked under her seat. It was safe enough under her seat since she had problems moving the darn thing back and forth.

Getting out of the car and walking to the narrow side house door nearly hidden by ivy, she was barely able to think, her neck was so tight and her head ached so much.

Clare, watch—

Something hit her head and pain exploded, taking her into hot darkness with it.

THIRTY-TWO

BY LATE IN the afternoon, Zach had made some decisions on a personal front. He’d leased a truck and ordered a hooked cane recommended by the bartitsu guy. He’d signed up for some private lessons in the mixed martial art.

He missed Clare. He’d liked knowing she’d be there for him with sweet serenity when he’d finished his day. And though he hadn’t liked her words, he’d liked her fire, the passion he knew she locked down. Liked that he could bring that out in her, that she felt passionately about him.

And he had to acknowledge the bottom line. The bottom line was that he had made a mistake and paid a tough price for it and his life had damn well changed.

Clare’s life had changed because she’d been born into the wrong family. Nothing she could have done about that . . . except, from what he’d overheard in conversations between her and Enzo and seen in her notes, read in the journals of Sandra Cermak he’d peeked into . . . Clare had a choice of dying or accepting her gift, going mad or accepting her gift.

Not a choice he’d have to make.

 • • •

Hearing a noise, which turned out to be her own whimpering groan, roused Clare. Her whole body felt stiff and she thought she lay on a cot.

What was going on?

She’d heard Enzo yell mentally, and then her head had gone from miserable ache to magnificent piercing pain. She touched it: a huge bump and—yikes!—tender.

She sat up groggily, hot and sweaty, her mind muddled. Her stomach roiled, but she squeezed her eyes shut and forced it to calm by sheer will. More sweat leaked from her pores at the effort, and the drying of it cooled her slightly but felt like it left a film over her skin.

Where was Enzo? He could keep her cool.

Or the apparition of Jack Slade.

They weren’t here right now; she’d sense them even with her lashes shut.

Rubbing crust from her eyes, then just plain rubbing her eyes, she opened them to see the small back bedroom in her old house that she’d used as an office. Enough time had passed that twilight shrouded the room. Again her stomach tightened and did the roll thing and she had to concentrate on not vomiting.