enough doctors to have heard, over the years, most of the jargon. It varied a little from one to the next, but one thing they all had in common was the absolute conviction that hearing voices made you delusional."
"If you're insane. Not if you're psychic."
A little laugh escaped her, hardly a breath of sound. "They were all very careful not to use that word.
Insane. Very careful to find nice, socially correct words and phrases to use instead. Disturbed. Ill.
Confused. In need of more... advanced... therapy. I think my favorite phrase was 'in transition.' I asked that particular doctor what I was in transition from. Or to. He said with a perfectly straight face that I was in transition from a state of confusion to a state of certainty."
"Christ," Quentin muttered.
"Yeah, he wasn't the best at it. He didn't last long. Or—I didn't last long with him."
Diana...
"Diana, I know I'm asking a lot in asking you to believe that you're psychic—"
"What makes you think I am, by the way? I could have been making up everything I've told you." She was trying very hard to ignore that other voice.
"You didn't make up that sketch—so to speak. Besides, we tend to recognize each other."
"At first sight?"
"Pretty much."
"I see. So now I'm a member of a secret club?"
Quentin grinned suddenly, recalling that initial conversation with Bishop years before. "Something like that. As for recognizing others like you, you'll find it comes in handy."
"You claim to be psychic, and yet I didn't... sense... anything different about you," she said, realizing as the words emerged that she was lying. She had sensed something, had known in an instant that her life was about to change forever because of him, even if she hadn't been able to admit it to herself then.
"I'm willing to bet you did," he said, still smiling. "But you haven't been taught how to sort through the impressions of all your senses. I can help you with that."
"Sure. And then I get to recognize people as nuts as I am."
"You aren't nuts."
"No, just seriously disturbed."
"That either. Look, even if I was wrong about you being psychic and you did accept the possibility, would you be worse off than you are now?"
"I don't know."
... listen to him.
"Could you be? You've been medicated, and you've tried every form of therapy available without success. Why not take a chance and find out if I can help you? What have you got to lose?"
Instead of answering that, Diana said, "You believe I can help you solve Missy's murder, don't you?"
Quentin hesitated, then said, "There has to be a connection. You drew her picture."
"Even if I did, that doesn't mean I can help you. If I'm psychic, as you claim, then maybe I just...
picked up her image somehow. From here, this place where she died. That would make sense—at least in your world."
He ignored that little dig. "Maybe you did. But if you did, it's very likely you could pick up other information as well."
"Information about Missy and her murder."
"Yeah, maybe."
"So who's helping who?"
This time, Quentin didn't hesitate. "We're helping each other, or we will be."
Listen to him. Let him help us.
Diana forced herself to stand up. "I have to think about this," she told him. "I—the storm seems to be easing up. I think I'll go to my cottage for a while." She took a step away.
On his feet as well, Quentin said, "Diana? Better stop by the front desk and have your keycard redone. We both know it won't work."
"How did you—"
"We usually have a higher than normal level of electromagnetic energy in our bodies. Tends to interfere with some electrical or magnetic things, especially those we have to carry around with us. Like watches. And keycards."
He wasn't wearing a watch.
Diana glanced down at her left arm, bare of a watch because she'd never been able to wear one.
Then she stared at Quentin for a moment before turning and walking away.
Toward the front desk.
It was late afternoon, the storm long gone, when Quentin found
"If you're insane. Not if you're psychic."
A little laugh escaped her, hardly a breath of sound. "They were all very careful not to use that word.
Insane. Very careful to find nice, socially correct words and phrases to use instead. Disturbed. Ill.
Confused. In need of more... advanced... therapy. I think my favorite phrase was 'in transition.' I asked that particular doctor what I was in transition from. Or to. He said with a perfectly straight face that I was in transition from a state of confusion to a state of certainty."
"Christ," Quentin muttered.
"Yeah, he wasn't the best at it. He didn't last long. Or—I didn't last long with him."
Diana...
"Diana, I know I'm asking a lot in asking you to believe that you're psychic—"
"What makes you think I am, by the way? I could have been making up everything I've told you." She was trying very hard to ignore that other voice.
"You didn't make up that sketch—so to speak. Besides, we tend to recognize each other."
"At first sight?"
"Pretty much."
"I see. So now I'm a member of a secret club?"
Quentin grinned suddenly, recalling that initial conversation with Bishop years before. "Something like that. As for recognizing others like you, you'll find it comes in handy."
"You claim to be psychic, and yet I didn't... sense... anything different about you," she said, realizing as the words emerged that she was lying. She had sensed something, had known in an instant that her life was about to change forever because of him, even if she hadn't been able to admit it to herself then.
"I'm willing to bet you did," he said, still smiling. "But you haven't been taught how to sort through the impressions of all your senses. I can help you with that."
"Sure. And then I get to recognize people as nuts as I am."
"You aren't nuts."
"No, just seriously disturbed."
"That either. Look, even if I was wrong about you being psychic and you did accept the possibility, would you be worse off than you are now?"
"I don't know."
... listen to him.
"Could you be? You've been medicated, and you've tried every form of therapy available without success. Why not take a chance and find out if I can help you? What have you got to lose?"
Instead of answering that, Diana said, "You believe I can help you solve Missy's murder, don't you?"
Quentin hesitated, then said, "There has to be a connection. You drew her picture."
"Even if I did, that doesn't mean I can help you. If I'm psychic, as you claim, then maybe I just...
picked up her image somehow. From here, this place where she died. That would make sense—at least in your world."
He ignored that little dig. "Maybe you did. But if you did, it's very likely you could pick up other information as well."
"Information about Missy and her murder."
"Yeah, maybe."
"So who's helping who?"
This time, Quentin didn't hesitate. "We're helping each other, or we will be."
Listen to him. Let him help us.
Diana forced herself to stand up. "I have to think about this," she told him. "I—the storm seems to be easing up. I think I'll go to my cottage for a while." She took a step away.
On his feet as well, Quentin said, "Diana? Better stop by the front desk and have your keycard redone. We both know it won't work."
"How did you—"
"We usually have a higher than normal level of electromagnetic energy in our bodies. Tends to interfere with some electrical or magnetic things, especially those we have to carry around with us. Like watches. And keycards."
He wasn't wearing a watch.
Diana glanced down at her left arm, bare of a watch because she'd never been able to wear one.
Then she stared at Quentin for a moment before turning and walking away.
Toward the front desk.
It was late afternoon, the storm long gone, when Quentin found
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