Grabbing the pile of bedding from the floor, I headed to the door. "There's no way to contact him. He said he'd be in touch with us, which isn't likely to happen now that he's a wanted man. Besides, that sort of thing might be considered aiding and abetting."

"Are you dropping my case?" she asked.

In light of the new charges against Tristan, I really had no other choice. "I'm sorry," I said. "I wish it had turned out differently."

I tried not to dwell on the guilt. That it was because of Lost Loves-of me-that Tristan had any current contact with the Speros at all.

I brought the load of laundry into the kitchen, where a stackable washer and dryer hid behind a pair of bifold doors.

"You can't be serious."

I felt the hurt in her tone. "Look, Meaghan, I'm a little out of my comfort zone here. What's going on now is beyond any service I can provide for you through Lost Loves."

There was a long pause. "You work closely with SD Investigations, right? With Sean?"

I blushed at how closely I'd worked with Sean last night. I started the wash. "I do. Lost Loves is part of their agency, too."

"I want to hire Sean, then."

"Technically, you already have." The bed was made and Sean was fully dressed by the time I went back into my bedroom. "And I'm afraid he can't help you, either. He has to follow the same rules."

"No, not to find Tristan, we can put that on the back burner for now, but to prove he had nothing to do with that accident. I don't care what it costs. This isn't fair to Tristan. I have to fight for him, Lucy."

I worried my lip. On one level, fighting for Tristan would make any romantic swoon, the good girl saving the bad boy. But on a more realistic level, Tristan was a dangerous man and seeking him out was akin to playing with fire.

"It's not illegal for a private investigator to look into what happened, is it?"

"No...." Though the police probably wouldn't be too happy about it.

"Could you run it by Sean? See what he thinks?"

"Hold on a second, okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

I covered the phone with my hand.

"What's going on?" Sean asked.

"I had to drop the case."

He nodded. We had already talked about it.

"But she wants to hire you through SDI. To clear Tristan's name. She refuses to believe he had anything to do with it. I told her I'd run it past you, but I really think it's not a good idea for us to stay involved in this case."

"I'll do it," he said without hesitation.

Slack-jawed, I stared at him.

"Here," he said, motioning to the phone. I handed it over. "Meaghan? This is Sean Donahue."

His back was to me as he spoke and I could see his broad shoulders tighten with tension again. Muscles bunched along his spine. Damp dark hair curled along the nape of his neck.

I blatantly eavesdropped as he made plans to meet with Meaghan this afternoon to get the paperwork out of the way.

When he hung up, he slowly turned around.

I lifted an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

"Trust me on this?" he asked.

Trust me. I'd asked him to trust me not so long ago, when I had no one else to turn to. He hadn't hesitated. It was all about leaps with Sean, no baby steps. No easing into a relationship. It was headfirst or nothing at all.

I softened. Nodded.

He handed me the phone and walked out of the bedroom without another word.

The front gate at Jemima Hayes's house was open wide. We pulled into the drive, the tires of Sean's Mustang splashing over rivulets of melting snow. Sunbeams reflected off Mac's glass house, making it sparkle like the glistening water beyond the bluff.

I'd called ahead to make sure Jemima would be home, and Rick Hayes had answered the phone. Em would have been beside herself with glee to be speaking with a rock icon. To me, he sounded like a normal middle-aged man who wasn't entirely happy to be talking with me. Especially after I explained why I was calling. To his credit, he relented to a visit.

Tension hung uneasily between Sean and me. There was obviously something he wasn't telling me about the Rourke case, and I couldn't help feeling a twinge of hurt at being left out.

I said I'd trust him. And I would. But I couldn't help wondering.

Wondering about the secrets he was keeping. Wondering when he'd let me fully into his life. Wondering what our future held.

It always came back to that last one. Dovie had once implied that Cupid's Curse might have skipped my generation or the electrical shock that had scrambled my psychic abilities might have reversed the curse as well....

I didn't know. And yes, I lived with the fear. I didn't know how to get rid of it. I could live with it, yes. Deal with it, yes. Deny it, yes. But get rid of it? How?

Until I figured that out, it would always be one step forward, two back, with Sean.

"Ready?" he asked.

My stomach ached. "Yeah."

A cool breeze blew in off the ocean, a hint of spring in the spray, as I rang the bell. With no barking from Rufus to drown it out, the gong pealed through the glass door. An elegant woman dressed in a black housedress, white apron, and thick-soled black shoes opened the door. I recognized her from when we were last here.

"Follow me," Esme said crisply in a British accent. "And I'll see to it that Rufus's food is brought to your car."

"Thank you."

She tipped her head. "You're welcome."

Sean's hand rested at the small of my back as we walked down the hallway, past the kitchen, and into a large formal family room. Rick Hayes rose to greet us, but Jemima remained on the streamlined couch, her legs tucked under her, a book on her lap. I strained to see the title. Tao: Feeling the Flow. She set it on the glass-topped coffee table as we came in.

Sean shook Rick's hand, and reluctantly I did, too, wishing I'd worn gloves. With gloves, it was the only time I was able to hold a hand without seeing any visions at all.

In an instant, I was in another state, in a decrepit hotel room with water-marked ceilings, a threadbare coverlet covering the lumpy mattress, and a dark-stained and cigarette-burned carpet. I thanked Cupid for not having a sense of smell along with my visions as I pulled my hand away, having seen a pink guitar pick behind a chipped nightstand.

Rick watched me intently, but I wasn't in the mood to play "test the psychic." He was tall, extremely so, at least six foot four, and rail thin, but he looked healthy enough, with good skin tone and a sparkle in his brown eyes. He had an allure about him, a pull. A Hollywood director would call it the "It" factor. Coupled with his musical talents, it was easy to see why Rick had been popular enough for Em to have his poster on her wall but not why he'd never truly reached superstardom. All the elements were certainly there.

Jemima barely looked at us as Sean and I sat in matching Italian leather armchairs. Today she wore a sleek designer pantsuit with a ruffled silk blouse peeking out from the lapel. Her feet were bare, her toes painted a lush red. Her hair was curled and flowed over slumped shoulders. She wore no jewelry except a plain platinum wedding band. Makeup couldn't hide the dark circles under her eyes.

Rick sat next to Jemima, his long legs stretching out beneath the coffee table. "I must apologize for missing your visit the other day. I had fittings. How's Rufus?"

I glanced around, looking for any indication Christa also lived in this house, but didn't see so much as a precocious baby picture. Everything was cold, sleek, sterile. I itched to leave. "He's settling in. My grandmother is adopting him."

Jemima slanted me a look. "Christa mentioned your offer to let her visit the dog. I don't think it's a good idea. It's best to cut ties permanently, don't you think."

A statement rather than a question, but I didn't let it go. "No, not really. It might make the transition a lot smoother for the both of them if they're allowed to see one another."

"I don't think so," Jemima said coolly.

So much for a Taoist attitude. She needed to keep reading that book of hers.

Rick put his hand on her knee. "Perhaps we could keep the visits to a minimum?"

Jemima brushed his hand aside and abruptly stood. She strode toward the windows overlooking the ocean, her arms crossed over her chest. Red hair free-fell down her back. Framed the way she was, with the glass and ocean just beyond the pane, the sunlight reflecting just so, she was beautiful.

Rick said, "It's been stressful around here, as you can imagine. We want only what's in Christa's best interests. On the surface she seems to be handling this situation remarkably well, but she is a teenager, and teenagers are quite adept at hiding their true emotions until all hell breaks loose." He gave us a charming smile.

Jemima turned on him. "I want what's best for Christa. You want a quick fix. The sooner Christa can grieve for that dog, the better for her in the long run. She doesn't need constant reminders of the pain. And that dog represents pain."

I bit my lip. Suddenly it was crystal clear why Jemima had wanted Rufus to leave. I looked at her in a whole new light and could see the softness under the steel.

"Nonsense," Rick said. "You're being irrational."

Uh-oh. Not the i word.

Jemima's hands fisted.

I cleared my throat to remind them that there were witnesses. "Did Christa know Mac was dying?" Might as well get it out in the open.

Christa was at school, so there was no chance she might be eavesdropping.

"No. Mac asked us not to tell her." Rick clasped his hands together and looked down at his feet. "The police know of Mac's illness, then?"

"Yes, but why didn't you tell them?" I asked. "It may have helped in the investigation."

Anger colored Jemima's cheeks crimson. "It wasn't my decision."

Rick said, "I simply don't see how it would have helped the situation."

Sean said, "It supports the theory that Mac may have taken his own life, rather than disappeared against his will."

"And exactly how does that help us?" Rick asked. "Mac is still dead."

Jemima's breath hitched.

"Did Mac have life insurance?" Sean asked.

"Of course," Rick said.

"Did his policy have a suicide clause?" Sean looked between the two of them.

Rick leaned back, draped his arm across the back of the sofa. "I wouldn't know."

"What's a suicide clause?" Jemima asked.

"Certain insurance companies won't pay if the policyholder commits suicide. The policy becomes null and void."

Her eyes flashed to Rick. His head bopped as if he was singing to himself. "That explains a lot," she said.

"Who's the beneficiary?" Sean asked.

"I am," Jemima said. Without a word, she stormed from the room.

Rick gave us a weak smile. "Oftentimes Jemima's anger is misplaced. This isn't about the money."

"Isn't it?" I asked. "I heard you were looking for financial backing for a new reality show."

"I am," Rick said easily. Faint lines creased his eyes, his mouth, his forehead. He was holding up well for an aging rocker. "But only because I'd rather not take the financial risk alone. Why should I? There are plenty of people out there willing to back a great project."

"Are there?" Sean asked.

I heard skepticism in his voice and wondered which comment had sparked it. That there were plenty of people with money to throw around? Or that the show was a great project? Or both?

"Definitely. I received notice that filming starts next month."

Sean leaned in. "Have you seen Mac's will?"

"Yes. We're starting proceedings to declare Mac dead."

He said "we," but I had a feeling it was all his idea.

"And?" I asked.

"I don't suppose it can hurt to tell you. Mac left a good portion of his estate to charity. The rest goes to Christa upon her eighteenth birthday. The life insurance is a separate entity and goes to Jemima."

"The house?" Sean asked.

"Sold off, with the proceeds going into his estate," Rick said smoothly, evenly. "It's just as well. The new project will be filmed in Los Angeles. It doesn't make sense to keep two homes."

Sean and I followed Rick's lead and stood up. I couldn't help thinking of Mac's granddaughter. "You're moving? What about Christa? Next year will be her senior year of high school."