"I've made my decision. I'd like my visions to be worth something good, just once." She paused, taking one last look around the room. "I think I have everything. Should I check out?"

"When did you say you were going to leave?"

"I was planning to stay until Tuesday."

"Then don't check out. I'll pay if you wind up having room charges, but I'd rather not have anyone looking for you yet." He drew in a quick breath. "We'll have to take your car, since I don't have my keys. It's probably better that way anyway. If I leave mine in the lot, it should buy us a little time. Although it won't take much for someone to figure out we're together. The detective already knows we're friends. Still, I'd rather delay the inevitable."

"So you go down the back stairs with the bags and I'll leave through the front," Catherine said. "On the way out, I'll stop at the front desk and tell them I'm interested in taking a boat tour of the lake. I'll make it clear that I'm planning to spend my day on the water, and no one will see me leave with you."

Her words surprised him once again and also reminded him that whatever had happened in her past had taught her how to think ahead, especially when it came to the police. He must have stared at her too long, because her eyebrows pulled together.

"What's wrong? You have an odd look on your face," she said.

"That's admiration. You think very fast on your feet."

"Which is good for you. Speaking of thinking ahead, why do you want to go to San Francisco?" she asked as they turned toward the door. "Won't that be the first place the police look for you?"

"Yes, but if I can get a head start, perhaps I can learn something about Erica that will at least point me in the right direction. I need to find her alive before the cops can prove that I killed her. And I have a feeling it's going to be close."

They were forty-five minutes out of Tahoe but still in the mountains when Dylan pulled out his cell phone and called Mark. He didn't want his friend to make a wasted trip to Tahoe, but he also hadn't wanted to give Mark a chance to talk him out of leaving. Mark's voice mail picked up, and Dylan was relieved. It would be easier to leave a message and not get into explanations.

"Mark, I'm going to find Erica on my own," he said. "I can't sit in Tahoe and wait for the hammer to drop on my head. I'll be in touch. Just hang tight and wait for my call." He hung up and set the phone on the console between the seats. Mark would have a fit when he found out that Dylan had run, and to be honest he was already having second thoughts himself, but it was too late. He wasn't turning back.

"How long will it take to reach San Francisco?" Catherine asked.

"About three more hours." He checked the rearview mirror. It was ridiculous to think the police might already be on his tail. They wouldn't even have the blood tests back from the hospital yet. Nor had Erica been missing for twenty-four hours. He had a little time. He just had to use it wisely.

Unfortunately, he didn't have more than a vague idea of what he would do when he got to the city. He could check out the few places he knew Erica frequented, but she probably wouldn't be there. If she was hiding, she'd go where he couldn't find her. She could be anywhere in the world. If Ravino was behind the plan, he certainly had plenty of money to make sure Erica disappeared. And if it wasn't Ravino, then who else would use Erica to set him up?

He'd done a lot of stories over the past few years, investigated plenty of crimes, reported on murderers, rapists, burglars, bank robbers. Any one of them could be behind this plan to take him down. But because Erica was involved, it seemed that Ravino was the most likely choice. He was the one person they had in common. However, Dylan didn't want to make the mistake of focusing on one target, only to realize someone had deliberately pointed him in the wrong direction.

"I wish I knew who my enemy was," he muttered, "so I knew who to fight."

"Who else in your life, besides Senator Ravino, would want to torture you like this?" Catherine asked.

"That's what I was just wondering. I have no idea."

"Because it seems to me that a frame for murder is designed to make a person suffer over a long period of time, unlike a bullet to the head, which would kill instantly."

"That's a nice, cheery image."

"Sorry, but it's clear to me that someone hates you, Dylan."

"Yeah, it's pretty obvious to me, too." Her words had brought one person's face to mind, but Dylan dismissed the idea immediately.

Catherine shifted in her seat, and he could feel the heat of her gaze. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. He didn't want her in his head, reading his thoughts. There was a part of himself that he didn't allow anyone to see, a part that had been wounded a long time ago.

"Stop staring at me," he told her.

"I'm making you nervous. But it's not my staring that's really upsetting you. Who hates you, Dylan? It has to be someone close to you," she added. "You should tell me. I might figure it out anyway."

She probably would figure it out. He might not be willing to buy into her psychic power, but he knew she was very perceptive. Finally he said, "There's only one person who I know hates me, and that's my father. But it's ludicrous to think that he would spend any time whatsoever trying to set me up for murder."

"Your ather? Now I know why you didn't want to tell me."

"Because he's not involved."

"Why do you think he hates you?"

"I don't think it. I know it," he said firmly. "Richard Sanders never pretended to love me. In fact, he beat the crap out of me until I was sixteen years old and could fight back. Then he threw me out of the house, ending what little relationship we had."

"That's horrible."

"It wasn't good," he said through tight lips. He really did not want to talk about his father. "Fortunately I had Jake; otherwise I don't think I would have survived my childhood."

"Jake protected you?"

"As much as he could. He even tried to take the blame a few times, but my father saw through it. He always went after me."

"Was your father physical with Jake, too?"

"I never saw him hit Jake, but he wasn't above manipulating him or finding ways to make him feel bad. But I'd have to say that I was my father's main target. After he kicked me out of the house, I went and lived with Jake. He was going to UC Berkeley at the time and had an apartment with a couple of guys. I slept on the couch and enrolled at the nearest high school and somehow managed to get a diploma. Jake made sure I went to college, too, and he paid for all of it. He worked two jobs, took out loans, all while he was trying to get his own education. I don't know how he did it. He's only three years older than me, but he was more of a surrogate parent than a brother."

"Didn't anyone else in the family try to step in and help you get away from your father?"

"Everyone looked the other way, and Richard Sanders knew how to hit where it wouldn't show. Besides that, he's a rich, socially connected, well-educated man. No one would ever believe he'd use a belt on his kid. I tried to tell a teacher once. She called my father in for a meeting. He said I was a pathological liar. The next thing I knew I was in detention. I didn't bother telling anyone after that."

"I can see why you wouldn't," she agreed.

There was no shock in her voice, just sadness and a weary acceptance, reminding him that Catherine was no stranger to abuse. She'd probably seen worse in her days in the foster-care system. He couldn't help wondering again what her story was, but he doubted she'd tell him. She was as private as he was-as he usually was, he silently amended. Around her he was becoming quite the talker.

"I don't know why I told you all that," he said aloud, giving her a quick look. "I don't usually."

"Because you needed to. Don't worry; your secret is safe with me."

"It's not a secret; it's just a part of my life that's over-at least, I thought it was over."

Was it possible that his father was responsible for his latest problems? They hadn't talked in over a year, and that brief conversation had occurred only because they'd happened to pass each other in a restaurant, and Richard hadn't wanted to look bad by snubbing his son in front of his longtime friends.

They lived separate lives now. Jake hadn't even invited their father to his wedding. Neither Jake nor Dylan considered their family to be anyone but the two of them, except their grandmother, when she was lucid enough to know she had grandsons, which was rare these days. And now Jake had his own family in Sarah and their daughter, Caitlyn. He was moving on, and that was the way it was supposed to be. Perhaps this was the perfect time for his father to strike. With Jake away, there was no one to step in and help Dylan, no one else who would point a finger in his father's direction.

"What happened to your mother?" Catherine asked, interrupting his thoughts. "You told me she left when you were a kid, but where is she now?"

"I have no idea. I haven't seen her since I was seven years old. She left us a note saying she was sorry, but she didn't really like being a mother, and she thought we'd be better off with Richard. She never came back to see us, and her name was taboo in my father's household. If I said her name aloud I'd definitely get a beating. So I kept my mouth shut."

"And you never tried to find her?" Catherine asked.

He heard the curious note in her voice and knew it didn't make sense that he'd spent the past decade searching for the truth about other people's lives while ignoring his own. "I've thought about it," he muttered. "That's as far as I've gone."

"Why? You have resources, connections. Why haven't you tried?"

A dozen good reasons crossed his mind, but he spoke the one that was the truth, the plain, simple, unvarnished truth. "Because she left me. She didn't want me or care to know what happened to me. Why should I care about her?" For some reason he couldn't seem to lie to Catherine, although his painful words made him sound like a complete wimp.

"That makes sense."

"It might make sense, but it's a chickenshit way to think," he said, annoyed at himself.

"You're not a coward."

"Aren't I? I'm afraid to find the mother who left me twenty-three years ago. That sounds cowardly to me."

"What does Jake say?"

"He accepts that she's gone. He thinks my father made life difficult for her, and that she had to leave in order to survive. He remembers our parents fighting all the time, and my mother crying. He's far more accepting than I am."

"It seems strange that she wouldn't have taken you with her when she left your dad. She must have known what kind of man she was married to, especially if they were arguing a lot."

"That's what I can't forgive her for," Dylan admitted. "She should have taken us with her."

"Maybe she couldn't. Your father sounds like a bully and a very strong man. She might not have been able to stand up to him."

"He was all that. And to be fair, it's possible he told her she could go, but she wasn't taking us. Although I can't understand why he would have fought to keep me or Jake. He didn't care about being a father any more than she wanted to be a mother. They were two people who should never have had kids." He paused. "It probably would have hurt his reputation too much to lose his family. His standing in the community means everything to him. I'm sure he must have told his friends that my mother was psychotic or something. Hell, maybe he told 'em he put her away in a psychiatric hospital. I doubt he would have ever admitted to anyone that she left him."

"Then he wouldn't set you up for murder," Catherine said. "It wouldn't look good to have his son in jail."

"Exactly. I told you it's not him. But you asked me who hated me enough to want to torture me, and his was the first and only name that popped into my head. So it has to be someone else, most likely Ravino."

"Right."

A few minutes of silence passed between them. Dylan glanced over at Catherine. She stared out the window, lost in thought. He wondered what she was thinking about now, what had drawn the tiny frown lines around the corners of her eyes. She was such a soft person, with beautiful skin, tender lips. There wasn't a hard thing about her. She was all heart and emotion. Once in a while he saw hints of a weary, cynical side, but she still never came off as cold and ruthless, just a little sad at times-like now. He wished he could take away her sadness, carry the burden of her past that she seemed to shoulder like a weary soldier, but he didn't know where the pain came from, and she didn't want to tell him.

Never mind that he'd shared his life story; she was still keeping hers close to the vest. When this was all over, he would find out what she was hiding. He was going to make her talk to him, and maybe there would be some way he could help her. He would definitely owe her.

Catherine suddenly turned her head and caught him staring. A flash of awareness sparked in her eyes, and he felt an immediate response-that damn connection between them that she constantly spoke of. It was definitely there. He felt as if she'd cast a spell over him- not that he believed in spells, but she had some sort of crazy power over him. When he wasn't thinking about saving his ass, he couldn't stop thinking about her and how much he wanted to explore her mouth, kiss the curve of her neck, cup her breasts with his hands, and watch her eyes darken with pleasure.

The way they were darkening now. He was either transparent as hell, or she really could read his mind. It was probably a little of both.

"You should be watching the road," Catherine said.

"You're a lot more interesting than the road."

"So are you."

Damn. Why did she have to admit that? He had to fight to drag his gaze away from hers and concentrate on driving. "You should learn how to lie," he said a moment later, inwardly battling a reckless urge to pull onto the shoulder and see just what else she'd admit to wanting.

"I know how to lie," Catherine replied. "In fact, I can be very good at it."

"How is that possible? You show every damn emotion the second you feel it."

"That's because I'm not trying to hide from you, but I can if you want."

He frowned at her challenging and honest words and knew that was the last thing he wanted. His recent relationships had been filled with games and innuendos and miscommunication, no one saying what they meant, no one acting on their true feelings, no one really trying to make the other person happy. He'd been living a fairly selfish life in regards to women, he thought, experiencing a moment of self-clarity. He'd rationalized by telling himself that if everyone had a good time, what was the harm? But his current situation reminded him that life was short and filled with unexpected events, and he shouldn't be wasting so much time being with people he didn't care about. Not that he cared about Catherine. They'd spent only a few days together, but the odd thing was, he felt as if he knew her better than people he'd spent months with.

"I used to hide what I was feeling," Catherine continued. "Growing up the way I did, I learned that showing tears or letting people know I cared made me weak, vulnerable. I had to fit in. I didn't have a choice. It was sink or swim. I had to be tough. And I had to lie- sometimes to save my life, which I was more than willing to do. But I'm an adult now, and I don't have to pretend anymore. And I guess I've gotten a little rusty at lying."

"You had it rough as a kid."

"Something we have in common."

"I have a feeling your past was worse than mine, but you're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Not now, but I won't say never. As soon as I challenge the universe by making such proclamations, fate usually steps in and shows me how wrong I am to think I can control my destiny," she added lightly.

"I don't believe in fate or destiny. We make our lives what they are. I hate it when people say they must have run out of gas for a reason, as if every little thing that happens in their life is part of some orchestrated plan. Maybe the reason they ran out of gas is because they forgot to fill up the tank."

"I don't think that every little moment in our lives is planned. We make choices that lead to actions and consequences. But I do believe in a higher power; call it God or fate or destiny or whatever. I feel it in my heart and in my head. I'm tuned in to the universe, and you're not, because you're still under the illusion that you're going to control everything."

"Obviously I'm not controlling this situation," he retorted.

"Maybe that's what you're supposed to learn."

"Oh, shit, don't start talking like that. This is not about me learning some lesson."

"It might be. Look, Dylan, I know you don't believe in things you can't see, but how can I not when I see things other people are experiencing? When I feel emotions that aren't mine, when I know what's going to happen before it happens?"

Dylan shook his head. "I can't explain you-or much of anything these days. Maybe it's all a cosmic joke. But I think the universe has some very human helpers, and those are the people I intend to find."

He had barely finished speaking when his cell phone rang. He picked it up from the console, his breath catching in his throat as he saw the number. "Shit!"

"Who is it?"

"Someone is calling me from my apartment, and the only person in the world besides myself who has a key to my place is Jake, and he's in Hawaii. I hope he didn't hear about this mess I'm in and come home. But why would he go to my house?"

Realizing he'd find out more if he just answered the phone, Dylan punched a button and said, "Hello?"

There was a long silence, but he could hear some-one's quick, short breaths on the other end of the line. "Who is this, and what the hell are you doing in my apartment?"

"It's me," a woman said.

His heart turned over at the familiar voice. "Erica?" he breathed. "What's going on? What are you trying to do to me?"

"I made a horrible mistake, Dylan. Someone is trying to kill me."

"You made it look like was trying to kill you."

"I had to. I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice."