"Perhaps," Kelsey says. "But I'm pretty sure that if you make her wait this will be the last time you speak to your grandfather. You've told him that this Lucas was the one who killed you. Surely that's enough for him to get started."

"I have to finish, Dr. Kelsey. Anna's okay."

Kelsey looks hesitant, but she backs away, sitting on the sofa rather than going back to her desk. I've never seen Kelsey sit on the sofa. She looks odd there, out of place.

Then Molly turns back to Porter. "Pa, Lucas didn't kill me. Not directly. I'm pretty sure he killed Mama, though. I heard it. I was in the closet, Pa. Someone shot her."

I didn't think it was possible for Porter's shoulders to slump any lower, but they do. "So she's really gone, too. Lucas said you and your mama left town without telling him. We never found her body, though, and when-" He stops and shakes his head. "When your body showed up in Delaware, it seemed to support his story. There wasn't anything to tie him to your death, but I never believed him. But . . . if Lucas didn't kill you, then who did?"

"You need to listen, okay, Pa? Lucas is bringing women-girls, really-into the country. Mostly Eastern European. He has some contacts, apparently pretty important ones, who help him get around port security. The girls think they're here to train for nanny jobs or other work, but they're selling them for-well, what they always sell girls for. When he found out what I overheard about his . . . business, I think Lucas sold me to someone. Lucas called him Craig, but I don't know if it's a first name or last. And I'm positive Lucas understood what happens to the girls he hands over to Craig. I saw him kill another girl who was there with me."

Something isn't right. I haven't asked many questions about the circumstances of Molly's death, both because she didn't seem to want to think about it in too much detail and because I'll know all of the details eventually anyway, whether I want to or not. But I can tell that she's hiding something. Of course, she's talking to her grandfather, who's already upset and apparently not in perfect health. Maybe she's just trying to avoid putting him through further distress.

"He kept . . . souvenirs, Pa." She reaches out my left hand and rests it against his leg, and for a second, my pinky disappears, replaced by a bloody nub, bright red against the khaki fabric of his pants. And then it's just my hand again, but I feel the faint throb of remembered pain. "He had six, maybe seven, and that was nearly three years ago. So yeah, you need to get Lucas, but you have to find Craig, too."

Porter's shoulders are shaking as tears flow down his cheeks. One catches on the edge of his moustache and hangs there momentarily, until his lower lip trembles and the tear shakes loose, falling to the carpet. "I'm so sorry, Molly. So sorry. I'll find them, baby, I will."

"I know you will, Pa." She rests my head against his knee again.

You'll help him, won't you, Anna? You said you'll know everything that I know after I'm gone, so I can count on you, right?

The voice in my head is calmer now, less frantic.

What? No, Molly. I didn't mean it earlier. I was frightened, but it's okay. I understand. I'll let you see him again, and you can tell him everything.

It always ends a bit differently. Some of them leave slowly, and I assimilate their memories gradually as they kind of fade away. Others simply vanish without even saying good-bye. When Emily MacAlister finished the last letter of that crossword puzzle, her quest was complete and her voice in my head just disappeared. Over the next few weeks, my subconscious unpacked the Emily memories and filed them away with the others. And each night, I'd dream about her last moments-vivid at first, then fading away. Each night, I'd taste the slightly too-sweet tea she'd been drinking and struggle to come up with a seven-letter word for a glandlike growth (second letter d, fourth letter n). The dreams about her death had been boring, working on that same puzzle over and over, but at least they were peaceful. I have no illusions that Molly's will be anything other than nightmares. I don't want her to go yet. I don't want those dreams.

It's okay, Anna. I'm not sure I can really leave until I know this is over. But I don't want to talk to Pa again-I mean, I do want to, but I can't. I can't talk to him about what happened to me. I can't stand him looking like it's his fault somehow. Talking to him is just too painful and it's too . . .

She doesn't complete the thought, so I do it for her.

Too tempting?

Yes. Pa believes us now, and it wouldn't be good for him to get used to having me around again, even a pale, blue-eyed version. It wouldn't be good for any of us. And I don't like fighting against you like that.

She turns back to Porter and takes his hand, pressing it against my cheek. His eyes are squeezed shut, his head down. "Pa, you be careful, okay? Listen to your doctor and take your medicine."

A brief pause and then, "No, Molly. You can't go. You need to tell me everything, to be sure we catch-"

"Pa," she interrupts. "I can't. I need to start looking for Mama and Mimmy now, so you and Anna will have to take it from here. She will know everything I do. She'll help you. Trust her, okay?"

He just stares for a long moment, tears brimming over his lower eyelids.

"I love you forever . . . ," she says. The words are soft, rising a bit at the end, almost a question.

"And I love you forever more," he replies, his voice breaking in the middle.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Porter seems in a hurry to leave once I am back in control. I don't blame him. I'm not angry the way I was before, but I still don't fully trust him. The wary look has returned to his eyes, which tells me the lack of trust is probably mutual. I wonder if he'll manage to convince himself that none of this really happened, that it was all some elaborate ruse, once he's back on the freeway.

He shrugs on his coat and scribbles a phone number on a piece of notepaper. "This is my cell number, Anna, if you need to reach me. I'm-uh, I have a meeting I need to get to, but we should talk soon."

I take the scrap of paper. He seems to be waiting for something. "You already have my number, right? You had the phone long enough."

He has the good grace to look sheepish. "Yeah, I guess I do. I'll call you. I need to get in touch with some people and see if we can get the case reopened, since we have some new information."

"How will you explain?" I ask.

"An anonymous tip, I guess. They do happen from time to time. I'll get them to start looking into any associates Lucas has named Craig, for starters. Eventually, I'll see if they can find anything on the trafficking issue. It could be a day or two, though. I . . . uh, well, I've already called in a lot of favors over the past few years, so it may take a little persistence to convince them."

Kelsey walks him to the door. "Mr. Porter, what about the phone call Anna received? And the note?"

He shoots me a look and his eyes narrow slightly. "I don't know anything about that, Dr. Kelsey. If it does turn out that Anna needed to make those claims in order to get me here, well . . . I would certainly understand. I'm not sure I would have come otherwise, so I'm willing to forget the matter."

I open my mouth to object, but Porter has already opened the door into the stairwell and is headed down to the exit.

"He's a real piece of work, isn't he?" Kelsey says as she returns to her desk. "Do you think he'll ever admit he was trying to scare you away?"

"I doubt it. I'm surprised the stubborn old goat even believed it was Molly." I half expect to hear a complaint about me dissing her grandfather, but Molly is quiet.

Kelsey glances at the clock, and I realize that her four o'clock appointment should be arriving any minute. I go to the sink to rinse out my cup. She follows me and gives my arm a squeeze. "So, Molly's not gone, is she?"

"No." I slide my mug back into its usual spot in the cupboard. "But she doesn't think it's a good idea to talk to Porter again. Maybe she's right. I couldn't push her back today, Kelsey. Building up my wall seems to work fine for keeping them contained when I'm in control, but it doesn't work so well when I'm the one in the backseat. I was trying to take control . . . well, maybe not a hundred percent, but pretty close. Molly wasn't going to budge until she finished talking to him."

"How did that make you feel?"

I used to tease her about stereotypical therapist questions like that, and I suspect she's thrown this one in to lighten the mood, more than anything else. I roll my eyes and feed her the textbook response. "It triggered a fight-or-flight response, Doctor Freud, with a strong sense of fear and rage because I didn't have control. You know exactly how it made me feel."

She gives me a half smile. "I do, just as you know that putting those emotions into words helps you cope with them. And speaking of coping, do you still have enough sleep medication in case the dreams start?"

I nod. The pills help, at least enough (usually) to keep me from waking up screaming that I can't breathe, or that there's a car coming straight toward me, or whatever sensation comes along with someone's final memories. Libra has already had to put up with my dreams when one of my tenants vacated, and that woman died in her sleep. I can only imagine what it's going to be like when Molly goes.

"I'll see you on Tuesday. And, thanks, Kelsey," I add as I head toward the door. "I couldn't have gotten through this without you."

"That's what I'm here for. Call me if you need me before then, okay?"

I close the door to the stairwell. I'm one step from the bottom when I hear the squeal of rubber on asphalt. I push open the door, and a loud crack hits my ears, followed quickly by another. A gray sedan bounces off the curb at the far end of the parking lot, turning right. The man on the passenger side sees me at the door and raises a gun to his shoulder as the driver accelerates off toward Veirs Mill. There's another cracking sound, a loud ping as the bullet hits the dumpster about twenty yards to my left, then a screech of brakes.

A second, much closer screech hits my ears as a small black car whips around the corner. The driver is young, maybe twenty, and his face seems familiar. My first thought, which makes no sense, is: Unfair. He's even cuter than he used to be.

The guy flings the passenger-side door open, nearly clipping my leg. "Get in, Anna. They're coming back around the block!"

"Do I know you? I think-"

"Get the hell in the car, Anna! They've shot Porter."

Get in, Anna! It's Aaron-oh my God, Pa!

I pile into the car and he heads across the lot, bouncing off the curb just a few feet away from where the gray sedan exited, turning the wrong way into a one-way alley. Thankfully, there's no traffic and we make it to the intersection, where he hangs a sharp right onto Georgia Avenue. An ambulance whizzes past in the opposite direction.

Aaron who?

But Molly is too frantic to answer.

He punches the phone button on the car's communications console and says, "Call Sam."

A few seconds later, Sam-an older man, judging from the voice-says, "Aaron? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Porter was shot, though."

"Son of a bitch," Sam says. He doesn't sound surprised, however. Worried. Maybe a little annoyed, but almost like he expected this news.

I stare at Aaron as they talk, mentally thumbing through the scattered Molly files in my head, which are far too new to be neatly organized. He has a distinctive profile, the nose a bit long, but somehow it fits his face. Above-average height, broad shouldered, dark-reddish-brown hair. Jeans. A black windbreaker over a deep-green shirt. The color brings out the greenish flecks in his hazel eyes, which keep darting between the rearview mirror and the road ahead.

"At least he's alive," Aaron says. "Got him in the shoulder. Drive-by. Two men, gray or silver Ford . . . Focus, I think?"

"Any idea on the year?"

"Late model, 2017 or '18, I'd say. Headed north on Georgia Avenue. One white, one Latino, but I don't think either of them was Lucas. He's moved up in the world . . . guess he can contract out his dirty work on occasion. Ambulance should take Porter to Holy Cross."

"Heading there now. I'll call this in to Daniel. Son of a bitch."

"Sam? Just so you know, the girl is with me."

A pause. "You think that's wise?"

Aaron gives me a quick look out of the corner of his eye. "They shot at her, too, Sam. Something's up."

"Keep me posted."

The connection ends, and without the distraction of their conversation, Molly's pain is front and center.

"You said Porter is okay? How do you know?"

Aaron Whoever glances at me again. "I called an ambulance five minutes ago. They'll get to him in time."

It's not just his face that's familiar. His voice is familiar too, like I've heard it myself, not like something from Molly's memory. I can't pin it down, however.

I try to focus and tap into the few memories of Molly's that are available. Quinn. His last name is Quinn. Molly had a crush on him, which I totally get. He's borderline gorgeous.

And Molly trusted him. That trust is the only reason I got into the car with a complete stranger-a stranger who is driving much too fast and recklessly for my comfort-rather than doing the sensible thing and running back upstairs to Kelsey's office when I heard gunfire.

Kelsey.

"We have to go back! What if they go into the building looking for me and-"

"Your doctor is safe. They won't stick around long enough to go into the building when they hear sirens."

And how the hell do you know that?

I'm tempted to actually ask the question, but another question that hasn't fully formed in my head is nagging at me. So I decide to focus on verifying his identity first. Let's see how he feels about me knowing things I shouldn't know.

"You're Aaron. Aaron Quinn, right? You knew Molly. You know Porter. And apparently you know my name already, although I've no idea how."

He nods once as he exits onto 495.

The question that was hanging midbrain finally takes form. It's been maybe three minutes since I got into the car, and . . .

"Wait a second! You said you called the ambulance five minutes ago?"

Aaron edges the car onto the Beltway. "Yeah. I was watching the building. They were acting suspiciously, so I called 911."

"But that would mean you called the cops. Not an ambulance. And why were you watching the building in the first place?"

"Like you said, I knew Molly. Plus, Porter is a friend."

This time when he says Porter's name the connection in my mind is almost like an audible click. "Oh, God! It was you on the phone!" I reach for the door handle instinctively, even though I know it would be suicide to fling it open on a highway, with cars zipping by on both sides. "You left the message about the van. You left the note at Bartholomew House."

"What? No, I didn't leave a note. But yeah, I called you. Porter doesn't know anything about that, by the way. I wish you had listened and stayed away from him. I think he'll be okay. But he's not as young as he used to be, and . . ."

Molly curls up in the back of my mind, in the mental equivalent of the fetal position, crying. Which I understand, given the circumstances. She just learned that her grandmother is dead, and now she finds out Porter's been wounded, too. But her emotional meltdown is very distracting when I'm trying to think. And a little constructive input from her would be really helpful right now, since she knows this Aaron guy a lot better than I do.

"There were two shots," I say. "Well, three, but the last was aimed at me. Are you sure . . ."

"They hit his car with the second shot. He was lucky, though. Just a few inches closer and that bullet would've hit him, too."

I process what he's said, then return to what's really bugging me.

"You're the one who called me, but it wasn't you in the van. That guy was darker, bald-pretty sure I saw a moustache."

He shoots me an incredulous look. "Of course I wasn't driving the freaking van! Why would you think that?"

"Did Porter even know? Or did you hire someone to scare me away without telling him?"

"What the hell are you talking about, Anna? I didn't hire anyone. I didn't have anything to do with the van. I was trying to convince you to keep away from Porter so that neither of you would get hurt. So they'd leave you alone. But you didn't listen."

He's a good actor. If I hadn't known the time that his warning call came in, I might have believed him. I debate whether to play that trump card or keep quiet and save what I know for the police. Assuming, of course, that I make it to the police. Assuming, of course, that he's not working with whoever shot Porter. Or with this Lucas. Or Craig.

I am in so, so deep.

No. I'll keep the information about the van to myself for now. "Molly trusted you."