That causes him to flinch. He switches to the inner lane and speeds up to around seventy, glancing again at the rearview mirror before he speaks. "Molly was a friend. I just wish I'd been around three years ago. Maybe I could have . . ." He trails off, shaking his head.

Again, my intuition tells me he's being honest, that I should believe him. That's the only reason I can imagine why I do a complete one-eighty on telling him what I know about the van in the space of a minute. "You say you didn't have anything to do with the van. But you left that message three hours before it came anywhere near us."

He keeps his eyes fixed on the lane ahead, but his face darkens.

"So the way I see it, the most logical explanation is that you hired the van. Or you know who did. Unless, of course, you have some sort of crystal ball that tells the future."

He's silent for a long moment, then says, "It's not exactly a crystal ball."

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn't.

"I'm going to need a little more than that."

"Is the most logical explanation always the correct one, Anna?"

"Not always," I admit, thinking back to Deo's earlier comment on the same subject. In my case, the most logical explanation isn't even usually the correct one.

We drive in silence for a few minutes. "Can I at least know where you're taking me?"

"The first place I could think of that's safe. At least I'm pretty sure it's safe. I don't think we were followed, and you can't go back to Bartholomew House just yet."

"I need to call Deo. I was supposed to meet him after my appointment. And, oh-jeez, I didn't even think. Kelsey will know about Porter by now. She'll be worried. And maybe she has an update on his condition?"

"Porter's alive . . ."

"You can't know that. He could be dead for all you know." A fresh wail from Molly reminds me that I probably shouldn't have said that. I pull up Kelsey's number on my phone. "They could have gone upstairs and shot Kelsey, too. And for all I know, you could be working with them."

"Anna, please." He puts his hand on my arm, squeezing lightly, his eyes pleading. "Okay, fine, if it will make you feel better. Call them. Tell them you're safe. Tell them you're with a friend."

"But I'm not sure that either of those things is true," I say, pulling my arm away. "And Deo won't believe it for a minute."

"Why not?"

Because I don't have any friends aside from Deo, I think. But I just say, "He knows me well enough to tell when I'm lying."

"Then don't let it be a lie. I am not going to hurt you. I'm trying to figure out the best way to keep you safe. And I'll tell you everything, or at least as much as I can, as soon as we get there."

"Get where?" I mutter under my breath as I wait for Kelsey to pick up.

Kelsey's voice is frantic when she answers. "Oh, thank heavens, Anna! Are you okay? The police are swarming the parking lot. Mr. Porter-"

"Porter?" I ask lamely. "What happened?"

"He was shot. They said the shooter must have mistaken him for someone else. Probably drug related."

"Is he okay?"

"He's alive, that's all they could tell me. But where are you?"

"I . . . I'm with a friend. We had plans after my appointment, but I heard shots as we were driving away and then the sirens. I realized you might have been worried about me."

"Well, I was worried when the police came up a minute ago, but like I told them, I didn't hear the shots. I was in the front with my next patient, and I guess the sound machine drowned it out." She pauses. "And you're sure you're okay?"

I glance over at Aaron. Part of me is tempted to send her a coded message like they do in the movies. I could say I'll see her at our appointment on Monday (which has been her regular day off as long as I can remember, because she sees patients on Saturdays) or maybe remind her to feed the fish in her aquarium (that she got rid of two years ago).

But I don't. "I'm fine. I'll see you on Tuesday, okay?"

"Okay," she answers, a tiny hint of doubt in her voice. "Let me know if you need anything."

"I will. And could you call me if you hear anything more about Mr. Porter?"

Deo is not as easy, but I knew he wouldn't be. I end up asking him to just trust me, and I promise to call him again in half an hour. And even then, I have to tell him about Porter, and that I'm with a friend of Molly's. I even have to give him Aaron's name, which Aaron clearly doesn't like, judging from his expression.

"Okay," I tell Aaron, once I've hung up. "Just so you know, Deo will call Dr. Kelsey, the police, the FBI, the entire Avengers team, and anyone else he can think of if I don't check back in half an hour."

Aaron rolls his eyes. "You have a very possessive boyfriend."

I start to correct him, but maybe having Aaron think Deo's my overprotective boyfriend is a good thing. I could say he's at the gym, lifting weights.

I feel a tiny wave of disapproval from Molly as I settle back into my seat, the first real reaction I've felt from her in several minutes.

You shouldn't lie to Aaron. He's trying to help.

Really? Because I think the jury's still out on that one.

"Not my boyfriend," I say. "More like my brother. But yeah, he'll go crazy if he doesn't hear from me-he's halfway there already, given what I told him about Porter."

We're moving north on I-95 now, toward Baltimore. After a few minutes, Aaron eases into the lane for the Beltsville exit.

"So can you tell me where we're headed now or is it still top secret?"

"I have the key to a place that belongs to some friends. I house-sit for them on occasion, take care of the cat and so forth. They're in West Virginia for two weeks-a second honeymoon of sorts. No one outside of family would connect me to them, and only Sam and my sister know I'm back in town, so . . ."

He seems to feel this should reassure me. It doesn't. Not one little bit.

What I'm thinking must show on my face, because after a few seconds he says, "Anna, the very last thing on my mind is hurting you. In any way. I've seen evidence of too many girls mistreated lately. You will be safe with me. You said Molly trusted me. Can you try to trust me, too?"

In my experience, trust isn't something you try. It's either there or not, and in my case, trusting Aaron seems to be an on-again, off-again thing, depending on whether I'm relying on gut instinct, which is mostly tied to Molly's memories, or relying on my own logic, which says I should bail at the first stoplight and take off running.

For the moment however, my gut seems to be prevailing. So I just nod and shift my gaze out the window. We pass a few small shopping centers, one with a Starbucks that is screaming my name, but I don't say anything. The sun is inching down toward the horizon, as sporadic prisms of orange light break through the branches of trees that are beginning to lose their leaves in earnest.

Aaron eventually turns right into a mostly residential area, then pulls into a lot surrounded by a square of two-story brick townhomes. He stops the car under a canopy near the middle of the parking lot and comes around to my side, I guess to open the door for me. I beat him to it, though. I was out of the car almost before we were fully stopped, once again contemplating making a run for it.

Molly must feel my panic, because she surges to the front, almost like she's trying to take control. That only ramps up my fear, and she quickly pulls back.

Sorry. I . . . I just . . . Aaron's okay, Anna. I've known him forever. You can trust him.

She's pushing thoughts toward me. Nothing coherent, just a fleeting slide show of memories. A summer afternoon in someone's backyard. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair sitting across from Porter at a picnic table, drinking beer, watching a group of kids playing . . . badminton, I think. A younger girl with the same reddish-brown hair as Aaron running around in a profusely pink bedroom with a frilly canopy bed. The sensation of jumping on the bed with that same little girl, then diving beneath a Disney Princesses comforter, giggling, when a boy around seven in what appear to be Iron Man underwear-is that Aaron?-runs past the door.

I shake my head to clear away the barrage of images and sounds, but I still get the emotions behind them. Happy. Safe. Secure. Loved.

Molly's been through a lot, and that's why I try to pull back my first thought, which is that the circumstances of her death suggest she might not have been the best judge of character. And I also try to restrain my second thought-that I really hope her judgment in this case doesn't get me killed as well.

I apparently don't succeed in hiding either of those feelings, but Molly doesn't take offense. She just snorts.

Aaron is not Craig. He's not Lucas. If anything, he's too polite.

So was Norman Bates.

Hmph.

And then Molly curls back up in her corner of my head.

Aaron is staring at me. I've been standing here in the middle of the parking lot during my little internal dialogue with Molly. And yes, it was probably only a couple of seconds, but I'm sure I looked like a total idiot. I wipe the side of my mouth with one hand, relieved to find it's dry. At least I wasn't a drooling idiot.

"It's . . . this one," he says awkwardly, motioning toward a unit on the end, with a neat square of grass and one rather anemic-looking tree in front. He fumbles with a ring of keys, settling on one that's neon green. Then he scoops up the small stack of community papers from the stoop and tosses them into the empty recycling bin next to the door.

Empty except for water, that is. It splashes onto his jeans and soaks his Nikes. A large wet maple leaf clings to the toe of his left shoe. I stifle a laugh as he tries, unsuccessfully, to shake it off, before finally scraping it loose against the top step.

Once the door is open, Aaron stashes his messenger bag under the small bench near the door, then sits down to pull off his wet shoes. "You can leave yours on if you want," he says, when he sees I'm following suit. "These are soaked."

I shrug and put my shoes and backpack next to his bag. "I'm fine with socks."

Aaron opens a door to the right of the kitchen, tosses his sneakers into the washer, and adjusts the thermostat. The place is much more open than many townhomes I've seen. This floor is basically one big space, with a bar dividing the kitchen from the large living room.

"You want coffee?" he asks.

"So you are a mind reader."

"Not exactly-but I did notice you lusting after the Starbucks we passed." Aaron has spent a good deal of time in this kitchen, because he locates the coffee in one try. He seems more relaxed too, and flashes me a quick smile as he fills the pot.

Molly sighs.

That smile hasn't changed one little bit.

"Coffee would be nice," I say as a blur of gray fur whizzes past me and starts doing figure eights around Aaron's ankles. "But maybe you could answer-"

"Yes, yes. I know, Dax. Could you give me a minute?"

I get the feeling that the comment is aimed as much at me as at the hungry cat, and I guess my questions can wait until I'm fortified with caffeine. Curling into one of the wicker tub chairs arranged around the kitchen table, I stare at the scenery outside the sliding glass door. There's a wooded ravine just beyond the deck, with a small creek winding through it. I watch for a few minutes as the creek carries leaves and assorted debris toward a metal culvert about a hundred yards away.

The deck is a possible escape route if I need it. There was a bus stop a block or so back, and I think I could drop from the deck to the ground if I had to.

Jesus Christ, Anna! Would you just relax?

I don't know if it's the force of Molly's suggestion or a delayed stress reaction to nearly being shot, but I actually do feel myself starting to relax as my eyes follow the path of the leaves floating down the creek.

The sound of a mug being placed on the table in front of me yanks me back to the present. Dax the Cat is now eating out of a bowl near the refrigerator. Aaron is in the chair opposite me, with his own cup, a large bottle of Baileys Irish Cream, and a tin of shortbread cookies, which he pushes to the center of the table.

"No milk," he says, tipping a bit of the liqueur into his cup. "Would you like some of this instead?"

"I take it black. I'm not legal yet anyway."

He laughs. "Technically, neither am I-not until June. I've yet to see anyone get plastered on Baileys, though. I think you'd barf before you even came close."

I sip the coffee, which is still a bit too hot to drink, and take one of the cookies. "So . . . how did you really know about the van? And to call for an ambulance in advance? Because I'm not buying the story about how you happened to be hanging around and those guys looked suspicious."

"It would be so much easier if you would buy that story."

I just stare at him. He holds my gaze for a moment, then looks down at his mug, shoulders slumping.

"Sometimes, I . . . sense things. When there's going to be trouble. People planning violence, mostly, but occasionally it's more . . . vague. A bad vibe, a feeling that someone is in danger."

"You're saying you have spidey sense? Can you also shoot webs out of your wrist to swing from building to building?"

He raises an eyebrow. "No, Anna. I cannot. And I really can't believe I'm taking crap from the girl who speaks to dead people."

Now it's my turn to give him a questioning look. "First, I don't speak to them. It's more like they . . . hitch a ride for a while when they can't move on. When they have something they need to finish. And second, how do you know about that?"

He shrugs. "My grandfather was a cop in Silver Spring, but he started up his own detective agency a few years back. He and Porter were partners when he was on the force. They're still close. Porter's like family. And my brother is on the police force in DC now. Porter called a few weeks back, wanting us to check up on some crazy girl-his words, not mine," he adds when he sees my expression, "who was stalking him and claiming she was in contact with Molly's ghost."

A solemn look spreads over his face. "So, is it true? Molly's hitching a ride with you now?"

I nod, running my finger around the edge of my mug. "I'm not sure for how much longer, though. She needed to talk to Porter and we finally managed to do that this afternoon, so . . . I doubt she'll stick around."

"I don't suppose I could . . . talk to her?"

Molly surges to the front for a moment, then fades back before I can respond. She wants to talk to him, but she won't ask. Probably because she knows what my answer would be.

Aaron seems to know as well, so it must be written all over my face. "It's okay. It's just . . . I wanted to tell her I'm sorry I wasn't around. Maybe I could have sensed something in time to . . ." He trails off, shaking his head.

Tell him it's not his fault. Craig's fault, Lucas's fault, maybe even a little my mom's fault. My fault for not listening to Pa and staying home with him and Mimmy. But not his fault.

"She says you shouldn't blame yourself."

He looks up, surprised. "Just like that? You heard me, so Molly heard me?"

"Yeah. Two for the price of one, at least for the time being."

"What will happen when she . . . leaves?"

"I won't hear her thoughts anymore. But I'll know what she knew, or at least a lot of it. I can already feel it starting. I don't know how to describe it-sort of like there's a data dump going on in the background right now. If I seem sluggish, it's probably because part of my processor is working on another task."

"So you have memories that aren't yours? How many different sets?"

"Nine that I can remember, but I think there were a few others when I was younger and . . . maybe those memories didn't get processed very well. They're muddled, in the same way my own early childhood memories are. I'd probably have a lot more sets, but I've gotten better at protecting myself. Molly caught me at a weak moment, when my defenses were down. Hard to be on alert 24/7."

"How do you keep all of those lives straight?"