"Well, accessing their memories isn't quite the same as actually living through something, at least not after a while. I mean, about half of these people were married and had kids, but I don't think of their family as my family, you know? I remember how they felt about being married and about being parents, but it's more like a book I've read or a movie I've seen. Just a lot more vivid at first. Facts and skills I pick up from them seem to be a bit more permanent, but even they seem to . . . I don't know . . . atrophy a bit over time, especially if I don't use them." I take another sip of the coffee, then add, "And yes, I know how freaky it sounds."

He raises his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, the guy with spidey sense doesn't get to say other people's superpowers are weird."

The cat seems to be in a much mellower mood with a full belly. And it clearly lacks a sense of stranger danger, because all I get is one quick investigative sniff before it crawls into my lap and curls up, purring as I stroke its fur.

"It's so not a superpower. I never know when I'm going to pick someone up. They aren't always nice. It can take a very long time to make them go away. And when they do go . . ." A small shudder runs through me. "Well, let's just say that I have to process the bad memories, too. How they died. All combined, it makes it tough to lead a normal life. It makes you a freak."

Aaron's eyes are sympathetic. "I get it. Really, I do, Anna. Do you have any idea how many people in the average high school are actively thinking about punching, maiming, or murdering someone at any given moment? I mean, they don't usually act on it-ten minutes later they might even be friends again. But I spent most of ninth grade in a state of hyperalert, nervously watching the girl who was thinking about stabbing her rival with a nail file, or the guy who was thinking about pummeling me for staring at the girl with the nail file. Or the pissed-off teacher who was thinking how nice the vice principal's head would look mounted on his wall. I quit school at sixteen, over major objections from my mom, and took the GED. You could not pay me to walk back into one of those asylums."

"You'll get no argument from me. Unfortunately, I have to finish up two more classes this year before they'll let me es . . . cape."

How have I managed, in the space of a few minutes, to go from glancing around for possible exit routes to petting a sleeping cat while I chat with this guy I barely know about our shared freakdom? Especially when he hasn't answered several important questions.

I yank myself back on track. "You still haven't explained why you were watching the building today. Or how you knew about the van last week. I mean, you aren't picking up danger vibes at random from all over the Metro area, are you? Did Porter ask you to keep an eye out?"

"No. Porter doesn't even know about my premonitions. My grandfather knows. In fact, he's probably where I got it from, although he gets these . . . I guess you'd call them hunches, gut feelings, whatever. My dad did, too. And Taylor-she's my younger sister-she has . . . something going on herself. I'm surprised Molly didn't already know that about me, because anything my sister knew, Molly knew. They were really close, so you're probably going to get a lot of strange stories coming through once your 'data dump' is complete. My mom knows. My brother-technically, my half brother-he knows, but doesn't admit he knows, if that makes sense? He's kind of like Porter in that respect. Doesn't exactly embrace anything he can't pin a name on. Daniel just likes to believe that I'm really, really observant.

"And," he continues, "that's exactly what my grandfather tells people who hire us if they ask. He thinks people will be more comfortable with the idea that I'm freakishly attentive to details than with the notion that I can freakishly sense when someone's about to go medieval."

"You're a private detective?"

"Yeah. Although in Maryland, I'm technically a detective's assistant-too young for a license. Plus I generally try to stay well below the radar."

"So, you're sort of like a reverse Shawn Spencer? The guy on that show from a while back who claimed to be psychic, but he's really just seeing the stuff other people could see, if they paid closer attention?"

"Sort of."

"Do you have a cool black sidekick who's actually smarter than you and keeps you grounded in reality?"

He smiles. "You aren't the first to make the Psych connection. Taylor suggested Molly for the Guster role, before . . ." He clears his throat and continues. "But, no, I fly solo on investigations and then just hand whatever I find over to Sam. I'm . . . not exactly a people person."

"And who exactly is Sam?"

"My granddad."

"Oh. So, Porter hired you and your grandfather to watch me?"

"Nooo, not quite. First off, Sam would never take Porter's money. He's too close to being family. Ever since Molly's body was found, this case has been priority one for all of us. It isn't making us any money, but it's never been put on a back burner, and it won't be until we get the bastard. Sam did agree to do some checking around for him as a favor, though. Porter may have called other people who work in the area as well-you make a lot of connections when you spend thirty years as a cop. I don't know what his other friends came up with, but Sam asked Baker-the guy who was his partner after Porter retired-to give Porter your information." My expression must convey exactly how I feel about that, because he tacks on a sheepish, "Sorry."

Part of me wants to let him off the hook, but I stomp that part down without the tiniest shred of mercy. I'm not going to pretend I don't resent strangers poking around in my records even if their intentions may have been good. Now I'm wondering how much Aaron knows about my past. For that matter, what the hell is even in my record?

"Anyway," he says, after a few seconds. "I've been out of the area for the past few weeks. I was up in Philly, doing some surveillance, when I got the flash about the van."

I'm totally confused now. "But you said you only pick up on these things when you're in the vicinity. So . . . how?"

"The guy who hired the van-Franco Lucas-is the one I was watching in Philadelphia. I don't know how he knew about your connection to Porter. My first guess was that they had Porter's place bugged, but I searched it really well yesterday. It's clean. The only thing I can figure is that there's someone on the inside at one of the places Porter called, someone who was watching for any mention of this case. Whoever it is must have known that you told Porter you were in contact with Molly. I didn't pick up on exact facts-places, times, and so forth, but I knew Lucas was going to use the van to try and scare you away from Porter. And he clearly wanted you to think Porter was behind it. Otherwise, why leave the note?"

I nod. "But why did you have to be so cryptic? I mean, Deo and I were positive Porter was behind the entire thing, given that the call came in before the van nearly hit us."

"Would you have believed me?"

"Actually, yes-I would have. Molly wouldn't have given me any choice."

He twists his mouth to the side. "I didn't know for certain that you were channeling Molly. All I had to go on was what Porter and Sam told me. Believe it or not, there are actually jerks out there who will prey on people who are grieving."

He gives me a pleading look. "You understand, right? And then yesterday morning, I'm outside the apartment where Lucas stays when he's in DC, and it's like alarms going off in my head. Sam called Porter and asked him to stop by the office. I practically begged him not to go to this meeting. Told him I had a bad vibe about it. Sam even told him the same thing, and you'd think he'd listen to his former partner, especially when Sam's intuition kept his ass out of trouble so many times. But he's a stubborn old cuss."

"Ha! Tell me about it. It took me nearly a month to get through to him. And, to be honest, even if I had believed your warning, I'm not sure I could have kept Molly away from Porter much longer. Not if he was willing to meet. I mean, I usually have control in these situations, but Molly is as obstinate as her grandfather. She was determined to give him the information he needed to stop anyone else from ending up like she did."

"And did she?"

"She got him to believe me. That she's in here." I tap my head. "That was the important part. Molly seems to think I can take it from there. I give him the information she knew, and hopefully he finds her killer."

We're silent for a minute, and I tip back the last of my coffee. "So, this guy you were watching. Lucas. You think he's responsible for shooting Porter today?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Why?"

"Mostly because I don't believe in coincidence." He looks away as he says it, though, and something about his expression bothers me. He's hiding something. "Also, they'll probably assume you told Porter everything you know, which is why you're both on their radar now. The good thing is, someone will be watching out for him, at least for the next forty-eight hours or so, while he's hospitalized."

The word hours reminds me to check the clock. "Crap! It's after five and I forgot to call Deo." I get up and head toward the living room but turn back toward Aaron to ask, "So, if Lucas hired the van and was behind the shooting, where does this other guy, Craig, fit in?"

He's about to say something, but when I reach the end of the question, his jaw literally drops. "Graham Craig? How do you know about him?"

"I don't know if it's Graham Craig, but someone named Craig killed Molly."

He shakes his head, unbelieving. "And you're sure about that?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Yeah? I think Molly would have a pretty good idea who killed her. Who is he, anyway? And how is he connected to this Lucas guy?"

"I believe Graham Craig is a business associate of his. But I don't have proof yet. And believe me, it's going to have to be rock-solid proof before I talk to anyone outside the family about my suspicions. The guy's father is Ron Craig."

I shake my head. The name isn't ringing any bells.

"Ronald T. Cregg? C-r-e-g-g? Multimillionaire? Senator from Pennsylvania? Running for president?"

Oh.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Deo answers immediately. "You are so grounded, young lady. I hope the party was worth it."

He keeps his tone light, but I can tell from the slight edge to his voice that he was worried.

"Sorry, Deo. We've had a lot to discuss, and the time sort of slipped away. Aaron is-"

I can hear Aaron talking on his own cell in the kitchen, and I hesitate for a moment. I rarely keep secrets from Deo, but I feel awkward telling him about Aaron's premonitions when it's not something Aaron tends to advertise. So even though I know I'll end up telling him later, when it's just the two of us, I decide to stick to Aaron's cover story for now.

"Aaron's a private detective. He's been working Molly's case, and he thinks whoever hired the guy who shot Porter is . . . well, shall we say he's not too happy that Porter and I have spoken. Aaron's worried they could be targeting me, too."

There's a long silence on the other end. "So . . . he's calling in the real police, right?"

His voice is steady, but those words speak volumes.

Neither of us have warm and cozy feelings about the local police. We've both been in situations where out on the street was safer than back in the house. Most of the time, at least in my experience, when a kid runs away from a foster home, there's a damn good reason. That's always been the case for me and Deo, at least. But each time, we've been rounded up by the cops and taken back to the place we escaped until some other arrangement could be made.

I know they're doing their jobs. In many cases, they even go above and beyond. But a lot of them don't seem to understand that the system they're enforcing isn't always fair and what looks safe may be just a convenient illusion.

So for Deo to even suggest calling in the police? He's worried.

"Um . . . that's kind of the tricky part, D. We don't know how they found out I was in touch with Porter. Aaron says Porter contacted the detective firm that his granddad runs, which is a two-person operation. But he also called friends on the DC force. Maybe elsewhere, too. There's probably a leak, but we don't know exactly where."

"They've already started sniffing around at Kelsey's. She called me about twenty minutes ago. Said she left a message on your cell, too. I don't know if it was DC police or Montgomery County, but they asked if she knew anything about a girl who might be stalking Porter. Didn't ask for you by name, but . . ."

"Oh, that's . . . wonderful. Do you know what she told them?"

"She didn't go into detail. Just asked if I knew who you were with. What do I say if she calls back?"

"Don't worry about it. I'll call her."

"And what about curfew? Pauline might cut us some slack, but Marietta's also on duty tonight, and you know how she is."

Deo and I have both toed the line carefully for the past few months, avoiding anything that might result in getting us bounced out of Bartholomew. Missing curfew is one of the cardinal sins, although, admittedly, Marietta has a long list of those. The primary reason she works in group homes is that it gives her the opportunity to save the souls of wayward teens. She marked Deo and me for special attention when we arrived at Bartholomew House, maybe hoping her congregation could pray away his possibly-gay. I'm not sure what she thought they could do for me. It's not the first time we've been in this situation-the group home where we met was even worse in that regard-but we've learned it's better to stand our ground. Neither of us has yielded to Marietta's weekly invitations to join her for Sunday services. Her smile becomes a little more wooden each time she asks and gets another set of excuses from the two of us. I'm seriously considering telling her I've converted to Judaism, Shinto, Pastafarianism-anything to get her off my back.

But my stubbornness on that front means the chance of Marietta cutting me even an inch of slack if I show up after curfew is less than zero.

Aaron is back in the living room. He sits on the edge of the chair across from me, still holding his phone to one ear. "Can Deo leave the group home? Go for a walk or whatever?"

I frown, not sure why he's asking me that.

"I mean, does he have to get permission, or . . ."

"No. He just signs out, but he has to be back by curfew."

He turns away and starts talking into his phone again. "Okay, Taylor. Just get him to the phone. You can do that. When has Daniel ever told you no?"

I hear a girl's voice, but it's competing with Deo's voice on my phone. He's still going on about Marietta, so I don't catch what the girl is saying.

"Thanks, Tay." Aaron holds his hand over the phone. "I'm going to try and get my brother to bring Deo here."

"No. Absolutely not."

But Deo heard Aaron, too. Even through the cell phone, his yes is nearly as loud as my no.

I glare at Aaron. "Deo, you're safe there. Someone shot at me today. For all I know they could have followed us here. They could be in the parking lot waiting to-"

Aaron is shaking his head. "We weren't followed. And he may be safer here than at the group home."

"You think they're watching Bart House?"

"I think it's possible. Lucas clearly knows who you are, so it's not unreasonable to think he might have someone waiting for you to show up. And Deo was there when the van nearly hit you, right?"

"Yes. But he'll make sure to stay in tonight. Right, Deo?"

"I was going to meet Asher at the game . . ."

"You can miss the game."

Compared to me, Deo is a social butterfly. He actually goes out on weekends when he gets the chance. He cares nothing about sports or school spirit, but he's made friends with a few kids in the marching band.

Aaron shakes his head. "I don't think staying in is enough. Lucas's people are armed. What's this Marietta person going to do if they . . ."

There's no need for him to complete the thought. Aside from Kelsey, Deo is the only person I'm close to. It would be perfectly reasonable for Lucas to assume that the best way to get to me is to grab him.

"And how is Deo any better off if Lucas's people show up here?"

He unzips his windbreaker. A brown leather holster, complete with pistol, is strapped to his shoulder.

Okay. Aaron said he was a detective, so I guess I should have assumed he carries a weapon. But if I'd known he was armed when I was in the car, I'd probably have risked jumping out on the freeway.

"It's not much," Aaron says, "but I'm guessing it's more than they have at your group home."

I steal another look at the gun, or rather at his side, since the windbreaker is once again hiding it from view. And as much as the sight of Aaron's pistol scares me, the sound of the bullet pinging off the dumpster earlier scared me even more. The idea that we have some means of self-protection is a good deal more comforting than I'd have imagined.

Aaron holds out his hand for my phone. I give it to him, even though it pisses me off to be cornered like this with no decent options.

Molly's been pretty quiet for the past hour, but as Aaron starts asking Deo for the address, she surges to the front.

Sorry, Anna. I didn't know that you and Deo- The hell you didn't! What did you think would happen if Lucas discovered that I had information that could be used to nail him for murder? Not to mention human trafficking. Did you really think he'd stick up his hands and go peacefully?

Hey, I said I'm sorry! But none of this makes sense, Anna. Why is Lucas worried about you? Why wouldn't he just think what Pa did? That you're scamming him . . . that you're out to make money?

I'm all set to complain further, but I stop because she's just made an excellent point. And I'm going to ask Aaron to explain that as soon as he gets off the phone-or I guess I should say phones, since he's talking to Deo on mine and still has the other person on hold.

". . . about twenty minutes away. Daniel Quinn, he'll be in a blue Camry. Tall, midtwenties, short hair, pissed-off expression. Make him show ID. And if you see any unusual vehicles circling around the neighborhood before he arrives, get the hell out of there and call this number, okay?"

He tosses my phone back. I ask Deo to grab my sleep meds and tell him again to be careful.

When I hang up, Aaron says, "Just a heads-up that you're about to be knee-deep in family soap opera. I hate asking Daniel for help. But Sam's at the hospital, Mom's on a buying trip in Europe until next week, and . . . on the off chance that someone actually is watching Deo, I'm not putting Taylor in the crosshairs."

"But it's okay to put your brother in danger?" I don't mention Deo, but I'm definitely thinking it.