"You will be so good as to wait outside," she says, and there's no question that it's an order and not a request. "This will not take long."

"I . . . I was told that Baker would be questioning her."

"After I finish. I have places to be."

Daniel nods. As he leaves the room, I feel Molly sliding forward, alert.

What is it?

There's a brief pause before Molly answers.

Nothing. She reminds me of someone, but . . .

Molly slides back quickly, and I'm glad, because the woman is staring at me now. I rise from the chair as she holds out her hand.

"I am Dacia Badea," the woman repeats. Her smile is warm, and it lights up her entire face, including her sky-blue eyes. "You must be so frightened. Why did they not put us in a room less . . ." She looks around and shudders as she shakes my hand. "Horrible? And warmer! It is so cold."

It doesn't really seem that cold to me, but I nod. She's clearly trying to put me at ease, and I might as well let her think she's succeeding, even though she isn't. For one thing, that Pop Rocks sensation is back, spreading in a narrow band across my forehead. It moves more rapidly this time, and it's more intense. And I can also feel Molly muttering in the background, like she's still trying to figure out why this woman seemed familiar.

But I push all of that aside and focus on the Badea woman. I need to figure out why she's here and what she wants.

"You must wonder why I am here and what I want."

Okay, that's creepy. Really, really creepy.

But . . . it's just coincidence. Right? I mean, obviously, that's what I'm wondering. It's what anybody would be wondering in my situation.

Careful, Anna.

Shh.

I don't get the sense Molly has any information beyond that whispered caution, and having an extended chat with her while this woman is watching seems unwise.

"Yes, I was wondering that." I return her smile, although I'm pretty sure mine isn't as convincing. "I was expecting Detective Baker. Or, I guess he's a detective . . . I don't really know."

"The police will have questions to you later. But here is the thing with bureaucracy . . ." She says the word bee-rokratzi, and it takes me a moment to figure it out. "Always there is a pecking order. My employers are high above District police. This can be good news for you if you are wise. He can make all of this disaster go . . ." Ms. Badea makes a little poof gesture with her hand, blowing an imaginary something off the tip of the still-gloved fingers of her left hand.

I find it odd that the employers she mentioned are now a single man-he can make all of this disaster go . . . poof. But maybe it's just a language thing.

"That's nice to know, Ms. Badea."

"Please, I am Dacia."

Molly stirs again, uneasy.

Dacia takes the seat that Daniel vacated a few moments ago and motions me to the chair on the other side of the table. "You and your friend-his name is Taddeo, right?-are not in trouble. We just want information."

My stomach tightens when she says Deo's name, but I nod. "Okay. But I don't know what I can offer."

"Anna, Anna. Such modesty!"

Her expression shifts. It's a subtle change, but in that instant, I have no doubt what's coming next. It's what I've feared since I was six, sitting in Kelsey's chair, when she explained why I could never tell other people what I can do. Why I needed to pretend. Why I needed to find a way to keep my secrets safe.

This woman knows.

Her smile barely flickers, but there's a hint of victory, the barest whiff of gotcha in her eyes, as she takes my hand again. I don't like people touching me, and I start to pull away, but her grip tightens. "We have reason to believe you are a special young lady with an . . . unusual talent. And we are very interested to develop gifts like yours-"

A tiny frown crosses Dacia's face. That tingle starts again, directly above my ear, moving right to left.

She's causing it. I don't know how she's doing it or exactly what she's doing, but it's definitely her.

I have a vivid memory of Kelsey kneeling in front of me, her eyes level with my own six-year-old face, trying to impress upon me the importance of what she was saying. You can't keep all of your secrets bottled up inside or they'll hurt you. They'll scream to get out and make you miserable. But some secrets aren't for sharing outside this room. Not if you want to be safe. Not if you want your life to be your own. You need to keep your wall up when you're around strangers, Anna.

I spent many hours in Kelsey's office, stacking up those bricks in my mind, walling off the unsafe corners. Practicing over and over until I had a way to keep my hitchhikers from taking control, and to keep me from doing and saying stupid things that would land me back in a psychiatric ward. I also learned to unstack those bricks, and let out the things that frightened me so that we could examine them. But only when I was in Kelsey's office, where it was safe. And later, sometimes with Deo.

My wall is up even before it's a conscious thought. It's just a mental exercise, something to keep me feeling as though I'm in control of the situation, even when I'm not. But years of practice have made it second nature.

The tingling sensation pauses at the center of my right eyebrow. Probing. I can almost feel Dacia jabbing at my mental bricks, trying to find a chink in the wall, a place where she can get through to whatever secrets I'm hiding.

I snatch my hand out of her grasp and focus on building another wall in front of the first one. The tingle dissipates, almost like a thread pulling out of my skin.

Her eyes narrow. "You said you would cooperate!"

I keep my face blank and focus on my imaginary wall, in case she's prepping for another go at it. "You haven't asked me any questions."

Dacia stares at me, her composure clearly shaken, and nervously glances at the guy who came in with her. She focuses on smoothing her skirt over her thighs for a couple of seconds, and I lean back in my chair, waiting. I'm beginning to suspect she wasn't actually prepared to question me. She was counting on just poking around in my head to find out what she wanted to know, but now she has to figure out what to ask.

"How did you . . . how were you introduced to . . . Molly Porter? And when?"

"I met her at the U Street shelter." That's the last bit of the full truth this woman will be getting, but I try to weave in a few half-truths to help me remember the story I'm telling. "About three years ago. I don't remember the exact date. Molly taught me how to play a song on the piano. I think she was there with her mother."

Dacia nods, and again looks at the bodyguard or whatever he is, still standing near the door with her coat over his arm. Pretty sure he's military or ex-military. He's at attention, staring straight ahead at a spot on the wall, his face blank. It's odd that his presence didn't make her at all nervous when she came in. If anything, I'd have said the opposite. So I can only assume she doesn't like him being here as a possible witness to her failure to pick my brain.

"And why did you tell Molly's grandfather you were in contact with her . . ." She frowns, like she's searching for the word. "Her phantom . . . her spirit?"

I shrug. "I explained that to him already. Molly left her diary at the shelter. I read it, but I forgot to take it with me when I left. Later, I realized he might have paid for it. I'm almost eighteen and I'd like a little bit of a financial buffer when I head out on my own. I don't make much at the deli. Anyway, it occurred to me a few months back that her granddad might pay for the information, even if I didn't have her diary. And he might pay more if he thought he could actually talk to her through me, you know? If he thought part of her was still around."

"And this journal . . . what did it say?"

"Nothing really. Just stuff about how she missed her grandparents, but her mom needed her more. That she was trying to convince her mom to go back home. And odds and ends that she remembered from when she was a kid."

She sniffs. "Did you really believe the man would pay you money for that?"

"I thought it was worth a try."

Dacia tips her head slightly to the side. Her elbows rest on the arms of the chair, and her hands, one gloved and one not, are folded in front of her face, except for the pointer finger that taps softly at her bottom lip. She must be trying to read my face, since she's failed to read my mind.

"You are not telling me everything, Anna. I think you are still in contact with Molly."

"You believe she's still alive? I was told they found her body."

Dacia stares at me. "You know that is not my intention . . . my meaning."

"Well, I hope it's what you meant, because otherwise, you're crazy. Listen, I'm not proud of what I did to Mr. Porter. That's why I asked him to meet me at my therapist's office. I wanted to apologize. He said he wasn't going to press charges, so I don't understand why Deo and I were brought in."

"You have history of this." Her voice is more strident now. "This saying you contact phantoms. Since you are a small child."

The Emily MacAlister part of me really wants to correct her-you mean since you were a small child, don't you dear? But I resist. She seems increasingly agitated. In fact, I can't see where any of this could be leading, except to a jail cell or psych ward.

"I'm not saying anything more to you or to anyone else until I have legal representation."

"Like I tell you before, the people I work with can make your problems go away. But also they can complicate your life. My employer, he is very busy right now, and he is not patient."

"That's a shame. I've heard patience is a virtue." I get up from the chair. "I'm going to tell the officers that I won't be saying anything else without an attorney."

As I move toward the door, she pulls me back, twisting my arm so that I have to look at her. That little poke-poke-poke begins at the edge of my mind again, as her eyes bore into mine. She's focusing so hard that I can see a vein twitching at her temple.

Several emotions flit across her face once she finally accepts that my wall isn't going to come tumbling down. Frustration, anger, and maybe a touch of fear. She masks them quickly and pastes on a smile, but it's not nearly as broad and confident as it was when she first entered the room. I get the feeling that smile is more to impress the guard who accompanied her than anything else.

"No problem, Anna," she says, releasing my arm. She crosses over to the guard, who's holding out her coat, and slips her arms into the sleeves. "You've given me all I need. We'll be in touch."

It pleases me to see her wobble slightly on her too-high heels as she turns to leave. But my satisfaction vanishes quickly when I realize that her guard or assistant or whatever is looking directly at me for the first time since they came in. He doesn't say anything, just gives me a long, slightly puzzled look before following Dacia into the hallway.

I slump down into a chair at the table and rest my head on my folded arms. But I don't let my walls down. I can't, at least not for a while. If I was able to feel Dacia poking at my mind back at the townhouse, when she was-or at least I assume she was-miles away, then I'm not sure when or where it will be safe to let down my guard.

Sorry, Molly.

I have no clue if she can even hear me.

A few minutes later, the door opens.

"Stay here," Daniel says. "I'll be back."

As if I actually have a choice.

The next time the door opens, Deo is with Daniel. Deo is dressed in various shades of blue today, with blue streaks in his dark hair, and he's wearing the silver-and-turquoise ear cuff I bought him last Christmas. His face doesn't reveal that he's upset, but his hair is mussed, with a few strands sticking out at odd angles from his usually impeccable quiff. If Deo hasn't bothered to find a mirror, or a window, or even a shiny doorknob to make sure his hair looks right, then he's not in a good state of mind.

"I'm sorry," I whisper as I hug him. "I didn't know this would happen."

"Not your fault. Let's just get out of here."

"I don't think we can. This Baker guy-"

"No," Daniel interrupts. "He won't be questioning you now. We've been ordered to return you to Bartholomew House."

"Ordered . . . by whom?" I ask.

"Someone way the hell above Baker's pay grade," Daniel mutters, shoving two white capsules and a paper cup into my hands.

I'm a little surprised that Daniel followed through on the promise of Tylenol. I wash the pills down with the water, then follow him into the corridor.

As we approach the front desk, I see the uniformed cop who was in the room with us, holding a Big Gulp in one hand and a sandwich in the other. She's just taken a chomp out of the sandwich when she spots us.

Beyond them, I see Aaron in the lobby. He jumps up from his seat to join us, grabbing his phone and a sheet of paper lying on the bench next to him.

"Are you okay?" he asks in a tight voice. When I nod, he turns to Daniel. "The woman who just left. Who was-"

Daniel makes a kill motion and nods toward the exit. "We'll talk outside, okay? Need to take care of something first."

Aaron looks like he wants to argue. Actually, he looks like he wants to hit someone or something.

The uniformed cop gives Aaron a flat stare. It apparently convinces him to follow Daniel's advice.

"He all right?" she asks Daniel softly, nodding toward Aaron's back as he heads out the door. "Looks like he's on somethin' to me."

Daniel laughs. "Nah. Aaron's just had a rough day. He saw Porter-" He stops, apparently rethinking what he was about to say. "He saw Porter this morning. An hour or so before he was shot. Kind of has him worked up."

She nods, takes another bite of her sandwich, then starts to wrap it up. Daniel puts a hand on her shoulder.

"Go ahead and finish your dinner, Lupito. I'll take them. Just need to get their things."

"Uh . . . no," she says around a mouthful of food. She pauses to swallow. "You heard that woman. She said for me to take them."

"The girl here is on an antipsychotic, which she left at my brother's place. We'll run by and pick up her meds, then I'll drop the two of them off."

I have no idea what he's talking about. So I keep quiet, even though the antipsychotic comment, when I'm standing right here, makes me want to kick him again.

Lupito shakes her head and talks extra slowly, as if Daniel is mentally impaired. "You don't even work here anymore."

"You know they're not being charged with anything. They could walk out the door and hail a cab if they wanted. We'll pick up her meds and I'll have them back before their curfew. I'll catch up with Baker later. Just tell him you were in the can when we left."

"Hmph. Your funeral," she says as she slips into a small office on the other side of the desk. When she returns, she has my smaller backpack and the larger bag that Deo packed when he left Bart House. "Here you go. And you owe me one."

"Thanks, Lupito." He grins, but his smile evaporates before the door even closes behind us.

Aaron is at the edge of the parking lot, still on the verge of exploding. "Who was that woman?" he asks when we reach him. "And what did you do to make her want to rip your head off?"

That question is for me, but Daniel doesn't give me a chance to answer it. "Call Sam. Tell him to meet us at the office. Python."

Daniel emphasizes the word, and judging from the look on Aaron's face, it means something to the two of them aside from snakes, computer programming, or British comedy. Aaron nods and then gives me an apologetic glance before darting off in the other direction-toward his car, I guess. I'd much rather ride with him, but Deo and I apparently don't get to choose our mode of transportation.

"I'm not on antipsychotics," I say as we follow Daniel. "The only thing I take is sleeping meds, and I don't even have them with me."

Daniel pulls a bottle out of his jacket pocket and tosses it to me.

I stop under the streetlight at the edge of the parking lot and hold it up so I can read the label. Sure enough, it's my prescription. "How did you get this?"

"He confiscated it from my bag," Deo growls. "Along with the pepper spray and the other . . . thing . . . we carry sometimes."