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He leans back in his chair. “How long are you here for?”

“We have the summer off, so it could be a couple of weeks. Maybe more, maybe less. The apartment belongs to a friend of my grandmother and is on loan to us for as long as we need it. We don’t really have a fixed plan.”

He frowns. “Please don’t leave town without talking to me first.”

“Listen. I won’t mince words. I know you think I had something to do with the murder—”

“Missing person,” he corrects me.

“I already told you everything I know. I can’t help you. I can’t tell you any more than I already did. I didn’t have to come here and do this. But something tells me that poor girl is not this man’s first victim, and she won’t be the last. I hope the information I gave will help you get the guy. But we’re not killers.”

I get up and push the chair back. Lynn starts to follow me.

“We’re done here.”

“Sit down, Miss Bloom. You will sit and comply, unless you want to spend the night in a nice little cell out back.” His voice is harsh and clipped.

I hold my ground. “You have no reason to hold me. You have nothing that ties me to your case.”

“I have this.” He points to the necklace. “And your confession to a murder.”

Lynn gasps.

My heart skips a beat. He’s fishing. Trying to rattle me. “Murder? You’re crazy. A second ago, it was a missing person. I wasn’t even in the country on the date you mentioned.”

“Your friend was. Maybe you have an accomplice. I don’t know. But I will find out how you got the necklace and how you know so much about this girl.”

“I already told you how.”

“Ah, yes.” He makes air quotes. “You’re psychic.” His tone couldn’t be more condescending.

I lock my knees and fist my hands around my purse strap. “I don’t know what games you’re playing, acting all casual one second and like a jerk the next, but this one-man good-cop-bad-cop act will not hold. You’ve got nothing, and you know it. Yes, you can try to intimidate me, dig around, try to push me and scare me, but here’s the thing you don’t know about me. I’ve been dealing with much bigger assholes than you my entire life. You have a lot to live up to.”

He scowls.

Lynn tugs at my shirt. Damn it. I dragged her into this mess, too.

“Ava, you’re gonna have to show him. He needs proof.”

Proof. The last thing I want to do is show him anything—to perform like a circus monkey for his entertainment. You know what? I’ll gladly play this game. I can’t wait to wipe that smug, condescending look out of his face.

I sit back down. “Okay, then. Give me something.”

His eyes scrunch. “What?”

I wave my fingers in a come-on motion. “Give me something. Any object, and I’ll read it for you.”

He leans away. “I don’t need a reading.”

“No, you don’t. What you need is proof. Because you don’t believe anything I’ve said. But I’ll happily change that.” I smile the fakest smile I can manage.

He swivels the chair back and forth. His shoulders are stiff. He huffs. Then opens a desk drawer and grabs something from it. Something small enough that it fits in his closed hand. He holds it out for me and opens his hand. In the center sits a small gray river rock with a white stripe through the middle, smooth, flat, and a nearly perfect circle.

I open my hand, and he drops it into my palm. At once, the images start, and I close my eyes. Smile. He’s been carrying this rock with him for most of his life. I see a progression of images. A timeline of events.

“You’re seven or eight years old. You’re fishing with an older man. He gave you the rock to skip on the lake, but you wanted to keep it instead because of the way the rock looks. He has a full head of white hair. He’s your grandfather, and he’s wearing an old baseball hat. It used to be black but now it’s gray and sun-bleached. The fishing pole has your initials carved into it. Three letters. JHK. You love spending time with him more than anything.”

The images leap. He’s older now. “You’re fourteen. And at a funeral . . .” I’m overwhelmed by the sense of loss and emptiness. The urge to cry stings my throat, and I squeeze my eyes to stop the tears. “Your grandfather died. A man yells at you to stop crying. It’s your . . . father? He says men don’t cry. You’re not allowed to grieve.”