47

His lips curved into a half smile. “I was just getting to it.” He looked dangerously handsome when he smiled.

“So his name is Burt Johnson,” he said. “Who?”

“The guy in the closet you painted.”

And just like that, the relaxed moment was gone from between them.

He went on to tell her about the old man and his nephew, the neighbors who called in that he’d been missing.

The stark reality of the story shook her. Always did.

The thought of another vision frightened her. The idea that she should try to force one on purpose made her question her own sanity. She needed to be alone. She needed to think. She needed to get away from him, even if talking like this wasn’t too bad. Or maybe especially because of that. She refused to like him.

“I have to go. Thanks for the ride.” She bolted from the car and practically ran for her front door.

She locked up behind her, slipped out of her boots and coat, listened to the sounds of his car driving away while pushing the images of that last body from her