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dug into the upholstery. “It’s as if some stranger has invaded my mind. It’s so horribly intimate and it’s so evil. It makes me feel as if I’ve been
    violated.”
    “Trust me, catching a glimpse or two of what that stranger experienced when he shoved a dagger into someone’s chest is just as bad. It’s as if I did the deed myself. For a while afterward, I feel—” He broke off abruptly.
    She sensed that he hadn’t expected to confide that much to her and wasn’t sure he wanted to add to it.
    Then, very deliberately, he tapped his fingertips together again. Once. Twice.
    “I feel contaminated,” he said quietly. “As if some of the darkness inside the killer has seeped into me.”
    She searched his face. “That’s how it is for me, too.”
    His mouth curved in an odd, bemused smile. “I’ve never told anyone that before. The stuff about feeling the killer’s darkness invading me, I mean.”
    “Neither have I.” She took a deep breath. “I always assumed it would be stupid to go around telling folks that I’m afraid I might be absorbing some of the dark energy produced by a bunch of murderers and freaks. I didn’t want to alarm the people close to me, and it certainly doesn’t make for scintillating cocktail party conversation.”
    “Those are the same reasons I’ve kept quiet about it, too.”
    Shared secrets, she thought. The exquisite intimacy of the situation was indescribable. How could she be having a conversation like this with a man she had only just met? Where would it lead? Perhaps more to the point, where did she want it to go?
    “It’s bad enough hearing the voices,” she said. “I can’t even imagine experiencing the visions.”
    “What are the voices like?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
    “Whispers,” she said slowly, searching for the words. “But not real whispers, not real voices. My mind understands the difference even though I can’t explain it.”
    He nodded. Deep understanding shadowed his eyes.
    “It’s as if I’m standing in one dimension and there’s a very thin veil between me and another dimension,” she said. “Someone is on the other side of the veil, talking. If I pay attention I can make out occasional words. But I don’t hear the voices, at least, not exactly. I feel them.”
    “When you pay attention, as you term it, what you’re really doing is opening yourself up to the stimuli your psychic senses are receiving, allowing your intuition to interpret the energy.”
    “It’s like having a ghost walk through my mind.”
    “Sometimes you hear the victims’ whispers, too, don’t you?”
    She shivered. “Those are the worst. I hate the freaks’ whispers but when I hear the victims’ voices, it’s a million times more awful because I know it’s probably going to be too late to rescue them.”
    “There are exceptions. That girl in your aunt’s basement today, for example, and that kidnapping victim you helped Mitchell find a few months ago.”
    “True. But the happy endings are few and far apart. And with the cold cases there is never a good outcome.”
    “Except justice,” he said quietly.
    “Yes.”
    “This probably won’t be much consolation but Arcane Society research indicates that it’s not the actual voices of either the freaks or the victims that you hear. What you’re sensing is the psychic residue of the emotions still clinging to the scene.”
    “I understand, but why do I only sense the dark, terrible stuff? I never feel the happiness or cheerfulness that people leave behind.”
    “The researchers believe there’s an evolutionary explanation. The brain’s primary job is to ensure your survival. Generally speaking, emotions like happiness or cheerfulness don’t represent a threat so, with the notable exception of sex, the psychic side of your brain has evolved to ignore the good feelings and concentrate on the bad.”
    She felt heat rise in her face. “Sex?”
    He looked amused. “Sex is directly connected to survival. Trust me, our psychic senses are very tuned into the vibes associated with