"Just anything that might strike you as odd, that's all. Nothing to do with this murder, obviously."
Stephanie had pretty good instincts, and right now they were practically doing handstands to get her attention. Trying to "guide" the police away from discrepancies in the bookkeeping was one thing; actively searching through documents herself in order to report back to Wallace was something else entirely. And suspicious as hell.
What did he expect her to find?
"Stephanie, I'm making a perfectly reasonable request that you keep in mind the best interests of your employers, that's all."
Stephanie was tempted, but decided not to try and pin him down to more fully explain his meaning. He was adept at sidestepping, for one thing. For another, she really didn't want him worried enough about what she might do to hop on a plane out in California and come here himself. Not before she figured out what this was all about, anyway.
If there was anything army brats learned young, it was that the more information you had in hand, the better your likelihood of making the best decision possible. Nobody could sneak up on you if you knew where they stood.
In other words, protect your goddamned flank. And your ass, while you were at it.
Keeping her own tone calm but just faintly impatient, she said, "Very well, sir. I'll take a look downstairs and report to you anything that seems to me unusual. And I'll work as closely as possible with the police, to keep fully abreast of the investigation."
"Good." Wallace sounded a bit wary rather than satisfied, as if he realized that Stephanie had not quite sung the team fight song. "Good. I'll expect regular updates, Stephanie. No matter how this plays out."
"Yes, sir." She crossed her fingers. "With the weekend looming, I doubt much will get done until Monday, at least. I'll call then with an update."
"Very well."
She cradled the receiver, then leaned back in her chair, propped her feet on the desk, and thought about this.
Item: there were discrepancies in The Lodge's accounts, and possibly other paperwork as well.
Item: Douglas Wallace, properties manager for the very wealthy group of investors who owned The Lodge, was worried about the wrong person finding the wrong thing while sifting through that paperwork.
Item: whatever Wallace was worried about might or might not have something to do with the murder of an eight-year-old boy ten years ago. But either way, Wallace was just this side of scared and not hiding it well.
Which meant bad news any way you cut it.
Final item: Stephanie Boyd was sitting in the hot seat.
"Shit," she muttered. "I knew this job was too good to be true."
"You can't blame yourself," Diana said.
"Rationally, I know that." Quentin shrugged. "I've told myself to let it go and move on with my life. God knows other people have told me the same thing. But whether psychic abilities, a guilty conscience, or simple instincts, something inside me has insisted all these years that I had to find Missy's killer. And let her rest in peace. It's something I have to do. Something I'm meant to do."
Recalling the thin face and sad eyes she had seen and drawn, Diana said slowly, "I wish I could tell you she was already at peace. But..."
"But you can't. You saw her, which means she's still in — for want of a better term — limbo. Even after all these years, she hasn't been able to move on."
"On to where?"
He smiled slightly. "Do you want me to say 'heaven'?"
"I don't know. Would it be true?"
"Not a question I can answer. Whatever I know of the future tells me nothing of the spirit realm. Or anything beyond this life. So far, anyway."
Diana frowned. She sipped her cooling tea, then said, "My sketch of Missy. I drew that before I saw her."
Quentin knew what she was asking. "It's a form of automatic writing. Your subconscious and psychic abilities were on autopilot, more or less."
"Why?"
"We have a few theories. Automatic writing or drawing is almost always triggered by stress. I know of only a couple of psychics who are able to deliberately tap in to the ability; for the rest of you, it tends to manifest itself because something is being suppressed."
She stared at him.
"Your abilities have been trying to surface for most of your life. Trying to. Between the meds and therapies and denial, they've been pushed down again and again. Beaten back, imprisoned. But something that powerful finds a way, sooner or later, to escape whatever's restraining it. You said something about blackouts earlier."
Diana frowned uneasily. "I did?"
"Yeah. I'm guessing the blackouts began sometime during your early teen years, during the physical and emotional chaos of adolescence. And that either they've grown stronger with time or else tend to occur when you're under unusual levels of stress."
Grudgingly, she said, "The latter."
Quentin didn't let her see how relieved he was by that information. If the blackouts were erratic and stress-related, then it was less likely that Diana's abilities were becoming a danger to her.
Less likely. Not impossible.
"Which means?" Diana prompted.
"Which means — or probably means — that you black out only when your abilities can find no other way of breaking free."
She set her cup down on the coffee table and leaned back, crossing her arms over her breasts. "Okay, now you're really creeping me out. You make these so-called abilities of mine sound as if they have a mind of their own."
"Energy, Diana. Your brain is naturally designed to tap in to energy, and it has to also be able to release it. Think of steam building up inside a pot holding boiling water. If the lid's on tight, the pressure can intensify until it's a destructive force, until the container itself is endangered. Some of the steam has to be allowed to escape."
"Okay, but—"
"The energy you tap in to has to have an outlet, something your instincts have always known. If you can't provide that release valve consciously, by allowing yourself to undergo the sort of visions you experienced earlier today, then your subconscious will find a way to do it for your own safety. The blackouts."
"I don't remember what happens then." She hesitated, then added, "But I...I've awakened in strange places. Doing strange things sometimes."
"I'm not surprised. Psychic blackouts are an extreme response, which means the energy level just before they occur has to be tremendous."
"Then what happens? Once a blackout is... triggered?" Diana wasn't sure which was strongest in her, curiosity or fear.
Quentin shook his head. "I have no way of knowing, not for certain. Psychic abilities are as unique as the individuals who possess them; the unconscious release of stored energy could take just about any form. What sort of strange things have you awakened in the middle of?"
"I was in a lake once. Up to my waist." She shivered. "I couldn't swim at the time. Now I can."
He frowned. "What else?"
"Driving my father's Jag. Very fast. I was fourteen."
"Jesus."
"Yeah. Scared the hell out of me."
"When you came out of the blackout, you didn't have any sense of where you were going or why?"
"No, just — " It was Diana's turn to frown. "Just... a pull."
"Pull?"
"Yeah. As if something — or someone, I suppose — had been calling me, drawing me toward them."
"Where were you headed?"
"I was so shaken up by it I hardly noticed where I was."
"Think. Try to remember."
"It's important?"
"Maybe."
Concentrating, Diana tried to push past the remembered terror and panic and recall more than emotions. What had she done? Slowed the car, looking for a sign, her hands cold and sweaty on the steering wheel and her heart pounding. In the darkness before dawn, everything had looked alien, and she had felt so alone there weren't even words for it.