Sense of Evil - Kay Hooper [15]
“Shit.” He stared at her grimly. “I'm taking a hell of a lot on faith here. This psychic stuff.”
“At least you didn't call it bullshit,” she murmured. “That's usually the first reaction.”
Ignoring that, he said, “I'm supposed to be okay with you being on our killer's list because you assure me you aren't next. That we have time while he stalks his next victim and, not incidentally, finds out enough about you to feel that he knows you. So he can kill you.”
“That pretty much sums it up, yeah.”
“Convince me. Convince me that this clairvoyant knowledge you have is genuine. That it's something I can trust.”
“Parlor tricks. It always comes down to parlor tricks.”
“I'm serious, Isabel.”
“I know you are.” She sighed. “You sure you want to do this?”
Suddenly wary again, he asked, “Why wouldn't I be?”
“Because the best way for me to convince you is to open up a connection between us and tell you things about yourself, your life, your past. Things I couldn't possibly know any other way. You might not find that very comfortable. Most people don't.”
“Women are dying, Isabel. I think I can endure a little psychic reading.”
“Okay. But when we speak of this later—and we will—just remember that I tried to warn you. I get bonus points for that.”
“Fine.”
She held out a hand, palm up, and Rafe hesitated only an instant before placing his hand on hers. He nearly jerked away when their flesh touched, because there was a literal, visible spark and a definite, if faint, shock. But her fingers closed over his strongly.
Matter-of-factly, she said, “Well, that's new.”
Rafe wanted to say something about static, but he was busy having another of those strange feelings, just as he'd had when she walked into the press conference, but much, much stronger. That a door had opened and a fresh breeze was blowing through. That everything around him was in sharper focus, more real than it had been before. That something had changed.
And he still didn't know if it was a good change or a bad one.
Isabel didn't go into some kind of trance or even close her eyes. But her eyes did take on that abstracted expression he had noticed before, as if she were listening to some distant sound. Her voice remained calm.
“You have an unusual paperweight on your desk at home, some kind of car part encased in acrylic. You prefer cats over dogs, though you don't have either because of your long working hours. You're allergic to alcohol, which is why you don't drink. You're fascinated by the Internet, by the instant communication of people all over the world. You're a movie buff, especially interested in science fiction and horror.”
Isabel smiled suddenly. “And you wear a particular style of jockey shorts because of a commercial you saw on TV.”
Rafe jerked his hand away. “Jesus,” he muttered. Then, getting back on balance, he added somewhat defensively, “You could have found out any of that. All of it.”
“Even the jockey shorts?”
“Jesus,” he repeated.
She was looking at him steadily, her eyes still faintly abstracted, distant. “Ah, now I understand why the idea of an FBI unit made up of psychics didn't throw you. Your grandmother had what she called ‘the sight.' She knew things before they happened.”
Rafe looked at his hand, which he had been unconsciously rubbing with the other one, then at her. “You aren't touching me,” he noted in a careful tone.
“Yeah, well. Once a connection is made, I tend to pick up stuff from then on.”
“Jesus Christ,” he said, varying the oath somewhat.
“I tried to warn you. Remember, bonus points.”
“I still don't— You could have found out most of that some other way.”
“Maybe. But could I have found out that your grandmother told you on your fifteenth birthday that your destiny was to be a cop? It was just the two of you there at the time, so nobody else knew. You believed it was weird, she was weird, because you hadn't thought of being a cop. The family business was construction. That's what you were going to do,