Sarah looked up at him. “You don't think there are any vampires involved?"

"No, I—” Blackwood began, but then gave her a curious look and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Unless you have something to tell us? I've always felt the police would do well to listen to what you have to—"

"I don't have any knowledge—"

"Don't play games with me,” Blackwood snapped, any semblance of friendship disappearing in an instant, replaced by hard intent. “I understand why you haven't gone to the police,” he said. “The idiots wouldn't know a true talent if it bit them in the ass. What I don't understand is why you've chosen to throw your lot in with those disgusting blood drinkers. If you're having dreams—"

"Those dreams were years ago,” Sarah insisted. “I don't do that any—"

"This is bullshit!” Blackwood nearly shouted. The room around them was suddenly quiet. Blackwood drew a deep breath and sat back with a broad smile, smoothing his ruby-colored tie over the bulk of his gut and waving off the maitre d’ who was looking their way anxiously. He took a long drink of his wine and patted his mouth prissily with the neatly pressed napkin.

"We both know what you're capable of,” he said in a low voice, that phony smile once again firmly planted on his broad face. “So, don't insult me by pretending otherwise."

"What is it you want from me?” Sarah asked tightly.

"What I want is whatever you know about Patricia Cowens and this entire affair."

"I told you. I don't know anything and I don't want to know anything. Do you have any idea what they put me through back then? The police treated me like a murderer and my parents thought I was crazy. They institutionalized me, Edward. I've spent the last ten years doing whatever it takes to forget this so-called gift and nothing you say will change that."

Blackwood regarded her with a smug smile. “Nothing? Well, Susan, I'm quite certain the tabloid press would be thrilled to discover that their favorite teenage psychic is alive and well and living right here in Buffalo. Why, I imagine it would make the front pages for weeks if you turned up. You'll be right alongside the two-headed cows and Elvis. And, of course, the tabloids are all over the Internet now too, aren't they? What do you suppose your University colleagues would make of that?"

Sarah sat rooted to her chair, her heart in her throat, watching the last ten years of her life go a little further down the drain with every word from Blackwood's mouth. She'd been so wrong about Raj. He wasn't a monster. He wasn't even close. The real monster was sitting across the table from her in this elegant restaurant, a smug smile on his fat face that said he didn't give a damn about her or anyone else.

"Your refusal to face the truth of your talent is a loss for the entire human race,” he was saying. “A true loss. And, may I say, selfish on your part. Surely you owe it to—"

"I don't owe anyone anything,” she managed to whisper. “Least of all you.” She grabbed her napkin blindly, laid it on the table and shrugged the strap of her purse over her shoulder. She scooted her chair backward to stand, but Blackwood placed a firm hand over her arm on the table, holding her in place. “Now, Sarah, I don't think either of us—"

"Director Blackwood?” She looked up to see a woman bearing down on them, middle-aged and wearing enough jewelry to feed a small village for a year. “It is you! I'd heard you were in town—"

Blackwood was on his feet in an instant. “Of course, my dear, and what a delight to see you.” The woman took his arm, turning him away from the table as she called to someone across the room. Sarah saw her chance and made a break for it, all but running from the restaurant. She passed the wide-eyed maitre d’ and shoved her way past a trio of matrons who gasped at her rudeness. Like she cared.

She almost fell down the stairs in her urgency to get away. There was a big, black van parked right in front of the restaurant, and some part of her registered the valet arguing with the driver as she ran past. But she left it behind, along with the curious looks of the suited executives and iPodded teenagers she shoved out of her way. She took a shortcut through a reeking passage between two buildings, dashing around trash cans, nearly tripping over a homeless person who muttered angrily as she disrupted his afternoon nap. She reached her car, keys in hand, thankful for the remote to beep open the doors, because she didn't think she could have gotten a key in the lock with her hands shaking the way they were.

Once inside her car, she locked all the doors and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel, trying to think. She'd have to run. Get out of Buffalo, out of New York. Everything she'd built over these last years would be gone—her career, her education—none of it would matter now. She'd start all over again. She'd saved some money, enough to last her a year if she was careful. A scrape of sound had her sitting up quickly and looking around. No one there, but she shouldn't be sitting here in the open like this. She drew a deep breath and started the car. The car at least was hers, free and clear. She'd paid cash for it, one less thing for her to worry about, one less trail to lead them to her.

She drove out of the parking lot and headed for home, knowing as she did so that by tomorrow, she wouldn't have a home any longer.

Sarah turned onto her street, driving past the duplex and around the block to park in the alley. A worn fence with a rickety gate opened from the alley to the scruffy back yard she shared with Mrs. M. There was a padlock on the gate, but it was on the inside and it hung open most of the time. Neither one of them spent much time back here, except to take out the trash. Sarah fumbled with her key ring as she crossed to the house, trying to remember which one opened the back door. She'd never used it before, but she was sure Mrs. M. had given her a key when she first moved in.

She found the right key and shoved it into the lock, slipping inside and closing the door behind her. Her first thought was to check every shutter and curtain downstairs, closing them all before hurrying upstairs to drape towels over the uncovered halves of her bedroom windows. It was dark with the windows covered, so she turned on a few lights and walked from room to room taking inventory. There was really nothing in the way of furniture that she couldn't leave behind. Maybe she'd done that unconsciously over the years, never buying anything that meant something to her. Maybe a part of her had known this day would come when she'd have to abandon everything once again.

In her study, she opened a small safe tucked into her lower desk drawer. Her passport and a spare driver's license were there, although she'd need a new ID before long. Credit cards would be the easiest way of tracking her, so those would have to go right away. She swiveled her chair around and logged onto the computer, going to her bank's web site. With a few key strokes, she'd transferred all of the funds from her checking account into a separate account under her maternal grandmother's name. Gramma Maude was long dead and wouldn't mind. Sarah had been her only granddaughter and they'd been close. She'd died before everything fell apart, which was probably a good thing. In any event, the account wouldn't remain open long. Eventually, someone—the press or the police—would trace the transfer. But by then the money would be gone, withdrawn in cash from banks or ATMs on her way to wherever she ended up.

That done, she took a look around her study. None of the furniture mattered, but her books would definitely come with her. So would the desktop computer and, of course, her laptop. The boxes from when she'd moved in were downstairs in the closet beneath the stairs. She could start packing tonight and be gone by tomorrow. Her rent was paid through the end of the month, but she'd give Mrs. M. enough to cover an additional month to make up for her sudden departure.

She crossed the hall to her bedroom. There were no memories here. No lost loves, no hot nights of passion. She thought again of Raj. He'd be a passionate lover, there was no doubt of that. Memories of their few encounters still sent shivers through her bones and tightened her gut with longing. What would it have been like if they'd made love?

She closed her eyes and deliberately put the thought away. That was never going to happen. Unless she ran into him at a stop sign on her way out of town, she'd never see him again. Pain swelled in her chest at the thought and she rubbed it absently, surprised to find herself crying. “Don't be stupid, Sarah,” she scolded herself. “He's not even speaking to you."

She drew a deep, stabilizing breath. Clothes, she thought purposefully, marching over to the closet. All of her clothes would go. She didn't have that many, and couldn't afford to leave them behind, in any event. Not if she was going to be living on her savings for awhile.

She was standing there, staring around and wondering where to start, when the doorbell rang downstairs. She froze, listening, and jumped when her phone rang loudly in counterpoint to the persistent doorbell. She ignored the phone; whoever it was would go to voice mail. Instead, she moved quietly over to the window, wincing when the old hardwood floor creaked noisily beneath her feet. Lifting the corner of one of the towels she'd slung over the curtain rod, she saw a black van parked out front. It was a cargo-type van, with no windows, and there was something about it—a disheveled man emerged from the back, looking as if he'd been sleeping inside, or maybe living there. He slammed the double doors noisily and shuffled around to the side where he opened the big sliding door as well. The interior was surprisingly well lit and filled with equipment, some sort of . . . Sarah drew back in dismay. It was a press van and she knew now where she'd seen it before. It had been in front of the restaurant where'd she met Blackwood; she remembered it from her mad dash down the street.

Her heart sank as Blackwood's phony smile filled her thoughts. The press had been there the whole time. No wonder he'd planted himself so prominently in the front window, he'd wanted them to see her, to get pictures of the two of them together. He'd lied to her. Whether she agreed to work with him or not, he already had plans in motion to publicize the whole thing.