The vision broke and I reeled, grabbing the cenotaph. A moment’s pause, eyes squeezed shut. Then I straightened and blinked against the bright morning sun.

At the foot of the cenotaph, a shrine had started, with plucked daffodils and scraps of paper scrawled with “We’ll Miss You, Brian” and “Rest in Peace, Ryan.” Anyone who knew Bryan Mills well enough to spell his name was still at home, in shock. The people hugging and sobbing around the shrine were only hoping to catch the eye of a roving TV camera, say a few words about what a great guy “Ryan” had been.

As I circled the crime scene tape, I passed the fake mourners, and their sobbing rose…until they noticed I wasn’t carrying a camera, and fell back to sipping steaming coffees and huddling against the icy morning.

They might not have made me for a reporter, but the closest cop guarding the scene did, his glower telling me not to bother asking for a statement. I’m sure “Hey, I know what happened to your dead guy” would have been a guaranteed conversation opener. But then what would I say?

“How do I know? Um, I had a vision. Psychic? No. I can only see the past-a talent I inherited from my father. More of a curse, really, though I’m sure he thinks otherwise. Maybe you’ve heard of him? Lucifer? No, not Satan-that’s a whole different guy. I’m what they call a half-demon, a human fathered by a demon. Most of us get a special power, like fire, telekinesis or teleportation, without a demon’s need for chaos. But that chaos hunger is all I get, plus a few special powers to help me find it. Like visions of past trauma, which is why I know how your victim died. And I can read chaotic thoughts, like the one going through your head right now, Officer. You’re wondering whether you should quietly call for the ambulance or pin me to the ground first, in case my psychotic break turns violent.”