“Is this the detective agency?” the woman asked, her voice trembling.

Gus jumped out of his chair.

“Welcome to Psych,” he said, holding out a hand. “Come in. I’m Burton Guster.”

With a sinking heart, Gus saw her take a quick glance around the office at the frat-boy-with-a-credit-card decor: the leather armchairs, the wide flat screen, the comic books scattered over the coffee table.

“This is a mistake,” the woman said. “You can’t help me. No one can.”

“Many people think that before they come to us,” Gus said. “Before they meet Shawn Spencer.”

“Is he really psychic?”

Gus heard a moan of pain from behind him. Shawn lay spread-eagle in his desk chair, arms flung out at his sides, legs up on the desk, eyes screwed shut.

“I’m sensing something.” Shawn rose out of the chair as if yanked up by unseen strings and stared into the woman’s eyes. “There’s been a murder.”

“Yes,” she said. There was a flicker of hope in her eyes. Keep it coming, Gus thought. You’ve almost got her.

“I’m sensing that you were not the victim,” Shawn said.

The hope flickered out and died.“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here.”

Gus dived for the door, throwing himself between the woman and the exit. “You have to understand that Shawn sees the spirit world so clearly that sometimes he can’t tell if he’s addressing a living person or a ghost.”

“Often I need to use my hands to be sure,” Shawn said, extending his arms toward her.

“Shawn!”

“But not this time,” Shawn said, dropping his arms. “I sense there was a murder.”

“Yes, you sensed that already,” Gus said. “Maybe you could sense a little more.”

“Maybe I could,” Shawn agreed.