Logan shook his head, never taking his eyes off Cassie. "If she stays with him, and he kills the girl, it could pull her in too deep, into his frenzy. We'd lose them both. Cassie? Cassie, get out. Now. Do it." He reached over and plucked the tissue-paper rose from her fingers.

Cassie drew a shuddering breath, then slowly opened her eyes. They were so pale a gray, they were like faint shadows on ice, strikingly surrounded by inky black lashes. Dark smudges of exhaustion lay under those eyes, and her voice shook with strain when she said, "Bob? Why did you – "

Logan poured hot coffee from a thermos and handed her the cup. "Drink this."

"But – "

"You helped us all you could, Cassie. The rest is up to my people."

She sipped the hot coffee, her eyes on the rose he still held. "Tell them to hurry," she whispered.

But it was nearly ten long, long minutes later before the report came in, and Paul scowled at Cassie.

"The boathouse was empty. You missed the fork in the driveway. One branch led to the boathouse, and the other led to a cove less than fifty yards away, where a cabin cruiser was tied up. He was gone by the time we found it. The little girl was still warm."

Logan quickly caught the cup that fell from Cassie's fingers and said, "Paul, shut up. She did her best – "

"Her best? She fucking missed it, Bob! There was no weathervane on top of the boathouse – there was a flag flying above the boat. That's what she saw moving in the wind. And the creaking she heard was the boat in the water. She couldn't tell the difference?"

"It was dark," Cassie whispered. Tears filled her eyes but didn't fall. Her shaking hands twisted together in her lap, and she breathed as though struggling against an oppressive weight crushing her lungs.

Paul said, "Five minutes. We wasted five minutes going the wrong way, and that little girl's dead because of it. What am I supposed to tell her parents? That our famous psychic blew it?"