Normally, I could tell Felicity anything. Close simply wasn’t strong enough a word to describe our relationship. We were without a doubt, soul mates, and not in the new-agey, soft-focus sense of the overused catchphrase. There was a depth of connection between the two of us that transcended normal bonds of love and friendship.

“Good,” Helen announced calmly after a brief pause. “Now we are progressing.”

“I’m glad someone thinks so,” I mumbled.

“Tell me, why do you think the woman in your nightmare is Felicity?”

“I said might be.”

“Yes, you did. However, that does not answer my question.”

“I don’t know.”

“I think that you do.”

“Well maybe you’re wrong for a change.”

“Perhaps. No one is ever correct one-hundred percent of the time,” she admitted. “However, I would hazard to say that this is not one of the times when I have fallen from my pedestal.” She made an overt show of rocking back and forth as if checking her footing. “No, it feels quite solid. I am still up here.”

I couldn’t help but crack a thin smile at her theatrics. I knew that while she was serious, this brush with humor was her attempt at bolstering my mood, which was sinking rapidly. What made it even more effective was that it was so out of character for her.

“Well,” I began, allowing the brief levity to push me into a fragile sense of security. “It’s complicated. How much do you know about what has been happening with the Hammond Wentworth homicide?”

“Very little,” she replied. “Benjamin has not spoken of it except to say that you and Felicity had been helping.”

“Nothing else?”

“He did let slip that the two of you were somehow involved in an incident last week that became somewhat of a problem. However, he did not provide any details.”

“Incident,” I echoed. “That’s one word for it.”