Absolutely, Positively

clinically significant abnormalities,” he suggested.

    “Maybe I do. Who was that on the phone?”

    “Fergus Rice, the private investigator I hired to keep tabs on Kendall.”

    “Did he discover something?” Molly asked.

    “Two hours ago Wharton Kendall drove a blue Ford over a cliff somewhere along Highway One in Oregon. He was apparently heading for California. Kendall was killed in the crash.”

    It took a few seconds for the significance of that simple statement to sink in. When it did, Molly leaped off the sofa and raced across the room to Harry.

    “It's over,” she whispered as she threw herself into his arms.

    Harry's arms tightened around her. “That's what Rice said.”

17

    “All right, that's it. I've had it.” Molly sat straight up in bed and turned to glower at Harry. “Enough is enough. What's wrong? Why aren't you asleep?”

    Harry slanted her a surprised glance from beneath his lashes. The sheet was crushed to his waist. His arms were folded behind his head. The expression on his savage features was one of intent concentration.

    “I'm thinking,” he said.

    “Your thinking is giving me a severe case of insomnia.”

    “Sorry. I didn't realize I was keeping you awake.”

    “How am I supposed to sleep when you're lying there staring at the ceiling?”

    “Why should it bother you if I stare at the ceiling?” he asked with what appeared to be genuine curiosity.

    “Darned if I know, but it does. It's as if you're humming in my brain or something. It's keeping me awake.”

    “I can't help it. When I think, I think.”

    “Nope. This definitely isn't the sort of humming I hear when you're just thinking. I can sleep through that. This humming is more like a seriously-concerned-that-we-may-have-a-very-big-problem-on-our-hands kind of humming.”

    His eyes narrowed. “What the hell is this stuff about me humming in your head?”

    She shrugged. “I can't explain it. It's just sort of a sensation I've been getting lately. Don't you feel it?”

    “No.” Harry seized the edge of the sheet and started to shove it aside. “Look, if I'm keeping you awake, I'll go into the front room.”

    “No, you won't.” Molly caught him by his bare shoulder and pulled him down onto the pillow. “Stay right where you are.”

    He relaxed against the pillow without protest, one brow raised in polite inquiry.

    Molly punched her own pillow a few times and adjusted it against the headboard behind her. “Now, then, tell me what the problem is.”

    He hesitated for only a couple of seconds before he seemed to come to a decision. “It's Kendall's notebook.”

    “You're still worrying about that? But I thought we had decided that our problems are over now that Kendall is dead.”

    “There's something wrong with that notebook.” Harry levered himself up to a sitting position beside her and arranged his own pillow behind his back. “I just wish I could put my finger on it.”

    “You said that you didn't think the drawings of the gun and goblin mechanisms conveyed a sense of extreme rage.”

    “Yes, but that's not what's bothering me now.”

    Molly studied him in the shadows. “What, exactly, is bothering you?”

    “It's the way the intruder went after you the other day in your house. There was something about the way he did it that doesn't fit with the designs in Kendall's notebook.”

    Molly shivered. “It all seemed very efficient to me.”

    “That's just it,” Harry said softly. “It was efficient. Straightforward. Simple. Not very creative. Or personal.”

    “I guess that depends on your definition of creativity. And I can assure you that I took the attempt very personally.” Molly blinked as realization struck her. “Uh-oh. I think I see where you're going with this.”

    Harry drummed the long, lean fingers of his right hand absently against the sheet beside him. “If a man such as Kendall was bent on murder, he would be inclined to use a gadget of his own design to kill his victim.”

    “Harry, maybe you're carrying your deductive insights a little too far here.”

    “He used gadgets to try to terrorize you,” Harry said, oblivious to the interruption. “It's logical that he would have come up with something in the same vein if he went so far as to try to murder you.”

    “Uh, Harry…”

    “A mechanism that he had designed and built, himself. A device of his own invention, one that would have given him satisfaction when it worked properly. The same