Silent Fall

behind him, as if he could somehow put a solid barrier between himself and his past. But that was just an illusion. Someday the past would catch up to him, no matter how far he ran.
    When she left the room she found Dylan standing in the middle of the hallway. She’d thought he’d be downstairs by now.
    "Why did you look in the desk?" he demanded. "Why that drawer? That photo album? That page?"
    "I just had a feeling I should."
    "My mother is not connected to any of this."
    "She’s connected to you, and so am I."
    He shook his head, anger in his eyes. "I’m not going down that road right now, Catherine. I have enough on my plate. Maybe I’ll look for her someday, but not today. She’s been gone for twenty-three years. She can stay gone a little longer. From now on my mother is off-limits."
    The lingering sound of his mother’s sobs filled Catherine’s mind. She didn’t know if the crying was from years ago or from a more recent period. But one thing she knew for sure was that Dylan’s mother had not been happy. She’d suffered for something. Her heart had been broken.
    "Damn you," Dylan swore. "Stop thinking about her. I can see it in your face."
    "See what?" she challenged.
    "That you want to tell me something about my mother. Well, I don’t want to hear it. I’ll let you know if I change my mind. Until then, keep your visions to yourself and your mouth shut. Got it?" He didn’t wait for her answer. He jogged down the stairs, as if he couldn’t get away fast enough, but Catherine knew that she wasn’t the one he was running from.

Chapter Nine

    While he ate dinner Dylan tried to get his parents’ wedding photograph out of his mind, but no matter what he’d told Catherine he couldn’t stop thinking about it or his mother. Seeing his parents together, in love at the beginning of their lives, had rattled him. He couldn’t remember those days. That past wasn’t in his memory. And he wasn’t sure he wanted it there now.
    Why had Catherine been drawn to that particular photo? She’d flipped the pages as if she were seeking exactly that one. A very cynical part of him wondered if she was just part of the setup. Someone could have bought her off as well as Erica.
    That plan could have been to have Erica disappear and Catherine torture him with secret visions about his past. Maybe she’d taken him to the Palace of Fine Arts because she knew that was where Erica would leave the cross. She could be working for his enemy while pretending to be his friend.
    He picked up his beer and took a large gulp, studying her face in the soft light of the kitchen, and knew that while he didn’t want to believe in her or her crazy visions, he did -- against all reason, all logic, everything he knew about life and the world. There was something inside of him that told him to accept the fact that Catherine was tuned in to the world in a very special and unique way.
    "Just eat," Catherine said. "Stop thinking so much."
    "You’re making me crazy," he told her. "I really wish you hadn’t found that photo. My parents are not a part of this, especially my mother, who has been gone forever."
    Catherine set down her fork as she finished her plate of pasta and vegetables. "You don’t know who’s a part of it. You should keep an open mind. Follow the trail wherever it goes."
    "And your sixth sense is supposed to be my conductor?"
    "You could say that," she told him with a smile.
    "I need to rely on my own eyes, my own instincts," he protested.
    "I get that, Dylan. But you might as well use me. I’m here."
    She didn’t want to know how badly he wanted to use her.
    "I didn’t mean it that way," she said quickly.
    He frowned at how easily she’d read his expression, but then again, it was becoming more and more difficult to keep her out of his mind. "Stop getting into my head," he ordered.
    "If you want me to do that, stop thinking all the time about you and me having sex. You’re not that good at hiding your thoughts."
    "I was before I met you," he complained. "I used to be the best poker player in the neighborhood. When I was sixteen I’d clean up with Jake’s friends. No one had a better bluff than me."
    "We’re not playing cards." She put up a hand. "And if you’re thinking about suggesting a quick game of strip poker to test your poker face, think again."
    He laughed. "Okay, you are good. Have you