Silent Fall

father."
    "Really? Always?"
    He hated that she was questioning his judgment. She sounded like all the other adults who’d acted as if he were crazy when he dared to mention that things weren’t good at home. "I can’t believe you doubt me." He couldn’t keep the accusation of betrayal from his voice. "I thought you were connected to me. I thought you and I had this psychic link that was honest and true."
    "Oh, Dylan, I don’t doubt you," she said, the words coming out in a burst of emotion. "Honestly, I don’t. I shouldn’t have said that. I was just comparing the man we met earlier today to the man I saw in his wedding photo. I was wondering if something had happened to change him. That’s all. I know he hurt you badly. I believe what you told me."
    "Forget it," he said quickly, brushing off her apology.
    "No, I’m not going to forget it. I lived some of what you did, and I know what it’s like to feel alone, as if you’re in some parallel universe that no one else can see. They think they know your life, but they don’t. You’re living in hell, but they think it’s heaven. Look at me, Dylan."
    He cast her a quick glance, seeing the plea in her eyes. Maybe she did understand. Maybe she did get him after all. "I don’t know if my father became a monster after my mother left, or if he was always that way," he said. "Since Jake and I were the only people who actually saw the monster, I’ll never know. My grandmother, my aunt, my cousins -- they didn’t see my father for what he was, or at least they were never willing to admit it."
    "Are Jake’s memories the same as yours?"
    "Not exactly," Dylan replied, looking back at the road. "Jake used to say that he thought the divorce made my father bitter and angry, but not all divorced men abuse their kids because they’re unhappy. That comes from some other place in the soul."
    "Yes, a dark place," she agreed. "Some people are sick, evil."
    He had a feeling she wasn’t talking about his father anymore. "You can’t get Erica’s killer out of your mind, can you?"
    "I’m trying."
    He knew she didn’t want to go back to the moment when she’d glimpsed the killer’s thoughts, but he felt compelled to take her there. "When you were in the killer’s head, did you think you were tapping into the actual shooter, or the person who ordered the hit? Because I think we’re dealing with two people."
    "The shooter -- I was in his head," Catherine answered with certainty. "I saw what he saw. I felt his satisfaction."
    "And did you get the sense that he was working for someone else?"
    "No, not from anything he thought, but I agree with you that there have to be two people. I just think that at the moment he kills he enjoys it. He’s good at it. It’s what he does. It’s his life."
    Catherine’s words drew a chill across his body. Dylan glanced over at her profile, seeing the renewed tension in her face. He was sorry he’d brought up the subject. "Don’t think about it anymore."
    "It’s difficult not to. I feel as if there’s some clue right in front of me that I’m missing. If I am connected to the shooter, why don’t I know who he’s working for?"
    "Because he didn’t give you a clue in his thoughts." Dylan paused, then said, "I’m surprised you didn’t sense him tonight, didn’t pick up on any vibes that he was watching the house."
    She stiffened in her seat. "I did feel uneasy. I thought it was just because it was getting dark. I shrugged it off."
    "You shrugged it off," he echoed in surprise. "You can do that? I thought the visions overtook you."
    "It was more a feeling than a vision, and I was distracted because I was eager to read the last two journals. I turned on the lamp, thinking I would banish the shadows, and then the window shattered. The shooter must have seen me in the upstairs bedroom. Perhaps he was waiting for the lights to come on, so he could figure out where we were."
    "Probably," he said, his mind latching onto an earlier part of her statement. "What journals were you reading?"
    "Oh, these," she said, pulling the two books out of her purse. "They’re your grandmother’s diaries. I had them in my hand when the shooting started. I never put them down."
    "What’s in them?"
    "Actually, I haven’t read these books yet, but your grandmother kept journals her entire life. I spent the afternoon