Ben watched her. Since the night she had been unable to read him even after touching him, he thought she was a bit less wary in his presence; she was definitely making eye contact more often than she had at first.
But she was still very much shut inside herself, guarded and watchful. Her smiles were almost always brief, her eyes unreadable. And though the strain he had seen at their first meeting was still visible in the faint shadows under her eyes, she seemed somehow less torn by it, as though acceptance of the situation had bred a kind of peace.
Or a kind of fatalism.
That bothered Ben, this feeling that Cassie was resigned to a fate she was convinced lay in store for her. She had not had to tell him that the fate she saw for herself was not a happy one; it had been obvious. And that had been the reason he had driven around arguing with himself before finally coming to her. Not because an attempt would most likely drain her, but because he couldn't shake the feeling that with each attempt she was moving nearer a destiny that would take her far beyond his reach, maybe beyond anyone's reach.
And she knew it.
He made himself put that aside for the moment, and was about to ask her if she sensed anything, when her sudden smile threw him off balance.
"Cassie? Does it tell you anything?"
She opened her eyes, the smile lingering. "As a matter of fact, it does." She returned the scrap to the plastic bag and dropped it carelessly onto the sofa between them. "It tells me the good sheriff has a sense of humor as well as a suspicious nature. I wasn't entirely sure about that."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's a test, Ben. A test for me." She was still smiling. "I invited him to do it, actually, so I can't complain."
Ben picked up the evidence bag. "Are you telling me this didn't come from any of the crime scenes?"
"Afraid not."
"Then where the hell did it come from?"
"As I said, the sheriff has a sense of humor. That scrap of material is from his own Boy Scout uniform."
"Son of a bitch."
"Don't be too hard on him. I knew he wouldn't refuse a challenge and I gave him one. To test me unexpectedly. That's why he refused to come along, of course. He's such an open book, I would easily have read his intentions. He's sure I can do that, even if he'd argue there's nothing paranormal about it. This way, he's not here, and even if I could read you, you had no idea the so-called evidence wasn't genuine."
Grimly Ben said, "I certainly didn't."
Cassie shrugged. "Well, I passed his little test. It won't convince him, but it should at least give him pause. Maybe in the end that'll be worth something."
Ben heard himself say, "What is the end, Cassie? Can you tell me that?"
She looked away, amusement fading. "I told you I can't see the future."
"But you saw yours. Your fate."
"That's different."
"Is it? Can you tell me your fate isn't tangled up with this investigation?"
Her profile was still, expressionless, as she gazed toward the fireplace, and her voice was calm when she said, "I can't tell you anything about my fate."
"Why not?"
"Because it's mine. Because telling you could somehow be the spur to make it all happen just as I saw it."
"And what if not telling me is the spur? Can you be sure it isn't?"
"No."
"Then – "
"I had to make a choice, Ben. Act in any way to try to change what I saw, or not act. I acted. I ran three thousand miles/And in running, in acting to try to change what had to be, I put myself right back into the kind of situation I was running from." She turned her head and looked at him at last, smiling faintly. "I don't think I'll act anymore."
"You acted by agreeing to help us."
"No, that was just one foot following the other. I'm here. Trying to help is the logical, natural thing to do. I'm not trying to change fate. I'm just doing what I have to do."
"You saw your own death, didn't you?"
"No."
He frowned at her. "You're lying to me."
"No, I'm not. I did not see my own death."
"Then what did you – "
"Ben, I don't want to talk about this. It won't do either of us any good. Just… stop feeling guilty for pressing me to help, all right?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"To me it is. Can we change the subject now?"
He nodded slowly. "All right. Tell me something. When you took my hand outside a little while ago, were you able to read me?"
"No."
"Then it wasn't because you were tired before."
"No, it wasn't. I can't read you. You have walls."
His gaze was intent. "What does that mean?"
Cassie hesitated. "I'm not so sure you want to talk about this."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Because… it's been my experience that people have walls for a reason. To protect themselves. To keep other people out. To… reveal as little of themselves as possible."
"Are you saying these walls exist because I deliberately built them?"
"Deliberately – probably. Consciously, probably not. Ben, I'm not making some kind of an accusation. We all have defense mechanisms." She watched him with a slight frown, aware that she had touched a nerve and uncertain whether to continue. But something in his eyes made her go on. "Most of us learn early to hide things about ourselves, to disguise what others see, and only those closest to us ever realize it. It's human nature. But for some people, hiding or disguising what's there is impossible, for one reason or another. Maybe because the inner pain is too great, or maybe just because the personality is particularly sensitive and empathetic. It feels so much and so deeply that it has no defenses. So the mind, if it's strong enough, builds walls to protect itself."
Cassie shook her head. "Just like the defense mechanisms other people use, the walls usually pass unrecognized, even unnoticed except by those closest to you."
"Unless you happen to meet a psychic," Ben said.
"Psychics look beneath the surface. It's what we do."
"And beneath my surface is a wall."
"That bothers you."
"Shouldn't it?"
Slowly Cassie said, "It's there for a reason, Ben. It was put there for a reason. If and when it's no longer needed, it won't be there anymore."
Ben drew a breath. "I see."
Cassie realized she had not in any way reassured him, but she didn't know what else to say.
"I suppose I should be grateful. If not for my walls, you'd still be avoiding my eyes and doing your best not to touch me."
She nodded. "Probably. Your walls mean I don't have to work so hard to keep my own in place. From my point of view, it's a welcome respite. Nice to be able to talk to someone and not have to worry about listening with the wrong sense. So far, it's just you, Abby – and Max."
"You can't read Abby?"
"No."
"She wouldn't have struck me as the kind of person who'd need walls," he mused.
Cassie smiled. "Which only proves that hers work."
"I guess so." He hesitated, then said reluctantly, "I should probably go and let you get back to your sorting."
Old and solitary instincts prompted Cassie to agree hat he should leave, but newer urges got in the way. His eyes were attentive, and that restlessness was back in his voice, and she didn't have to read his mind to know that ic did not want to leave her just yet.
She wondered when it had gotten hard to breathe, and was vaguely surprised her voice sounded normal when she said, "If you don't have other plans, I fixed a huge pot of soup yesterday, far too much for Max and me. You could stay awhile, help us finish it."
In the momentary silence between them, they could hear the whine of the wind as it built outside, and a sudden quiet rattle against the windowpanes announced the arrival of sleet.
"It sounds like a perfect night for soup," Ben said. "What can I do to help?"
He moved very carefully, wary of the dog's keen ears even with the noise of the building storm. Caution told him to stay back, but he wanted to get closer, close enough to see inside.