“No, he’s not, but that’s not important. He’s dead.”

James Quinlan knew her file inside out. All he needed was to have her flip out on him. He’d found her, he had her now, but she was obviously close to the edge. He didn’t want a fruitcake on his hands. He needed her to be sane. He said very gently, his voice, his body movements all calm, unhurried, “That’s impossible, you know.”

“Yes, I know, but it was still his voice.” She was rubbing her hands over her arms. She was staring at that phone, waiting. Waiting for her dead father to call again? She looked terrified, but more than that she looked just plain confused.

“What did he say? This man who sounded like your dead father?”

“It was my father. I’d know that voice anywhere.” She was rubbing harder. “He said that he was coming, that he’d be here with me soon and then he’d take care of things.”

“What things?”

“Me,” she said. “He’ll come here to take care of me.”

“Do you have any brandy?”

Her head jerked up. “Brandy?” She grinned, then laughed, a small, rusty sound, but it was a laugh. “That’s what my aunt’s been sneaking into my tea since I got here yesterday. Sure, I’ve got brandy, but I promise you, even without the brandy I won’t get my broomstick out of the closet and fly out of here.”

He thrust out his hand. “That’s good enough for me. My name’s James Quinlan.”

She looked at that hand, a strong hand, one with fine black hairs on the back of it, long fingers, well-cared-for nails, buffed and neat. Not an artist’s hands, not like Amabel’s, but capable hands. Not like Scott’s hands either. Still, she didn’t want to shake James Quinlan’s hand, she didn’t want him to see hers and know what a mess she was. But there was no choice.

She shook his hand and immediately withdrew hers. “My name’s Sally St. John. I’m in The Cove to visit my aunt, Amabel Perdy.”

St. John. She’d only gone back to her maiden name. “Yes, I met her in the World’s Greatest Ice Cream Shop. I would have thought she lived in a caravan and sat by a campfire at night reading fortunes and dancing with veils.”

She made a stab at a laugh again. “That’s what I thought too when I first got here. I hadn’t seen her since I was seven years old. I expected her to whip out some tarot cards, but I was very glad she didn’t.”

“Why? Maybe she’s good at tarot cards. Uncertainty’s a bitch.”

But she was shaking her head. “I’d rather have uncertainty than certainty. I don’t want to know what’s going to happen. It can’t be good.”

No, he wasn’t going to tell her who he was, he wasn’t going to tell her that she was perfectly right, that what would happen to her would suck. He wondered if she’d killed her father, if she hadn’t run to this town that was on the backside of the Earth to protect her mother. Others in the bureau believed it was a deal gone sour, that Amory St. John had finally screwed over the wrong people. But he didn’t believe that for a minute, never had, which was why he was here and no other agents were. “You know, I’d sure like some brandy.”

“Who are you?”

He said easily, “I’m a private investigator from Los Angeles. A man hired me to find his parents, who disappeared from around here some three years ago.”

She was weighing his words, and he knew she was trying to determine if he was lying to her. His cover was excellent because it was true, but even that didn’t matter. He was a good liar. He could tell his voice was working on her.

She was so thin, her face still had that bloodless look, the color leached out by the terror of that phone call. Her father? He was coming to take care of her? This was nuts. He could handle sane people. He didn’t know what he’d do if she flipped out.

“All right,” she said finally. “Come this way, into the kitchen.”

He followed her to a kitchen that was straight out of the 1940’s—the brownish linoleum floor with stains older than he was. It was clean but peeling up badly near the sink area. All the appliances were as old as the floor, and just as clean. He sat down at the table as she said, “Don’t lean on it. One of the legs is uneven. See, Aunt Amabel has magazines under it to make it steady.”

He wondered how long the table had been like that. What an easy thing to fix. He watched Susan St. John Brainerd pour him some brandy in a water glass. He watched her pause and frown. He realized she didn’t know how much to pour.