"Come on," Sam said, "we need to tell Delilah about this."
As they turned to leave, Elder Thornberry called from the pond, "The shadow collector grows bolder when the light reveals too much! Beware of the borrowed faces that watch from familiar places!"
For once, Sam didn't find his warnings cryptic at all.
The bell above the door jingled as Delilah adjusted the "Crystal Clear Investigations" sign for the fifth time that morning. The crystals hanging in the window cast rainbow prisms across the freshly painted walls, dancing over Sam's meticulously organized filing cabinet.
"It's still crooked," Sam said without looking up from his notepad.
Delilah squinted at the sign. "It's artistic, not crooked. There's a difference."
"There's a difference between artistic and—" Sam's head snapped up as the bell jingled again. "Client."
A woman in her forties with frizzy red hair pulled into a messy bun stood in the doorway. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, and her cardigan was buttoned wrong, as if she'd dressed in a hurry.
"Are you open?" she asked, voice raspy from lack of sleep. "The sign says open, but it's a bit?—"
"Artistic," Delilah finished, shooting Sam a triumphant look.
"Crooked," the woman said.
Sam's mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. "Please, come in. I'm Sam Wolfe, and this is Delilah Hart. How can we help you?"
Delilah pulled out her favorite velvet chair for the client while grabbing her crystal-embedded notepad. Sam had already opened a fresh manila folder, pen poised with military precision.
"I'm Margaret Winters. I run the bed and breakfast on Moonstone Lane." She twisted her wedding ring nervously. "It's about the dreams."
"Your dreams?" Delilah asked, leaning forward.
"Everyone's dreams," Margaret replied. "All my guests, my husband, even the mailman. We're all having the same dream."
Sam's pen scratched across his notepad. "When did this start?"
"Three nights ago. At first, I thought it was just me, but then my husband mentioned it at breakfast. Then our guests started comparing notes."
Delilah closed her eyes, brushing her fingers against the woman's cardigan sleeve. Images flashed—a shadowy figure moving between beds, touching foreheads, leaving sparkling dust behind.
"This figure in your dreams," Delilah said, opening her eyes. "He calls himself a collector?"
Margaret's eyes widened. "How did you?—"
"Educated guess," Sam interjected, giving Delilah a warning look about revealing her abilities too soon. "What exactly does this collector do in these dreams?"
"He offers to make our deepest wishes come true." Margaret shivered. "He says he only requires a small price—a memory, a talent, something we 'won't even miss.' Three of my guests have checked out early. The others aren't sleeping."
Sam slid a form across the desk. "We'll need a list of everyone experiencing these dreams and access to your property."
"And something personal from each affected person," Delilah added. "A hairbrush, jewelry, anything they wear regularly."
Margaret looked between them. "Do you two always finish each other's?—"
"Sentences?" Delilah offered.
"Investigations," Sam said simultaneously.
"That's not what I was going to say." Delilah frowned.
"Yes it was, I saw it on your notepad."
