“I’m absolutely certain of it.”
“He told me his name was Vincent Grant.” Sophy clutched her wrap in one tight fist, crushing the delicate fabric. “He said I was his Muse. That was before he called me a succubus, of course.”
“You were okay with being a jerk’s Muse?”
Sophy slanted him a warning look. “At the time I was dating him I didn’t know he was a jerk. I was flattered.”
“Just asking a question. How did you meet him?”
“Vincent said he contacted me because he heard a detective talk about my ability to read a crime scene. He said he was curious because he wondered if I might have some psychic talent. He had some, too. He pointed out that we both did freelance work for the police so we probably had a few things in common. We agreed to meet for coffee. When we did, we recognized each other in the way that people with strong abilities do. You know how that is. It makes for a connection of sorts.”
“Not necessarily.”
She cleared her throat. “He had a few other things going for him, as well.”
“Let me guess. He was good-looking, dark, and brooding in a tortured, starving-artist way.”
“He wasn’t starving. He drove a nice car and he was expensively dressed. But yes, he was quite attractive. However, his real appeal was that he was one of those men who is very good at making conversation with women.”
“Conversation.”
“Vincent was intense, but when he talked to me, he focused onme, if you know what I mean.”
Luke ran the words through his dot-connecting algorithms a couple of times and gave up. He tried to ignore the cloud of impending doom that seemed to have taken up a position over his head.
“No,” he said. “If he was talking to you, who else would he focus on?”
“Himself. Never mind. The point is, Vincent didn’t try to convince me that he was a brilliant artist or that he had money. He was eager to hear what I had to say about crime scene work, about art, about food. Anything and everything. He said he valued my insights because my talent allowed me to see things that were hidden from him.”
Luke tried to remember if he had ever asked her for her thoughts on her police work or art or food. He couldn’t remember having done so.
“You and I spend a lot of time talking,” he said, aware that he sounded defensive. “We’ve talked a lot since I landed on your doorstep in Mirror Lake. Pretty much nonstop.”
“That’s different,” she said in a flat tone that made it clear the statement was not open to argument. “Our association is a matter of necessity. We have no choice but to communicate.”
The termassociationwas not promising, butcommunicatestruck him as downright cold. “What does a Muse do?”
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Vincent said my aura had an inspiring effect on his creativity.”
“As pickup lines go, that doesn’t sound very original. I’ll bet artists have been using it for years. Make that centuries.”
“Before you offer any more of your own opinions, I would like to point out that being an artist’s Muse seemed like a nice change. More fun than working with people who think I’m weird and scary but want to use me anyway.”
The cloud of doom over his head was growing more ominous.
“For the record, I have never thought you were weird or scary,” he said.
“Fair point. Whatever else I can say about you, I admit that you don’t seem to be afraid of me.”
“You don’t have to sound disappointed.”
She gave him a fierce look.
“I assume you did a background check on Grant?” he continued.
“Of course,” she said, indignant. Then she sighed. “Well, sort of. I checked him out online. He had a website where he displayed his work. It looked legit.”
“Hehada website? Past tense?”
