My guileless answer raises Dylan's suspicions. "What you're saying doesn't add up, Elizabeth."

"Really?" Indignant, I turn to face him. "What doesn't make sense is how you seem to find some sort of evil intent in everything I say."

"I'm sorry, but I don't believe Harlan's explanation about how he miraculously knew where to look to find the Jamison girl."

"And like Houdini you've magically come to the conclusion I was involved in the Jamison case?" Inwardly, I wince at my bitchiness. I know I'm being unreasonable, but I can't help myself.

He holds my gaze, unfazed by my shrill tone. "My uncle Jerry works on the police force. He's the one who suggested I talk to you. He told me they found Kiley Jamison because you had a psychic premonition, or dream about where she was. He said you were responsible for saving her life, not Harlan."

"Oh." I'm temporarily at a loss for words. Disappointed he knows so much about my involvement in the case. Why did Jerry have to open his big mouth? Unsure of where he's going with this, I decide to play my cards close to my vest. "I know Jerry. He's a good guy. He was always nice to me when my mom became ill." 

I'd had no idea Dylan was his nephew, but now I see how the two could be related. Dylan and Jerry both have that same aura of quiet strength running through them. A deep, silent current that could easily pull you under if you're not careful. There's a difference though, where Jerry gives you a frank, appraising look, Dylan's eyes are hypnotic. If you weren't careful they could easily cast a spell over you.

We're almost at my house. I'll be out of his car in a minute, free of his annoying interrogation, but something disconcerting comes over me. A strong sense of connection to his brooding intensity. Maybe it's because, like me, he keeps to himself at our school, Dresden Union High. Despite fearing this could be my Achilles Heel, I take a deep breath and decide to confide in him. I can't continue to bullshit him. He's smart and I respect that in a person. Besides, deep down something inside me wants to confide in him.

"Ok, let's say I knew where Kiley was before anyone else did." Carefully, I scan his aura checking his vibes and then turn to face him so I can read his expression. I'm overly sensitive about my psychic skills. If his face shows a hint of mockery or disbelief, I'll clam up like an oyster and never speak to him again. After I'm satisfied he's respectful and listening, I continue. "That poor little Jamison girl's still recovering from her horrible nightmare. Why are the details of how she was found important to you almost three years later?"

Dylan ignores the question. Glancing out the windshield, he focuses on the road. Although his face is expressionless, I feel his immense pain and  sadness, before he speaks. "Listen Elizabeth, I'll be honest with you. I not a fan of psychics and ghosts. What I believe in is what I can see and physically touch." I grab my armrest as he expertly downshifts, then swerves off the highway into my brownstone neighborhood.

Privately, I agree with him. That's two of us who dislike ghostly phenomena.

"But something's been bothering me lately." He hesitates, the muscles of his jaw working as if it's become too painful to talk.

"I can't stop thinking about my sister, Lyndsay. She disappeared eighteen months ago. I'm afraid something may have happened to her. My father thinks she ran off with her boyfriend, but I've never bought that story. Lyndsay was wild, but there was always a rhyme or reason to her rebelliousness. My father couldn't see that because he was so pissed at her all the time. I want to know what happened to her. She might be hurt, or in trouble."  He swallows hard before continuing. "I need to find out if she's alive or dead. If she's alive, I have to do something."

Taking a deep breath, he looks at me as if he's placing one last, desperate bet on the track long shot before the window closes. I'm simultaneously flattered and offended. I refuse to take his bait, no matter how hunky he looks. Pulling myself straighter, I grimace feeling the slick, wet spot my sweaty back leaves on his bucket seat. "I'm sorry, I don't understand how any of this applies to me."

"I think you can help me."

"Help you? How?" I can't conceal my shock at his inane assumption. My heart starts pounding in my chest, making me lightheaded.

"You're the only psychic person I know. Use your clairvoyant abilities to help me find out what happened to Lyndsay. Please." To my dismay, his stoic demeanor slips and I'm looking at the face of an eight-year old heartbroken boy.

"What?" I'm stunned by where his supposedly logical train of thought has led him. "How did finding your missing sister suddenly become our problem?" Wringing my hands in my lap, I desperately try to control my emotions. "You're crazy. You've got it all wrong. I can't call up some psychic hot line like I'm on a direct dial to David Duchovny's, X Files. Didn't you notice I'm dressed in clearance attire? If I could command any psychic skills, I'd be picking up my daily lotto winnings, or checking my stock portfolio in the Hamptons." Biting my lower lip, I decide to tell him the truth about me before his hopes go any higher. "Listen Dylan, I wish I could help you, but I'm not what you think I am."