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He punched it in his cell phone as she rattled it off.
    “Hello, Sheriff.” Erin’s Aunt Cerie answered before the first ring. “How’s your father?”
    “Well, thank you. I’m calling because Erin needs you to—”
    “Bring her a change of clothes. Yes, I know. I’m at the station. Waiting.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Tell her that I’ve brought her a Thermos of tea as well. She’s so cold I’m shivering.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “And Graham?”
    “Yes?”
    “ I have faith in you.” Cerie hung up before Graham could respond. What the hell did that mean?
    “Told you,” Erin said, her voice stronger.
    Graham thumbed the End button on his phone, unsettled by his conversation with Cerie. Not because of the supposed psychic thing… oh, hell, who was he kidding? The woman was sweet, but that conversation creeped the shit out of him.
    It was the way she’d said her parting remark that threw him. She had faith in him. Did that mean others didn’t? Had she picked up on something he hadn’t? He couldn’t ask her without giving away his own doubts. Had he missed something at the scene? Should he have stayed until the investigators arrived?
    No. He refused to believe that. It was being back in this damned town. He’d never second-guessed himself in L.A. Well, almost never. He’d never let a crazy supposed psychic like Cerie December get to him, that’s for sure. He’d run cases on his own before. Had closed a good portion of them, a better than average portion of them.
    He knew what he was doing, damn it.
    “Mabel would have told her what happened,” Erin said, breaking into his thoughts. “That I was involved. Plus Aunt Cerie took my car this morning because hers is on the fritz so she knew I would’ve walked to Greg’s house from the office. And then the rain came faster and harder than the weather announcer had said it would. Hence the dry clothes.”
    “Are you telling me your aunt’s not really psychic? If that’s the case, she shouldn’t be taking money from people for her ‘readings.’ That’s fraud.”
    “She’s smart and psychic. Not to mention best friends with your dispatcher who uses her head set as a megaphone.”
    “Can’t defend that.”
    “You can turn the heat down. I’m warmer now and you’re probably burning up.”
    He was sweating his balls off. “I’m okay.”
    The uncomfortable silence grew into a solid mass between them. If they weren’t exchanging barbs, he hardly knew how to talk to her. He stole looks at her in the rear view mirror, flicking his gaze over the parts of her he could see. He didn’t want to get caught staring.
    She faced away, her attention on the scenery out the window. Her hair was beginning to dry and curled in clumps around her face. She must have been standing fairly close to Greg when he’d shot himself. Bits of gore had gotten caught in her hair. He frowned over that.
    Still, she was beautiful. There was a fragility to her that belied her fiery personality. She looked made of china, the kind his Grandma Byrne only put out on special occasions because it was fine and old, having passed through several generations. And like the danger of handling his grandma’s china, he had to suppress the urge to touch her, run the tips of his fingers along her jaw, her collarbone to make sure she was real. Something as delicate as she belonged to the faery stories Grandma Byrne had told him as a boy.
    They pulled up to the police station, which was a Victorian house that had been converted sometime in the seventies. They’d ripped all the gingerbread off the façade, leaving it with awkwardly angled roofs and a tower that looked more like a missile silo than a graceful turret.
    Graham grabbed the umbrella from his trunk and came around to let Erin out. He held the umbrella over her head as they climbed the steps.
    At the top she turned to him, holding her arms out. “Will I be able to shower before I change into clean clothes?”
    “There’s a shower