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complexion, like he was outside a lot in rough weather, and a thick shock of black hair that looked as if he was wearing an animal pelt on his head.
    “
That
guy?
That
is the guy who damn near killed my detective?” I turned up the volume.
    “What evidence do the police have against you, Mr. Rouse?”
    Yep, that was him all right. Rouse the Louse.
    The man lowered his head, shook it slowly. I narrowed my eyes on him, but I couldn’t
feel
him. I wasn’t close enough. “No comment.”
    “Mr. Rouse, again, if you didn’t set the fire that killed your wife, do you have any idea who did?”
    His head came up fast and he opened his mouth, clearly about to blurt something. But then he clamped it closed again, and I could see he really regretted his almost-slip. “My lawyer says I can’t talk to you. I’m sorry. You’ll just have to wait for the trial.”
    “But you want to tell your side of the story, don’t you, Mr. Rouse? I can see you do.”
    He stopped walking, and I thought he was going to do it. Spill his guts. She was good, this reporter. What the hell was her name? I knew it. I’d seen her on the local news often enough. Trisha Knight. That was it.
    She was holding her breath, and so was I. And then he pressed his lips tight, shook his head. “No comment. Now please let me go into my house.”
    He pushed past her, not giving her much choice about “letting” him.
    I located the remote, hit the back button and watched the entire story again, pausing it every few seconds to try to read the man visually. But visuals were not my strong point. I had to be near someone. I had to
feel
them.
    Or, you know, dream about them. At least, it had happened that way a few times. I always tended to think that gift of dreaming about things was just going to vanish and never come back, but it hadn’t, not really. It had morphed instead, turning into some kind of a sixth sense that I didn’t like admitting I had.
    Still, I had a feeling about that guy. I backed up the action and watched again, paying attention to the surroundings this time around. I noticed the house number: 117. Now if I could just get a glimpse of a street sign...
    I probably watched that clip until my eyes bled, until Inner Bitch cuffed me upside the head (you know, figuratively) and said,
You about ready to look the guy up online yet or what?
    I rolled my eyes. It was another classic “duh, Rachel” moment. But at least no one was there to witness it.
    Why the hell did I catch myself wishing that someone was? Three someones, to be exact.
    * * *
    I searched Peter Rouse, found his address, jotted it down, took my bulldog upstairs and went to bed. It was way too late at night to be paying impromptu visits to murder suspects. Besides, I had to figure out how to approach him. He was being hounded by reporters. He wasn’t going to just open the door and let me in. And also, I had to figure out how to keep myself from kneeing him in the balls the second I got within reach. There are pills to make you happy when you’re sad, pills to make you chill when you’re stressed. Why the hell hadn’t anyone invented a pill to make you less likely to assault a person who sorely deserved it?
    Myrt followed me upstairs, but not into my bedroom. She went to Josh’s room instead. Sighing, I followed her, stood in the doorway and watched her sniff around the entire perimeter. The bed was still unmade. His pajamas and a used T-shirt lay on the floor, even though I’d bought each kid a big plastic hamper to put their laundry in. Myrtle found that pile of clothes, smelled them, pawed them into a perfect little bulldog nest, and then, sighing, collapsed on top of it. As always, she was snoring before she even hit the floor.
    Broke my damn heart.
    I tugged the blanket and pillow off Josh’s bed, tossed them down beside Myrt and curled up next to her. She snuggled a little closer. And that was where the two of us spent the night. She was missing her guy as much as I was