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forward, Max turned on the laptop that sat in the midst of the clutter, keying into his favorite search engine as soon as his system booted up. With his unique two-fingered style, he typed in “psychic investigations,” and literally hundreds of listings appeared. Were they all con artists, trying to make a buck, or was anyone legit, he wondered.
    Clicking the mouse on the first one, he pulled up an article from a Missouri newspaper. It outlined how the police used a psychic to help in an investigation. The psychic investigator had given them several clues to the whereabouts of a missing woman, tips and suggestions that finally led to her rescue from a brutal ex-boyfriend, who’d tortured her for days.
    The next link he clicked was an article by a noted celebrity paranormal investigator who specialized in debunking psychic phenomena to wide public acclaim. He’d proven several so-called psychics were not only charlatans but were bilking people out of huge sums of money in the process.
    Well, he thought, if there’s one thing you can say about Theresa, she’s never asked anybody for a dime, not for any reason.
    He scrolled through site after site, most of them no help at all. One caught his attention with the headline Psychic Abilities Linked to Traumatic Events.
    The author of the piece claimed many of the psychics he’d interviewed, while varying in the levels of their abilities, showed a remarkable tendency to have suffered some traumatic event which triggered their “gift.”
    Closing down his browser, Max stood and crossed through the cluttered space to stare out the office window, pushing it open and letting in the noise and scents of the French Quarter. The bustling crowds at street level could be heard, laughing and joking as they went about their day, oblivious to the turmoil all around them. The smell of seafood, rich and spicy, filled the air. The enticing scent of freshly baked bread wafted his way, causing his stomach to rumble. He realized it had been a long time since he last ate and decided to grab a bite.
    Locking things up tight, he took the steps two at a time heading for ground level. Briskly he walked the cobbled street with long, purposeful strides, as people stepped back to let him pass.
    Stopping abruptly, Max found himself in front of Theresa’s shop. He shook his head and started to turn away. It hadn’t been his intention to come here. Still, he grasped the doorknob, turned it and entered the shop.
    ***
    At the sound of the door opening, Theresa looked up from totaling the daily receipts. She’d been expecting Max to show up. The tension emanating from him earlier that morning at the Saunders’s home had been a palpable living thing. On the drive back to town, he barely said a word, though his silence spoke volumes.
    “Has there been any news about Tommy?”
    “Not a damn thing.”
    As always, Max’s presence dwarfed her shop, making everything seem small and insignificant. Though he tried to hide it, she could see the hint of despair in his eyes. Even with his mental shields in place, his body language was easy to read. She’d been studying him for years.
    “Something will come up. Whoever took him will slip up and you’ll catch him.” Theresa felt the need to reassure Max. Or maybe it was herself she was trying to convince.
    “We don’t have time, though. The longer he’s missing, the less likely we’ll catch this sick bastard and get Tommy home safe.” Stuffing both hands in his pockets, Max paced back and forth.
    “Well, if you don’t have any other news, why are you here?”
    He barked out a short laugh. “Truthfully, I’m not sure. I was walking from my office, going to grab a bite, and somehow ended up in front of your place.” Max smiled. “Want to get some dinner with me?”
    Theresa’s heart raced. Was Max asking her out? After the fiasco nine months earlier, she hadn’t thought he’d ever talk to her again, much less want to see her socially. It was a start.