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she can handle a twelve man jury doesn't mean she's any good at the small talk.
    Still, I just look at her and say, "Yep, it's all good." Okay, maybe I suck at the small talk too.
    She places her hand on my arm to say something more, but before she can even get to the words, I'm already up and out of my seat.
    "I'll be right back," I mumble, nearly knocking over my chair as I dart back the way we came, not bothering to stop for directions since the waitress I just brushed against took one look at me and doubted I'd make it out the door and down the long hallway in time.
    I head in the direction she unknowingly sent me, passing through a hall of mirrors—gigantic gilt-framed mirrors, all lined up in a row. And since it's Friday, the hotel is filled with guests for a wedding that, from what I can see, should never take place. A group of people brush past me, their auras swirling with alcohol-fueled energy that's so out of whack it's affecting me too, leaving me dizzy, nauseous, and so light-headed that when I glance in the mirrors, I see a long chain of Damens staring right back.
    I stumble into the bathroom, grip the marble counter, and fight to catch my breath. Forcing myself to focus on the potted orchids, the scented lotions, and the stack of plush towels resting on a large porcelain tray, I begin to feel calmer, more centered, contained. I guess I've grown so used to all of the random energy I encounter wherever I go, I've forgotten how overwhelming it can be when my defenses are down and my iPod's at home. But the jolt I received when Sabine placed her hand on mine was filled with such overwhelming loneliness, such quiet sadness, it felt like a punch in the gut. Especially when I realized I was to blame.
    Sabine is lonely in a way I've tried to ignore. Because even though we live together it's not like we see each other all that often. She's usually at work, I'm usually at school, and nights and weekends I spend holed up in my room, or out with my friends. I guess I sometimes forget that I'm not the only one with people to miss, that even though she's taken me in and tried to help, she still feels just as alone and empty as the day it all happened.
    But as much as I'd like to reach out, as much as I'd like to ease her pain, I just can't. I'm too damaged, too weird. I'm a freak who hears thoughts and talks to the dead. And I can't risk getting found out, can't risk getting too close, to anyone, not even her. The best I can do is just get through high school, so I can go away to college, and she can get back to her life. Maybe then she can get together with that guy who works in her building. The one she doesn't even know yet. The one whose face I saw the moment her hand touched mine.
    I run my hands through my hair, reapply some lip gloss, and head back to the table, determined to try a little harder and make her feel better, all without risking my secrets. And as I slip back onto my seat, I sip from my drink, and smile when I say, "I'm fine. Really."
    Nodding so that she'll believe it, before adding, "So tell me, any interesting cases at work? Any cute guys in the building?"
    After dinner, I wait outside while Sabine gets in line to pay the valet. And I'm so caught up in the drama unfolding before me, between tomorrow's bride-to-be and her so called maid of "honor," that I actually jump when I feel a hand on my sleeve.
    "Oh, hey," I say, my body flooding with heat and tingling the second my eyes meet his.
    "You look amazing," Damen says, his gaze traveling all the way down my dress to my shoes, before working their way back to mine.
    "I almost didn't recognize you without the hood." He smiles.
    "Did you enjoy your dinner?"
    I nod, feeling so on edge I'm amazed I could even do that.
    "I saw you in the hall. I would've said hello, but you seemed in such a rush." I gaze at him, wondering what he's doing here, all alone, at this swanky hotel on a Friday night. Dressed in a dark wool blazer, a black open-neck shirt, designer