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told him that.
    â€œThere’s no way we can leave here without seeing the Morgensterns or talking to the police?” I asked, knowing I sounded cowardly.
    â€œNo way in the world,” Art said. For once, he sounded as hard as he actually was. “In fact, the sooner you talk to them, the better. And you have to issue a press statement.”
    â€œWhy?” Tolliver asked.
    â€œSilence is suspicious. You have to say clearly that you had no idea that you would find Tabitha’s body, that you’re shocked and saddened, and that you are praying for the Morgensterns.”
    â€œWe already told Channel Thirteen that.”
    â€œYou need to tell everyone.”
    â€œYou’ll do that for us?”
    â€œYes. We need to write a statement. I’ll read it on-camera for you. I’ll take a few questions from the press, just enough to establish who you are. After that, I think questions will just muddy the water, especially since I won’t be able to answer them.”
    I looked at Art, perhaps with a certain skepticism; he gave me big hurt eyes. “Harper, you know I wouldn’t put you all in a spot hotter than the one you’re in already. But we have to set the record straight while we can.”
    â€œYou think we’re going to be arrested?”
    â€œNot necessarily. I didn’t say that. I meant, highly unlikely.” Art was backpedaling to firmer ground. “I’m saying this is our chance to get in our licks with the public, while we can.”
    Tolliver looked at Art for a minute. “All right,” he said, when he reached his conclusion. “Art, you stay here while Harper and I go in the other room and write the press statement. Then you can look it over.”
    Leaving our lawyer no chance to offer another plan, we retreated to Tolliver’s room, with his laptop to act as our secretary.
    Tolliver settled at the desk, while I flung myself across the bed. “Dr. Nunley never said anything to you, did he, about Tabitha? When he asked us to come here?” I asked.
    â€œNot a word. I would have told you,” Tolliver said. “He just talked about the old cemetery, about how it would be atrue test, since you really had no idea who was buried there and there was no way you could find out. He wanted to know if you’d be comfortable with that. Of course, he thought I’d make some excuse for you, trying to back out. Nunley was really surprised when I emailed him back, told him to expect us. He’d just had Xylda Bernardo, the psychic. She lives in this area, remember?”
    I’d met Xylda once or twice, in the line of duty. “How’d she do?” I asked, out of sheer professional curiosity. Xylda, a colorful woman in her fifties, likes to dress in the traditional stage-gypsy style—lots of jewelry and scarves, long messy hair—which immediately makes people distrust her. But Xylda has a true gift. Unfortunately, like most commercial psychics, she embellishes that nugget of talent with a lot of theatrics and made-up flourishes, which she thinks lend her visions credibility.
    Psychics—honest psychics—do receive a lot of information when they touch something a crime victim owned. The bad part is, quite often they receive information so vague it’s almost useless (“The body’s buried in the middle of an empty field”), unless you have a good idea what you’re looking for to begin with. Even if there are a few psychics who can see a clear picture of, say, the house where a child’s being held hostage, unless the psychic can also see the address, and the police find an identifiable suspect lives in that house, the building’s appearance is almost irrelevant. There are even some psychics who can achieve all that, but then they have to get the police to believe them…since I’ve never met a single psychic who was also up on SWAT tactics.
    â€œOh, according to Nunley, Xylda did