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while—the same sort of games Duncan had been organizing for me over the past few weeks—little mini-tests where my father would show me a room, make me leave, make some small change, and then bring me back to see if I could tell what was different. I was able to do it every time and, when I saw how it pleased him, I embraced both the games and my disorder.
    Then puberty came and my hormones kicked in. This had an odd effect on me, ramping up my synesthetic reactions so that they were stronger and more frequent. As a result, my father’s intrigue turned to concern. A parade of doctors and tests followed, and the mental illness labels started getting slapped on me. I was saved by a wise and kind neurologist who recognized my disorder for what it was, albeit my own unique variety of the species. He said he’d never seen a case quite as severe as mine, and when my father told him about the little tricks I was able to perform, the doctor theorized that my senses were not only cross-wired but extremely sensitive.
    In addition to the normal five senses, I also have a very keen sense of thermoception, making me able to feel subtle changes in temperature. If I walk through a space where someone has recently been standing, I can feel a change in the air temperature. The same thing happens if I walk past a refrigerator whose door has recently been opened, or by a door that someone has recently exited or entered. Most people have experienced something similar at some point in their lives, such as when they sit in a chair someone else just vacated and the body warmth of the first sitter is still palpable.
    What I took away from my experiences as a teenager was the knowledge that my disorder was something to be ashamed of, something to hide, something to suppress. And that’s what I’ve done for the past twenty years: suppress, ignore, and hide. My father was aware of it, of course, and while the two of us still occasionally played a game of “What’s Different?” up until his death, for the most part, he respected my desire to keep my disorder secret.
    That all changed when Duncan Albright came into my life. The discovery of Ginny Rifkin’s body had triggered all kinds of confusing reactions . . . reactions that I was then forced to explain to Duncan. But, in a way, those reactions also helped us figure out who killed her. That, and the fact that Duncan didn’t automatically assume I was weird or crazy, has made me more open about my disorder. And when Duncan proposed this collaboration, it gave me the chance to turn my synesthesia into something useful as opposed to something shameful that I needed to hide.
    Not that I’m ready to go public with my ability. Duncan knows, his partner Jimmy knows, and several of my employees and patrons at the bar know. I swore all of them to secrecy, but it was like shutting the proverbial barn door after the horses have escaped. Word had already spread. Most of the folks in the crime games group know, but there are some who don’t. They think I’m playing simply for the fun of it and I’d like to keep it that way for now. For one thing, those adolescent nightmares are never far from my mind and I’m scared that someone, somewhere, will again try to declare me insane. For another, I’m not sure yet if my unique ability will actually prove helpful. Duncan seems to think so and that’s why he and I, with the help of Cora, spent the past month or so cataloging the meanings behind as many of my experiences as we could.
    All of that was in preparation for my first visit to a real crime scene, which is how I came face to face with a real hanging man. And thanks to last night’s game—or perhaps because of it, since it taught me not to jump to conclusions—it’s also how I became certain that Dan Thornton was a victim of homicide rather than suicide.

Chapter 4
    T he representative from the medical examiner’s office