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with us,” Keisha said. “You had a good idea, it paid off, and now we’re done.”
    She didn’t want anything else to do with him. Something was wrong with the wiring in his head.
    “Yeah, well, okay.”
    On the television, a man, his arm around a young woman, was talking about his wife. How he wanted her to come home. That if anyone was watching, who knew anything at all about what had happened—
    “So, anyway, thanks. I better go. I keep Dwayne waiting any longer—”
    “Shh,” Keisha said, watching the report. The words at the bottom of the screen read:
Wendell and Melissa Garfield: “Mom, come home.”
    “Whoa,” Justin said, watching the TV. “You got a prospect?”
    “Don’t keep your stepdad waiting,” she said, and ushered him out.
    By the time she got back to the kitchen, they’d moved on to the next story.

Four
    Keisha Ceylon stared at the house and thought, maybe she did have a little bit of the gift. Because there were times when she thought she could tell, just by looking at a place, that there was hurt inside those walls. Even a house where the blinds had been lowered, and turned so no one could see inside.
    She sat in the car with the motor running, the wheezy defrosters just barely keeping the windows clear. Keisha was sure her feelings about the house were not influenced by what she already knew. She told herself that if she’d been strolling through the neighborhood, and had merely glanced at this home, she’d have picked up something.
    Despair. Anxiety, certainly. Maybe even fear.
    She thought about what this man, this Mr. Garfield, must be going through. How was he dealing with it? Did he still have hope the police would find his wife? Was he starting to lose confidence in them? Had he had any to begin with? Was he at the point where he’d be open to considering other options? Would he be desperate enough to accept, and pay, for the very special service she could provide?
    Keisha was confident her timing was right. The man had gone before the cameras the day before. He’d been all over the news this morning. That was evidence of desperation, going to the media. That surely meant the police weren’t making progress. That was always the best time to move in. You didn’t want to leave it too late. If you hesitated, the police might actually find a body, at which point no distressed relative was going to need Keisha Ceylon’s visions for directions.
    It was, as she’d told Justin, all about
hope
. You had to get to these people while they still had some. As long as they had hope, they were willing to try anything, throw their
money
at anything. This was especially true when all conventional methods—door-to-door canvasses, sniffer dogs, aerial patrols, Neighborhood Watch—had turned up zilch. That’s when relatives were open to the unorthodox. Like a nice lady who showed up on their doorstep and said, “I have a gift, and I want to share it with you.”
    For a price, of course.
    Today’s missing person was Eleanor Garfield. She was, according to the news reports, white, forty-three, five foot three, about a hundred and fifty pounds, with short black hair and brown eyes.
    Everyone called her Ellie.
    She was last seen, according to her husband Wendell, on Thursday evening, around seven. She got in her car, a silver Nissan, with the intention of going to the grocery store to pick up the things they needed for the coming week. Ellie Garfield had a job in the administrative offices of the local board of education, and she didn’t like to leave all her errands to the weekend. She wanted Saturday and Sunday to be without chores. And to her way of thinking, the weekend actually began Friday night.
    So Thursday night was dedicated to errands.
    That way, come Friday, she could have a long soak in a hot tub, according to everything Keisha had quickly read and seen online or on television. After her soak, she’d slip into her pajamas and pink robe and park herself in front of the