A muscle bunched in Nick’s jaw. “Sometimes,” he said.

“When I was—when I was away, I had these nightmares—”

Nick’s eyes seemed to glisten, and he looked infinitely sad.

“I was terrified in those dreams, Nick,” I said carefully, “and when I woke up, I couldn’t remember them. I know they were about the murders, though, and if you saw anything—anything at all—you really need to tell me.”

Nick murmured a word that would probably earn him another fifty years cooling his heels in the depot. “Moje,” he said, “maybe there’s a reason you’re blocking the memories. Maybe it’s better not to know.”

“Tell. Me. What. You. Saw.”

“You,” he said hoarsely. “I saw you, Mojo.”

I closed my eyes. Forced myself to open them again.

“Doing—what?”

No answer. Nick stood as still as if he’d been carved out of wood and painted to look like a man.

“Nick.”

“You were little. And you were holding a gun.”

For the next few moments, all I heard was the sound of my own blood, pounding in my ears, a steady, relentless, thud-thud-thud. Then I saw blood, smelled it, felt it, slippery and warm. Suddenly, I was five, and so scared that I’d wet my pants. I was going to get in trouble, I thought, for wetting my pants.

I struggled to keep my grasp on the heavy gun, but it slithered out of my small hands, struck the floor and went off with a roar that made me shriek with renewed terror.

I was still screaming when I morphed back to the grown-up me.

Nick was gripping my shoulders.

“It’s true,” I whispered, in agony. “It’s true—I killed them. I killed my mom and dad—”

“Maybe not,” Nick said. “That was all I saw, Mojo. Just you, with the gun in your hands. You dropped it, and it went off. Maybe you only picked the thing up after someone else threw it down—”

“And maybe,” I said, sick to the center of my soul, “I found a pistol lying around somewhere, and I—and I—”

“I shouldn’t have told you,” Nick lamented. His hands suddenly felt stone-cold where they rested on my shoulders. I knew, even in the frenzy of remembering the weight of that gun, and the blood, that he was about to do another fade-out.

“Don’t leave—”

He was gone.

“Me,” I finished forlornly.

Alone again.

Naturally.

I know I should have stayed put.

I should have called Jolie or even Andy Crowley.

But I didn’t.

I found my purse, banged out of the house, jumped into the Volvo, drove to the 101, followed it south to the 10 East.