Leaning forward in the chaise lounge, Sophie catapulted from her visions of another’s past and became instantly aware of her present surroundings. She was sitting in the backyard, her pack of cigarettes lying on the small table beside her. Her hands shook as she reached for the lighter and smokes. This dream, this vision, this clairsentience, if that’s what had just happened, was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Last year, she’d discovered this ability when two children had gone missing. She’d been able to touch their possessions, feel their emotions in real time, seeing through their eyes as they’d been led down into a dank basement in Charleston. By the grace of God, the police found them before they were shipped off to a known pedophile.

But this experience was different. She knew she was seeing through the woman’s eyes, and the woman had lived in the early 1920s. Sophie could almost feel the lightness of her undergarments, something very different from the corsets of the previous decade. Most likely she was wearing a chemise or a camisole and bloomers. Her low-waisted gown with the just-below-the-knee hemline and the bodice typical of the time was made of the finest silk embellished with rhinestones that sparkled when the right lighting hit them. She was waiting at the top of the staircase for her husband. All of this Sophie knew.

That’s it, Sophie thought. Theodore was the woman’s husband!

Sophie took some deep breaths, hoping to steady her erratic heartbeat. Confused and trying to make sense of what she’d seen as she reached for yet another cigarette, she almost jumped out of her skin as she heard the back door slam.

Placing a shaking hand on her chest, she shouted, “Damn you, Goebel, you just about scared the life right out of me.”

Goebel, wearing a navy robe and carrying two mugs of steaming coffee, sat down at the foot of the chaise. “When I woke up, you were gone. Figured I’d find you out here huffing.” He held the coffee cup out for her.

She sipped at the hot brew, then placed the cup on the table. “Huffing? Goebel, you’re going to have to check your choice of words in the future. Do you really know what huffing is?” Sophie didn’t want to talk about her dream, her vision, just yet. Still the world’s leading expert at changing the subject when it suited her, most often to distract her from her own thoughts, she raised an eyebrow, demanding an answer. “Well, do you?” she asked again. She pulled her legs up to her chest and drank her coffee, patiently waiting for her husband of one year and one day, almost, to answer.

Goebel sighed, patted her on her knee, and took a sip of his coffee. “Why do I think you’re about to tell me?” he asked, his voice laced with humor.