“What the hell?” he said. He did not take his eyes off the Speed Date Killer but he made no move to stop him. Instead he lowered the gun. “Are you okay?”

She realized he was talking to her. She realized something else as well. The killer was motionless.

“Yes,” she managed. “At least I think so.”

She wriggled free of the sheets and blanket and got to her feet on the far side of the bed. Her pulse was pounding. She gasped for breath.

He was wearing the trousers and the long-sleeved shirt he’d had on earlier in the evening. The shirt was unbuttoned now, revealing a monastically plain white tee underneath. Barefoot, he moved into the room.

“Well, now, isn’t this interesting?” he said.

He walked slowly around the life-sized image of the Speed Date Killer. The figure hovered about a foot off the floor.

The killer was still there, still poised to kill. But he did not move. It was as if he existed in another dimension.

Olivia wondered if she was still dreaming. But the rug beneath her feet felt real. The bedside clock glowed, the numbers clear. Three sixteen a.m. When she dreamed, numbers never made sense. She could not use a phone or find an address or figure out a bill when she was in a dreamstate. But now she was reading the clock quite clearly.

And Harlan Rancourt was strolling around her bedroom as if he had every right to be there.

She definitely was not dreaming.

“It looks like a ghost,” she said.

“Not a ghost.” He sliced his hand through the image. There was no resistance. “I think it’s a hologram. Do you recognize the guy with the knife?”

“Oh, yes.” She went slowly around the end of the bed. “It’s the Speed Date Killer. That’s exactly how he looked before he had his, uh, seizure.”

Harlan switched his attention to her. His eyes heated. “You must have been the one who took the picture.”

“That wasn’t what I thought I was doing at the time. I don’t understand.”

She caught a glint of silvery light and turned quickly, searching for the source. An eerie radiance came from the lens of the vintage camera.

“The camera is projecting the image,” she said. “Not me.”

Harlan walked toward the camera but he did not touch it. “What were you doing in the seconds before he tried to murder you?”

“I had this feeling that I could use the camera as a weapon. I aimed it, focused some energy through the lens and pressed one of the buttons.”

She went to the bedside table and picked up the camera. It was warm to the touch. The vibe was unmistakable. Experimentally she pressed one of the buttons. The silvery light vanished. The hologram winked out.

“The man was about to gut you and you wanted to take a picture?” Harlan asked, his tone suspiciously neutral.