She bent down, trying to appear as if she was intent on retrieving the handbag.

“I’ll get it,” Brian said. “So, what did you think about the speed date event? Any luck?”

He slipped the key fob into the pocket of his jacket. When his hand reappeared, she saw that his fingers were closed around a knife. He started toward her, moving fast.

“Nope, no luck,” she said.

She straightened, raised the camera and peered through the viewfinder. Senses kicked up, she focused a crushing wave of energy on Brian’s aura and pressed the crystal button that, in a real camera, would have released the shutter.

Paranormal energy flared around Brian. For those with the psychic senses required to view the scene, it looked as if he was about to become the victim of spontaneous human combustion. But instead of going up in flames, he convulsed. For a few frozen seconds he stared at her in disbelief. His mouth opened on a cry of panic and rage.

“Fuck you, bitch. What are you doing to me?”

The grocery sack fell from his hand, the contents scattering across the concrete floor. Brian’s eyes rolled up in his head. He collapsed with a thud that echoed in the shadows.

Olivia was stunned. She watched the unconscious man as if he were a snake. Her pulse skittered. She started to shake. Great. The last thing she needed was a panic attack.

She forced herself to concentrate on what to do next. A faint but fairly steady aura still glowed around Brian. Okay, so he wasn’t dead. There was no way to know how long he would remain unconscious. Maybe minutes. Maybe forever.

She had discovered the camera in Swan Antiques a few days ago. She knew almost nothing about it—just that she had some sort of intuitive connection to it. She had become obsessed, never letting it out of her sight. She carried it everywhere. Slept with it beside her bed. Sure, that was not normal, but not normal was pretty much the definition of an obsession.

The realization that the old camera might be a psychic weapon had come over her slowly but surely. Tonight she had been forced to put the suspicion to the test. Now she was certain she could have killed Brian if she had generated a little more heat through the crystal lens.

She got her senses and the incipient panic attack under control with an effort of will and studied the items that had tumbled out of the grocery bag—a roll of duct tape, a wig and a syringe.

She drew one more deep breath, took out her phone and called a familiar number. Roger Gossard, the head of Gossard Consulting, a cutting-edge psychological forensics agency, answered on the first ring.

“Olivia,” he said, his voice sharp with concern. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”