CHAPTER 12

The leader of the Foundation security team that had kept watch on the apartment tower during the night called at five a.m. Harlan was coming down the hall, fresh from a shower, when his phone rang. He took the call.

Olivia listened while she fired up the coffee maker.

“Appreciate the report,” Harlan said into the phone. “No, we won’t need you today, but stand by for tonight. Thanks.”

He ended the call and sat down at the dining counter. “Security said there was no sign of anyone watching this building last night.”

“I suppose that would have been too easy.”

“Yes.”

Harlan went back to his phone. Olivia sliced some sourdough bread and dropped the slices into a toaster. She started cracking eggs. From time to time she glanced at the intimate stranger she was about to feed. She found herself remembering their conversation about photographs and ghosts.

His expression had not changed when he made the comment. Everything about him had remained focused on the problem of Vortex. But she had sensed a current of melancholia in the atmosphere. Sorrow, perhaps. Regret. And complicating the mix had been a darker, bleaker vibe. Guilt?

What are you mourning, Harlan Rancourt? And why do you feel responsible for the loss?

She finished cracking eggs and picked up a whisk. Silence reigned in the small kitchen. When the coffee was ready she poured two cups and set one down in front of Harlan.

“You’re not much of a morning conversationalist, are you?” she said.

“Beats me.” Harlan swiped the screen on his phone. “There’s never anyone around to talk to in the mornings.”

She gave him a cool smile. He did not notice, because he was fixated on his phone.

“There’s me this morning,” she said.

“That’s different.” Harlan did not look up. “You’re different.”

She couldn’t argue with that observation, she thought. She was different; probably nothing like the women he usually went home with. He certainly was different from her usual dates. She reminded herself that he wasn’t a date. He was a client.

She put a couple tablespoons of butter into the pan and poured in the eggs.

So what if Harlan was obsessed with Vortex? She was pretty damn obsessed this morning herself. She hadn’t uttered prophecies last night. She had repeated psychically recorded messages. Captions for the photographs. Okay, so they sounded like prophecies. That didn’t mean she was an oracle. The words belonged to her grandmother and her mother—paranormal voice mail. Sure, it was disturbing to hear the voices, but that was because of the emotions involved.

She was not an oracle.