There had been no going back to sleep for either of them after she pulled up the holograms. They had taken turns in the shower and gotten dressed. She had chosen a somber gray palette—iron-gray trousers and a fog-gray sweater. It suited her grim, anxious mood. They were not her favorite colors, but damned if she was ready to start wearing a hooded robe. She was not an oracle. She was . . . something else. A private investigator with a weird camera.

She was interested to note that Harlan no longer looked like an accountant or an FBI special agent. This morning he had gone with another equally nothing-to-see-here style. He had produced a pair of black trousers and a pristine white T-shirt from the duffel bag. An Oxford blue button-down shirt was layered over the tee. The top two buttons of the shirt were undone. The black-framed glasses and a pair of running shoes finished off the look. He had not yet strapped on the shoulder holster. If you saw him on the street you could easily mistake him for an employee at one of the myriad high-tech start-ups in the Pacific Northwest.

It wasn’t the subtle but effective change of image that amazed her. The astonishing thing was that Harlan had managed to tune his vibe to the look. If she didn’t use her talent for aura reading, she would have bought the whole picture. Well, maybe not the whole picture—there were those incredible eyes. Sea green and filled with secrets. The glasses did nothing to reduce the impact as far as she was concerned.

The man was a human chameleon. But he could not hide from her. She wondered if he realized that or if he cared.

She dished up the eggs, added thick slices of sourdough toast and set the plates on the counter.

Harlan noticed the food immediately. It was evidently one of his priorities, unlike, say, chatting with her over a cup of coffee.

He put down his phone and picked up his fork. She made a mental note. Evidently there was at least one thing that could distract him.

She rounded the end of the counter and sat down beside him. “Any luck?”

“I’ve got a few leads, based on your prophecy about the invisible island with no name,” he said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

“It wasn’t a prophecy. I’m not an oracle.” She was getting tired of repeating herself, but she had to keep denying the verdict, because if she didn’t, she might start believing it was the truth. “My mother and grandmother somehow managed to record their voices as well as those photos on that camera. I was able to hear them because I could resonate with their psychic signatures.”

“Whatever. The point is, there is a lot of information in Grace Goodwin’s message. It just needs decoding.”