The knot in her stomach said otherwise, but she wanted desperately to believe she was mistaken about him—that she was wrong about all her visions. However, in the case of Ariel O’Toole, the ghostly appearance was steady. Every time Kristi caught sight of her she was washed out, pale and gray. Ariel had needed to be warned, but Kristi already knew she’d made a mistake in confiding in her. Now Ariel thought she was deranged and should be in a mental hospital, or that she’d been playing a cruel joke on her. Worse yet, the secret Kristi had kept for all the past months was no longer hers alone. That wasn’t good. She shouldn’t have blurted out the truth, but what other choice had she had?

She glanced up at the mullioned windows of Wagner House and thought she saw Ariel’s image, shattered and misshapen, by the beveled panes of glass. Even so, she appeared a ghost.

CHAPTER 11

O fficer Esperanza in Missing Persons wasn’t happy. A big bosomed woman, she leaned on the other side of the counter separating the work space from the reception area and glared at Portia. She didn’t like Portia Laurent or anyone else questioning her authority, and it showed in the tightness of her lips and the flare of her nostrils. Portia pressed her lips together waiting for the explosion. Pushing sixty, her hair dyed a Lucille Ball red, Lacey Esperanza was not known for her restraint. Smart, sassy, and sometimes downright ornery, she took her job beyond seriously. Waaay beyond.

“I’m gonna tell you exactly what I tell anyone who calls from the press, Detective, and that is to take it up with the goddamned FBI. They have the resources, the manpower, and the GD know-how to deal with this,” she said in a gravelly voice. “They’ve been notified and are running their own investigation or lack thereof. The way I see it and we all agree here, there is no case. Yes, the girls disappeared from All Saints. Missing? Phooey! Murdered? Then where the hell are the bodies? I don’t know about you, but I got a butt-load of work to do on cases where people are actually”—she made air quotes with her fire-engine red fingernails—“missing. You know, where family members or friends are calling and looking for someone.” She leaned close enough so that Portia could smell the scent of stale cigarette smoke mingling with her perfume. “What’s wrong over there at All Saints that they can’t keep track of their students, huh? LSU is what? Five or six times the size of All Saints and they seem to keep track of theirs.”