Gutmunsson himself is sitting in a louche posture on the floor, leaning against the end of his bed, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, reading an antique volume of poetry. The white sheets and pillows, the jeweled tones of the old books, the colors of the fruit… the whole diorama has the rich, resonant smack of a Renaissance still life.

“Simon Gutmunsson?” Emma’s relieved her voice comes out measured rather than hesitant. “Mr. Gutmunsson?”

When Gutmunsson sets his book aside and stands up, Emma can see that he is very tall. She is reminded of a cobra rising, hood spread.

“Well, hello,” Gutmunsson says.

He is slender, with wide shoulders and long limbs and fine pianist’s hands. His eyes shine arctic blue beneath dark brows. He is wearing white, and his hair is glaringly white. It must be a family trait; Emma remembers the pictures of his sister. On Kristin Gutmunsson, the effect is like a drift of snow; on Simon, it looks like shards off a glacier.

He is an ice angel. If he ripped out your heart and held it up to the light, the colors would bleed together beautifully. Emma blinks the thought back.

His smile is wide as an eel’s. “Did you expect me not to answer when you called my name? Or maybe you thought I wouldn’t be here.”

“I wasn’t sure if you were busy,” Emma says evenly. “Thank you for agreeing to talk with me.”

“I’m never too busy for visitors. Can I ask who you are?”

“My name is Emma Lewis. I’m involved in a study with the FBI. I’m conducting a series of interviews, and I was hoping—”

“We’ll get to hopes and dreams later,” Gutmunsson says, still smiling. He has a raised twist of pale scar tissue above his right collarbone. “Has my faithful guard dog taken your measure?”

“Pardon?”

“Your name. Has Pradeep recorded your name?”

“Uh, yes. I’ve been checked off by Dr. Scott and at the door.”

“Wonderful. Then we’ll add you to the list for further conversations. Would you like an apple?”

He plucks a green apple from the fruit bowl and extends it out through the bars.

“Thank you, no,” Emma says.

“It’s because you can’t reach over the barricade, isn’t it? I can throw it to you if you like.”

“Thank you, but I’ve already eaten.”

“Have you? You’ll excuse me for saying this, but you actually don’t look as if you’ve had a decent meal for years. It’s a bit gamine chic, isn’t it, with the hair.” He tosses the apple once, returns it to the bowl. “Have you left Ohio just to visit me? I’m flattered.”

His eyes flash like blue diamonds. It’s only when she looks down that Emma realizes she’s wearing her college T-shirt, with the small Buckeyes logo over her heart. So he’s not psychic—just observant. It’s still disconcerting, knowing that her personal details are now part of Simon Gutmunsson’s gestalt awareness.

She plants her feet. “Mr. Gutmunsson, I have a questionnaire here about the nature and process of your—”