Mom laughed bitterly. “I’m amazed,” she said to him. “You don’t get it, do you? Even though it’s right in front of your nose. If the killer finds out about Rose, he’ll come after her.” She looked at Rose anxiously. “I wish you didn’t have to hear that. But now that we’re discussing this, we need to face facts.” She turned back to Silver. “Rose could be in grave danger.”

Silver shifted uneasily, and the desk chair gave out an ominous creak. O’Hara smoothed her skirt. There was something in their attitude that made Rose think they had already considered this possibility, but had put it aside in favor of finding out all they could, any way they could. And Rose had known it all along inside herself, from the time the car followed her that stormy night. She just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

Silver Henning cleared his throat and got down to business.

“Rose, would you please tell us what circumstances led you to the knowledge of the body? Take it slowly, tell it in your own words.”

Whose words would she tell it in?

“I don’t really know that much,” she said. Lamely, she added, “I just had this sort of dream and I heard the name Ladyvale Caves. That’s it. Really. No big deal.”

She wasn’t going to tell them about what happened in the bathroom, or about Grace’s swiveling head. O’Hara made a sound of protest, but Silver put up his hand. He leaned toward Rose, and she could see how tired he was.

“We need your help, Rose,” he said gently. “Facts that have come to our attention suggest these three murders may not be the only ones. We need your help, whatever you can do for us, to find the other bodies, if there are any, God help us.”

“Then let God help you,” she said hoarsely. “I’m sick of finding dead people. I’m not doing it anymore.”

Silver shrank back and Detective O’Hara looked shocked.

“You’d better go now.” Mom’s voice was stern, no nonsense. She hustled them out. Rose heard them go down the stairs, nobody speaking. There was the faraway sound of the front door shutting, and then footsteps coming back upstairs.

Mom stood silently in the doorway.

“Mom? Are you mad at me?”

“Oh, Rose, of course I’m not mad. What a silly thing to say.”

“You seem mad sometimes. Is it because you’re so worried that the killer might come for me?”

“Of course I’m worried about that.”

“Something else, too?”

Mom sighed. “You’re so different sometimes, I wonder how you got to be my daughter.”

A warning pulsed in Rose’s throat. “You mean because of this dream stuff?”