He blinked. It was as if he’d heard a woman’s voice in his head.

Don’t overdo. Just a shimmer. Thin lipstick, thick makeup. Apply the coverup everywhere. You can’t let any flaw show through. No sign of pimples, no hint of freckles.

He twirled the tube in his fingers and stared at it. Clicked the cap on and off. There was something odd about it and the voice he heard. What was all that about?

What’s any of it about?

Good question.

He set the tube aside to pick up Jennifer Korpi’s squishy tension ball. It molded to his fingers as he kneaded it in one hand and again closed his eyes. For a second, he got nothing and then . . . then he felt the anxiety, the fear. The more he massaged, the stronger the vibe he got. Jennifer was worried, yes. And there was something about her sibling . . . her sister? No, no. Her brother. She was worried sick about him, didn’t want to get involved . . . but she was. Rivers felt it in the fear pulsing through her blood, the guilt sliding through her heart.

Guilt?

His face grew taut as he concentrated, his grip squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing the malleable ball, but no firm image came to mind . . . and yet . . . there was something.

“What?” he said aloud, startling himself. Jennifer had found out about her brother being hurt while he and Mendoza were at the school, but she hadn’t picked up or touched the tension ball after learning the news, so that couldn’t be it. She’d been worried about Gus Jardine before she heard of his accident. He was still holding the ball, and James Cahill’s face came into view. He felt the sting of her tears, the overwhelming sadness that he’d left her, the shame that she’d been fooled, the deep-seated pain.

Rivers rolled the ball between both palms, as if he were working clay.

He sensed a spark of anger.

At a woman.

Rebecca?

Megan?

Someone else?

Jaw tight, he squeezed for a few more minutes but got nothing more, nothing solid. Only wisps of feelings.

This wasn’t getting him very much. Setting the ball on the counter, he eyed it as he finished his Heineken. Jennifer Korpi, despite her protestations, hadn’t completely gotten over James Cahill. So why lie about it?

Pride?

Embarrassment?

Or something more?

With no answer, he stretched his fingers, then reached for the ballpoint pen that he’d swiped from Rebecca Travers.

He felt nothing.

He closed his eyes.

Concentrated.

Felt a little sizzle.

A tingle of emotion.

What was it?

Anger?

Sadness?

Disgust?

He rolled the pen between his index finger and thumb.

The images were faint.

An argument?

Pain.