“Because friends talk to each other.” He was the last person in the entire world who should be giving advice or trying to connect, but she drew him in a way even he couldn’t fight. Probably because she wasn’t trying to attract him in any manner. “I read somewhere that talking about nightmares helps people to overcome them.” Actually, a shrink who’d once treated him for PTSD had told him that.

“Nightmares aren’t axiomatically detrimental,” she murmured. “They can be a way to deal with stress and fear. I don’t necessarily want to overcome mine.”

Was there an answer for that? He wasn’t sure. Even so, he watched her from his peripheral vision. In the gray light, the deep red hue of her cabernet-colored hair shone like some symbol of strength. While her hair was interesting, her eyes were fucking captivating. One blue, one green, with a star of green in the blue one. She was a torch of color on a dismal day. “Tell me about your dream anyway.”

She shrugged. “Okay. I was walking barefoot in the snow by Witch Creek, and birds were flapping high above me, squawking in a way that wasn’t natural.” She wrapped her arms around her waist as if chilled.

He flicked the heater up higher in the truck.

She looked back out the window. “My feet started to freeze and I couldn’t move. All of a sudden, frozen black dahlias began to fall from the sky, hitting me in the head and knocking me to the ground. I knew somebody was coming, and I knew they had a hammer and were going to hit me. There was no way to get free.” Her voice trailed off at the end.

He fought every instinct in his body to keep from taking her hand. They weren’t that kind of friends. “Sounds like a pretty normal dream after the scene we witnessed yesterday.” Her vulnerability and naïveté was such a contrast to her devastating intelligence that he wanted to know more. Wanted to get inside her head. It was a fascinating place. “You’re a woman, a professional woman like the victim, so it isn’t a surprise you’d identify with her.”

“Thank goodness,” she whispered.

He jolted. “What?”

A light pink filtered beneath her smooth skin. “I’m always afraid I’ll identify with the killer.”

Whoa. Not what he’d expected. He glanced into the back seat to see if Aeneas had caught the anxiety in her voice, but the dog was snoozing happily. “The killer has to be some sort of psychopath, right? You’re not a psychopath.”

“We don’t know if the killer is a psychopath or not,” she countered, her voice stronger now. “But we both know I’m unusually intelligent, and brilliance and insanity are but one click away on the clock of life.” She still didn’t look at him.