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“Well, no, not exactly,” he said. “But I think I get the underlying subtext. You’re pissed.”
“Very.”
“Look, I understand why you resent being tested. I apologize. Again. But I need your help. I’m out of options.”
“That is not an acceptable excuse.”
“Just tell me what you saw inside the asylum.” Ambrose paused, evidently forced to grope for the next words. “I’ve got to get some answers.”
This was getting weirder by the minute. It was tantalizing to think he really did have reason to believe someone had been murdered on the asylum staircase and wanted her to help him prove it. His certainty went a long way toward validating her vision. She needed the reassurance, because every time she went into a trance she wondered if she was hallucinating.
There was, however, another, extremely chilling possibility. Perhaps this was a version of the Saltwood disaster. Maybe Ambrose Drake knew someone had died on the asylum staircase because he was the one who had committed the murder.
Ice touched the back of her neck. She started to get into the front seat.
“No,” Ambrose said, sounding exhausted. “I didn’t kill the man who died on those stairs.”
It was as if he had read her thoughts.
“Are you sure it was a man who was murdered in there?” she asked.
“As sure as I can be without proof.”
“If you’re so certain, why not go to the police?” she said.
He gave her a cold smile. “For the same reason you won’t be goingstraight to the cops. You don’t have any evidence to back up your story. You know as well as I do the authorities will assume you’re out to get some free publicity forThe Lost Night Files, just like they did in Saltwood.”
“You seem to know a lot about me and the podcast.”
“I’ve been listening to the program for a while now,” he said. “Downloaded the archives. I even went to the cold case crime scenes you investigated. I wanted to be as sure as possible that you and the others were legit before I sent that email suggesting you come here.”
“You mean before you ran your annoying little experiment on me.”
“Do you have any idea how many fakes, frauds, and cons I had to sort through to get to you?” he said.
She gave him a steely smile. “Trust me, I know exactly how you feel.”
“You do?”
“Ever since we fired up the podcast, my colleagues and I have had to deal with the same crowd of fakes, frauds, and cons, to say nothing of the truly delusional people who contact us. So, yes, I’ve got a pretty good idea how many people are running around claiming to solve paranormal mysteries. But we’ve discovered that the real problem is the other group.”
Ambrose frowned. “What group is that?”
“The dangerously obsessed gang. It includes those who think psychics, by definition, dabble in the occult and that we can talk to the dead.”
“Oh, right.” Ambrose inclined his head in a knowing way. “I’ve run into my share of that type, too. I admit I’m focused on getting answers, but I don’t think I’m in thedangerouslyobsessed category, at least not yet. Got to admit there are days when I wonder, though.”
“That’s not particularly reassuring. What, exactly, do you expect me to do for you, Ambrose Drake?”
“Help me prove that six weeks ago a woman was murdered at the Carnelian Sleep Institute.”
“Hold on, we’re talking about a second murder?”
“That’s where it started,” Ambrose said.
She stared at him, aware that she was officially going down the rabbit hole but unable to stop the fall. “There’s a sleep clinic here in Carnelian?”
“Right. It specializes in dream disorders.”
