Page 16 of The Diamond in the Rough

I looked at him blandly. “Not recently,” I replied.

This got an amused grunt out of him. I chose not to enlighten him that I wasn’t making a joke.

“Start with where you know she touched, then,” he said. “And work your way around the room. We want to knoweveryonewho’s left an impression here.”

3

She wastired and worried and didn’t want to be here, even if the view was lovely. She resented that view. She didn’t want to feel anything pleasant—didn’t want to enjoy the view, didn’t want to find the room comfortable or beautiful, didn’t want to associate anything to do with this whole seedy deal with the smell of fresh flowers.

She ran her fingers over the ledge, noting that the cleaning crew had done an impeccable job of keeping the room dust- and grime-free. While part of her appreciated the thoroughness of the job, she preferred spaces that felt lived-in and real. Places that had knick-knacks, a few pieces of mail, a little soft dust in the corners.

Simon didn’t. Or, rather, he felt that a senator’s home needed to be spotless at all times so that if anyone needed to be entertained or—more accurately—politically wooed, they could do it at the drop of a hat and make it look good.

She didn’t much like being a senator’s wife.

She hated the spotlight. The fund-raisers and campaign events. The long weeks he spent in DC, sleeping in an apartment he kept there even though Richmond was only two hours away.

She also knew that what Simon wanted to do—to help othershifters, other Arcanids, and Arc-humans—required him to have a political position and allies. And for that, he had to stay in DC and have an immaculate and un-lived-in house that could grace the pages ofGood Housekeeping.

I shuddereda little as the memory fell away.

“Well?” Parikh asked.

I sighed, wanting to lean on something, but not wanting to touch anything. I shifted a little bit, trying to push back the slight dizziness that came along with exerting my abilities. “Nothing useful,” I admitted. “She was worried, and she didn’t like being a senator’s wife.”

“She didn’t—” Parikh reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. So nothing about who she was meeting? Who was blackmailing her for being a shifter?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Try somewhere else.”

“Where was the money?” Hart interrupted.

We both looked over at him. “What?” I asked.

“The money. Yesterday, you said that she’d brought money. Where the fuck did she put it?”

“Why would I know that?” I stared at Hart, confused.

“You know shebroughtit, right?”

“Yes.”

“So if she thought about the fact that she brought it, wouldn’t she have looked over at it or some shit?”

“I don’tseethings,” I told him. “I just… feel them. More like words than pictures.”

“Can you focus it?” Parikh asked.

I frowned. “I… don’t know. I’ve never tried.” I had no idea how I would even go about doing that. “I’m not sure how,” I admitted.

“Well, I sure as shit don’t,” Hart responded. “Ask Ward, maybe?”

Parikh frowned. “Memories aren’t ghosts, Keebler,” he pointed out.

“Fine, Doc, then. They’re both witches.”

“And Mason Manning isn’t a psychic, either,” came the counterpoint. “Cass would likely be far more useful.”