Sandy felt sick—as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Sam was her friend, a person she trusted.
What was going on? It made no sense. Why would Sam Kennedy lie to her? They'd worked together on so many missing persons cases. What was different about this one? Sandy couldn't help feeling disappointed and betrayed.
The minutes ticked by. Finally, Sandy couldn't stand it. “Hey, can we get out of this room?” she said. “I feel like I'm trapped in a cell or something.”
“Aw, come on,” Sam teased. “Don't you like it in here? The lovely paint job? The comfortable furniture?”
Sandy made a face. “What is this room, anyway? Why are we here? It looks to me like an interrogation room.”
“Would you believe that it is?” Sam grinned. But Sandy noticed that his laugh was forced. For some reason he seemed on edge.
“Okay, what's going on?” she asked.
“Nothing.” Sam started tugging at his earlobe, a clear sign to Sandy that he was uncomfortable or nervous. “There was no other place to put you. Sorry about that.”
Sandy gazed at him for a moment. She saw he was still lying—and that really hurt. She was certain that he'd never lied to her before.
“I need to wash my face,” she said.
Sam nodded. “Okay, but hurry back. We might need you to …” His voice trailed away, and he looked even more uncomfortable. Sandy realized then that she had been put in this particular room for a reason.
As she stood up, she closed her eyes and focused her mind. Suddenly she felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice cubes down the back of her neck! She turned to see what was behind her. But there was nothing—except for the mirror on the far wall.
Sandy could feel his eyes. A man on the other side of that mirror was watching her. Worse yet, she was getting a bad feeling about the stranger.
She picked up her purse and left the room. As she walked down the hall toward the restroom, she noticed a door on her left. She was pretty sure it led into the observation room next door.
Sam had never put Sandy in an interrogation room before. Usually, she did her work in a comfortable office. “As comfortable as an office can get in a police station,” she thought with a grin.
In the restroom, Sandy gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She looked tired. Well, she was tired! She'd come straight to the police station from class.
She remembered Sam's joke about her giving harp lessons to the angels. Sandy smiled as she washed her face. She really did give harp lessons—but not to angels. Sandy was a full-time graduate student at the local university. Someday she planned to play with the city symphony. In the meantime, to help pay for her schooling, she also gave music lessons on the side.
And, of course, Sandy had another talent. She was psychic. As far back as she could remember, she'd been able to see things that no one else could see. And even as a small child, she'd often known in advance that certain things were going to happen.
Sandy was lucky. Her family didn't think of her as a freak. Her grandmother had also been a psychic. Gran told Sandy that she had a special gift—what Gran called “second sight.”
“Some people are able to paint beautiful pictures,” Gran said. “Some people can compose wonderful songs.
Those are their special gifts. Your gift, Sandy, is different—but it's still a very special gift.”
Gran taught Sandy how to control her gift, and how to use it wisely to help other people.
When she grew up, however, Sandy learned not to say too much about her “second sight.” She discovered that such talk frightened most of her friends. Some people thought of her as a monster. Others wanted to use her.
Then one day she'd had a vision about a lost child. The news story had been in the papers and on TV for nearly a week. Then suddenly, on her way to school one morning, Sandy “saw” the little boy. He was lying at the bottom of an abandoned well.