“Tell me about the apartment in your dream.” Andy’s voice was calm and relaxed.
“It’s a normal apartment. Big. I’d guess someone with money lives there. Everything seems high-end.” Isabelle’s eyes were closed. She was lying on the couch. Andy sat on the floor with a pen and notepad, the laptop from the breakfast nook open next to her.
“Is there a number on the door?” she asked.
“Yes. Forty-five.”
“Great.”
Isabelle could hear pen scribbling on paper.
“Is there something on the door? Blood? Is the lock broken? Tell me what you see.”
Isabelle’s eyes flew open. “How many times have you done this before?”
Andy didn’t meet her gaze. “I know what I’m doing, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It’s not. It’s more that you seem sad. Yes. Sad. I think that’s the word.”
“Nope. Not sad.” Andy smiled and pointed at her watch. “We have forty-three minutes. Better get going. Close your eyes.”
Isabelle obliged.
“Is the lock—”
“No,” Isabelle said. “The lock is not broken and there is no blood on the door.”
“But the door is not locked.”
“No.” More scribbling on paper.
“Describe what you do next in the dream.”
“I go inside the apartment. I walk down a short hallway.”
“Wait. What do you see once you are inside? Is it light or dark outside? Are the curtains drawn? Is it day or night?”
“Wow. You think of everything.”
“Focus, Isabelle. We’re trying to save a woman’s life here.”
Andy regretted the words as soon as she’d said them. Less than twenty-four hours and she was already sucked back into a world she’d sworn she’d left behind.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”
It was the responsibility Ma Soeur dumped on you that got you in the end. That ate you alive. The massive weight of someone else’s life in your hands.
The guilt when you failed. She hoped Isabelle would be spared that, at least for this dream.
Isabelle reached out her hand. “It’s okay.”
Andy tapped her fingers with the pen in a silent admonishment. “Close your eyes. Concentrate.”
Isabelle obliged.
“Tell me the time of day.”
A moment’s silence. “There is low, unnatural light through the window. Evening. I think. Wait. The clock in the kitchen says it’s 2:59 p.m. But it’s dark outside. Strange.”
“You can read the time? Good. That’s very good. Can you also see what day it is? Perhaps it’s also visible on the clock? Or what about a nearby phone? Or a calendar or newspaper?”
“Hmm,” said Isabelle, pleased with herself. “There is a calendar against the fridge. All the days are marked off as if someone was counting down to something. The last day crossed out is the twenty-first of November. So maybe it’s the twenty-second?”
“What’s the season?”
“Must be winter. It’s snowing. Rather heavily. That’s why it’s so dark outside. And the heat is on inside the apartment.”
“Okay. Look around you. How many people live in the apartment?”
“How would I know that?”
“Dishes, glasses. Clothes. Shoes on the floor. Photos.”
“No photos.”
“Nothing?”
“No,” Isabelle said. “But there are two wine glasses on a round dining room table. One with lipstick.”
“That’s good.”
“The wine is French. Looks expensive.”
“Food?”
“Two empty dishes next to the sink.”
“Did somebody cook or was it a delivery?”
“Looks like it was a delivery. There are no dishes anywhere, unless someone cleared it before the other person came.”
“Looking at everything as you stand there now, do you think it was a romantic encounter?” asked Andy.
“Hmm,” Isabelle considered. “I don’t know. Impossible to tell. I can’t see any candles or anything.”
“Is the victim dressed?”
A moment’s silence. “She seems fully clothed.”
“Expensive clothes?”
“Yes.”
“And the apartment is upmarket?”
“Yes,” Isabelle said. “The place is huge. And it’s got leather couches, a big fridge, and a crazy expensive Mac laptop on the coffee table. You can see it from the hallway.”
“Let’s go to the window in front of you. What do you see?”
“What do you mean, what do I see?”
“Buildings. Landmarks. Things like that. Are you in New York? Paris? London? On what floor are you if you were to guess?”
Isabelle was silent for a while.
“I think I’m in New York. Yes. I can see…it’s dark, but I’m sure I can see the Metropolitan Museum of Art through the snow. “
“Great. Fantastic.”
“And I think I’m rather high up. I’m looking down on the museum. Maybe the fifth or sixth floor? Wouldn’t forty-five mean we’re on the fourth floor?”
“Not necessarily. Are there any other buildings in your line of sight?”
“Not that I can see. Only the museum right in front of me.”
Andy jotted down the info. “You’re doing fantastic, Isabelle.”
She nodded.
“Are you ready to look at the crime scene now?” Andy asked. “At the woman?”
Isabelle bit her bottom lip. Andy reached out and squeezed her hand.
“This is the most difficult part. If you want to take a few moments first we can do so.”
Isabelle shook her head. “No. I can do it. And as you say, we don’t know how much time we have.”
Andy nodded. “Okay. Describe the woman to me.”
“She’s next to the coffee table. She’s in her forties, I think. Really beautiful. Long thick, curly blond hair. But it’s all tousled around her head. Scrunched up. And her face is surprised, shocked. Blue eyes, I think. Light blue. There is a pool of blood under her. It looks…” Isabelle swallowed audibly. “It looks as if she was shot in the back, as if she was running away. I count three gunshot wounds. They’re so tiny…”
Again, Andy squeezed her hand, but this time she didn’t let go. “Try to remember that she’s still alive. This is just a dream. A projection. It hasn’t happened yet.”
Isabelle nodded mutely.
“Is there anything around the woman? In her hand?”
“No.”
“Near her?”
“There’s an access card on the couch. It says…Lily? Can’t see the surname. The company…no. It’s a consulate. The Norwegian consulate.”
Andy wrote down everything Isabelle had said. “You mentioned a laptop on the coffee table? Is the laptop open?”
“No.”
“Is there a handbag nearby?”
Isabelle was quiet as she mentally darted through the room. “Yes. Next to the couch. On the floor. Fancy. Louis Vuitton.”
“Can you see anything inside?”
“No.”
“Anything else in your line of sight?”
“No.” Isabelle sighed in frustration. “But maybe I’m just not remembering. Maybe there is more and I’m too stupid to see it.”
“You’re planning a master’s degree in artificial intelligence and mathematical forecasting. You’re anything but stupid.”
Isabelle’s eyes flew open. “How do you know that?”
“It was in your file.”
“My file. The one Kate compiled?”
“Her minions, more likely.”
“So, she’s the big boss?”
“Yep, so she keeps on telling me.”
“And she’s your mother?”
Andy smiled. “Again, that’s what she says.”