Always Look Twice. Sheri WhiteFeather

his wallet and tossed his ID on the table. “I live in Virginia.”

      “Of course you do. The National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime is located there.” She took a good look at his license, wondering if he’d meant to reveal his home address, to let it sink into her memory. “That’s where you work, where criminal profiling is done. I was asking where you were from. Originally.”

      “I was born and raised in Oklahoma.” He tapped the rail of her chair with his boot. “And for the record, we call it criminal investigative analysis now. Profiling is an outdated term for what we do.”

      “Fine. Have you analyzed the Slasher?” she asked, knowing the LAPD was trying to get a handle on the killer, too.

      “Yes. But I’m going to return to the NCAVC on Monday to consult with my colleagues about it.”

      “You’re a team player.”

      “We all are. We’re supposed to be.”

      She glanced at his boots. They were the only scuffed part of him. “Do you trust me, West?” Or was he fooling her with his ID?

      He blew out a rough breath, wafting the smell of alcohol in her direction. “I don’t trust very many people. Seeing the cruelty humans are capable of makes me distance myself from them. But even so, I wouldn’t want to do this alone. Looking at grisly pictures day in and day out gets to a man. Or a woman,” he added.

      “I should go.” She still hadn’t decided if she trusted him, either. “You need to sleep it off.”

      “I suppose you’re right.” He came to his feet. “Are you going to pour me into bed?”

      She shook her head, gathering her belongings. “I’m sure you can do that by yourself.”

      He made a troubled face. “I’m not staying here when I get back from Virginia. This room gets too cold at night.”

      Her heartbeat pummeled her chest. “You’ve felt the ghost?”

      “I don’t know. Maybe.”

      “Too much death,” she said.

      “Yeah.” He almost touched her scar. Almost, but not quite. His hand lingered, then fell away. “Be careful, Olivia.”

      “You, too.” It seemed like a strange thing to say to a man who’d been analyzing killers for years, who knew what made them tick.

      But as she left him standing at the door, battling a state of inebriation, she got the stomach-clenching sensation that Special Agent West was going to die.

      Not tonight. But sometime during this investigation.

      And she was going to be there when it happened.

      The moment Olivia entered the loft, Samantha hissed at her. The living room was dark, but she could see a vague outline of the cat, a small black shape, a glint of green eyes.

      She moved farther into the room, then stopped dead in her tracks. She could see another shadowy image in the corner.

      Still, lifeless. Slumped over in a chair.

      “Allie!” She screamed her sister’s name and nearly tripped on the hissing cat when she attempted to turn on the light.

      Finally she reached the lamp and illuminated the room. A bundle of blankets lay in the chair.

      No body.

      No blood.

      No Allie.

      Olivia tore through the loft like a maniac, going from room to room. Suddenly the place seemed like a maze, with its high ceilings and eclectic furniture. She brushed by a tall, leafy fern, felt it tickle her skin, felt goose bumps attack her arm.

      Nothing. No one.

      Yet she’d seen Allie’s car in the parking structure.

      “Where the hell is she?” Not knowing what else to do, Olivia went into the kitchen to check out the candy, to look for a message in the conversation hearts.

      Surely, she was losing her mind.

      She scanned the counter, reading each colorful piece. The hearts didn’t say anything they hadn’t said before.

      Just as Olivia left the kitchen, the lock on the front door rattled, making an ominous sound. But Samantha didn’t fret. She knew who it was. The cat sailed across the room to greet her mistress, nearly flying through the air like a feline on a witch’s broom.

      Olivia let out the breath she’d been holding. Allie entered the loft, balancing her keys, a small beaded purse and a plastic cup. A half-eaten muffin was stuffed in her mouth.

      “You were downstairs,” Olivia said.

      Allie nodded, grabbed the muffin before it fell. “You look like you saw a ghost.” She paused, glanced around. “Is Dad here?”

      “No. No one is here.” Samantha was purring, twining around Allie’s legs. “No one at all.”

      “I had a craving for a mocha cappuccino.” Her sister dropped her purse on a nearby table, discarding her keys with it. “It’s decaf, with a shot of raspberry.” She knelt to pet the cat. “Are you okay?”

      “Who? Me or Samantha?”

      “You.”

      “Not really, no.”

      Olivia sat on the sofa, and Allie took the chair with the blankets, dropping crumbs from the muffin onto her clothes. She’d combined a baggy sweater, tight jeans and slightly scuffed shoes.

      Kind of like West’s boots.

      “I was with the special agent tonight,” Olivia said.

      Allie’s eyes grew wide. “You slept with him?”

      “No. We were just talking. But I’ve had visions about kissing him. And then this evening I had the horrible feeling that he was going to die.”

      “Oh, my God. Why? What’s going on?”

      “I don’t know. Earlier I thought the Slasher was watching West and me. Keeping track of us in his mind. But I might be confused.”

      “West. That’s the FBI guy’s name?”

      Olivia nodded. “Ian West. What if he dies? What if I can’t stop it from happening?”

      “Dad is trying to protect us. Maybe he’ll try to protect West, too.” Allie held her coffee, curling her fingers around the cup, clutching it to her chest. “If the killer is watching you, then why haven’t you been able to see him?”

      “I’m not sure. Maybe he’s blocking me. Maybe he’s messing with my mind.”

      “Then we have to stop him.”

      Olivia rubbed her eyes. Suddenly Allie looked like a moonlit mirage, a nighttime enchantress with her rain-straight hair and glittering jewelry. “We?”

      “I can help you locate him.”

      “How?”

      “In a painting.”

      The idea seemed absurd. Yet it made sense, too. Allie was beginning to believe that she could create magic with her art. And Olivia wasn’t about to scoff at the possibility, especially now, when she needed her sister to be strong. “What are you going to paint?”

      “His calling card. The heart with the arrowhead.”

      A shiver raced up Olivia’s spine. “No one is supposed to know about that. The police are keeping it under wraps.”

      “I’m not going to exhibit the painting. It’s just for us.”

      And for the killer, Olivia thought. For the man they were trying to locate. “It’s an outline. A black drawing.”

      “Then I’ll