peel me off the ceiling."
Edwards nodded agreement and looked at Bishop as she rose too. "I'll need a couple more hours at the morgue tonight, then there's nothing I can do until tomorrow."
Bishop, his gaze on Miranda, seemed about to say something, but finally just followed his agents out of the conference room.
Mildly, Alex said, "I guess we could offer to feed them now and then, since they're here to help us."
"I had Grace send for takeout for their lunch and made it a standing order for the remainder of their time here," Miranda said. "Even had something sent over to the hospital for Edwards. I'm not being inhospitable, Alex. But I also don't intend to socialize with them. They're here to do a job, and I sincerely hope they're very good at what they do."
"We all hope that. And I'm not saying we have to make nice outside the office. You may not have noticed, but I don't especially care for Bishop."
"No, really?" Miranda murmured.
"Okay, so maybe it was a little more obvious than I thought." He paused. "Was it?"
"Let's just say I can't see the two of you going running together at dawn like best buds."
"Oh, he runs?" Alex's tone was innocent.
Miranda drew a breath and rubbed her temple again. "Now? I couldn't say. But he used to, and he looks to be in good shape, so I'd guess he still runs."
"Oh, yeah, I'd say he was in fair shape. Is he any good with that gun he wears?"
"Yes," Miranda replied without elaborating.
"Uh-huh. And I guess he earned that scar fighting bad guys?"
"In the best heroic tradition," she said, only half mockingly.
"What about his hunch about the killer? How close is that likely to be?"
"Let's just say I wouldn't bet against him. He was always ... very good at his job."
There was a short silence, then Alex said casually, "So you two knew each other pretty well, huh?"
She laughed under her breath. "Are you asking me if we were lovers, Alex?"
"Just tell me if I'm being too nosy."
"It was a long time ago."
"And I guess ... it ended badly?"
"You could say that." She shrugged, very conscious of the tightness in her shoulders.
"Working with him now can't be a whole hell of a lot of fun."
"No," Miranda said. "I wouldn't call it fun." A sudden stab of pain made her breath catch.
Alex stared at her, his brows drawing together in a frown. "Are you all right? You look pale."
"Headache, that's all." Miranda pretended the momentary pause wasn't caused by a surge of nausea. "I'm going home. You too. And don't come back tonight."
"Randy? This killer. Do you suppose it's somebody we know? I mean, know well?"
"I don't think we know him, Alex. I don't think we know him at all."
* * *
Tony Harte leaned back to let the waitress set his plate before him, and waited until she had left before saying, "Granted, I only had the use of the usual five senses, but am I the only one who thought the sheriff was in pain? A lot of pain?"
"She said it was a headache," Bishop said.
"That," Sharon Edwards said, "was no ordinary headache. Her pupils were dilated. Is she subject to migraines?" That last brisk question was aimed directly at Bishop.
He hesitated. "Not as far as I know."
Edwards watched him intently. "But?"
"You know as well as I do. Better than I do." Bishop wished this weren't Sunday in a small town where he couldn't even buy a beer, much less the raw whiskey he craved at the moment. "One theory is that psychic ability is caused when some of the electrical impulses in the brain misfire and forge new pathways to previously unused areas."
Harte frowned. "Yeah, I remember reading about that. So?"
"So," Bishop said unemotionally, "if that theory is true, then it follows that especially frequent or especially powerful misfires could, instead of forging new pathways, begin to destroy old ones. Begin to destroy the brain itself."
"Miranda Knight," Harte said slowly, "is definitely what I'd call an especially powerful psychic. Since she has four separate abilities to call her own, there must
Edwards nodded agreement and looked at Bishop as she rose too. "I'll need a couple more hours at the morgue tonight, then there's nothing I can do until tomorrow."
Bishop, his gaze on Miranda, seemed about to say something, but finally just followed his agents out of the conference room.
Mildly, Alex said, "I guess we could offer to feed them now and then, since they're here to help us."
"I had Grace send for takeout for their lunch and made it a standing order for the remainder of their time here," Miranda said. "Even had something sent over to the hospital for Edwards. I'm not being inhospitable, Alex. But I also don't intend to socialize with them. They're here to do a job, and I sincerely hope they're very good at what they do."
"We all hope that. And I'm not saying we have to make nice outside the office. You may not have noticed, but I don't especially care for Bishop."
"No, really?" Miranda murmured.
"Okay, so maybe it was a little more obvious than I thought." He paused. "Was it?"
"Let's just say I can't see the two of you going running together at dawn like best buds."
"Oh, he runs?" Alex's tone was innocent.
Miranda drew a breath and rubbed her temple again. "Now? I couldn't say. But he used to, and he looks to be in good shape, so I'd guess he still runs."
"Oh, yeah, I'd say he was in fair shape. Is he any good with that gun he wears?"
"Yes," Miranda replied without elaborating.
"Uh-huh. And I guess he earned that scar fighting bad guys?"
"In the best heroic tradition," she said, only half mockingly.
"What about his hunch about the killer? How close is that likely to be?"
"Let's just say I wouldn't bet against him. He was always ... very good at his job."
There was a short silence, then Alex said casually, "So you two knew each other pretty well, huh?"
She laughed under her breath. "Are you asking me if we were lovers, Alex?"
"Just tell me if I'm being too nosy."
"It was a long time ago."
"And I guess ... it ended badly?"
"You could say that." She shrugged, very conscious of the tightness in her shoulders.
"Working with him now can't be a whole hell of a lot of fun."
"No," Miranda said. "I wouldn't call it fun." A sudden stab of pain made her breath catch.
Alex stared at her, his brows drawing together in a frown. "Are you all right? You look pale."
"Headache, that's all." Miranda pretended the momentary pause wasn't caused by a surge of nausea. "I'm going home. You too. And don't come back tonight."
"Randy? This killer. Do you suppose it's somebody we know? I mean, know well?"
"I don't think we know him, Alex. I don't think we know him at all."
* * *
Tony Harte leaned back to let the waitress set his plate before him, and waited until she had left before saying, "Granted, I only had the use of the usual five senses, but am I the only one who thought the sheriff was in pain? A lot of pain?"
"She said it was a headache," Bishop said.
"That," Sharon Edwards said, "was no ordinary headache. Her pupils were dilated. Is she subject to migraines?" That last brisk question was aimed directly at Bishop.
He hesitated. "Not as far as I know."
Edwards watched him intently. "But?"
"You know as well as I do. Better than I do." Bishop wished this weren't Sunday in a small town where he couldn't even buy a beer, much less the raw whiskey he craved at the moment. "One theory is that psychic ability is caused when some of the electrical impulses in the brain misfire and forge new pathways to previously unused areas."
Harte frowned. "Yeah, I remember reading about that. So?"
"So," Bishop said unemotionally, "if that theory is true, then it follows that especially frequent or especially powerful misfires could, instead of forging new pathways, begin to destroy old ones. Begin to destroy the brain itself."
"Miranda Knight," Harte said slowly, "is definitely what I'd call an especially powerful psychic. Since she has four separate abilities to call her own, there must
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