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press my ear to the door. Nothing. No talking. No TV. No soft snore of someone sleeping. Nada.
    Then a thump and a small, feminine gasp. If I wasn’t straining to hear, I would have missed it.
    Whether it’s Rosie in there or Aaron or both, the strange sensation in my head is leading me into that room. I turn the knob, nudge the door open with my elbow, and almost scream.
    As soon as I see her I know the old woman on the bed is the Rosie I heard in my head. She’s on her back with the blanket bunched at her feet, as if she was thrashing to wake herself from a nightmare. Her short white curls fan the pillow around her head like a halo, but the light I’ve seen on every other person since I met Aaron this afternoon is missing from her. It’s as if someone came along and flipped her light switch off. Her wide blue eyes are fixed on the young man standing beside her, holding her hand.
    Aaron Shepherd’s skin is on fire, easily three times more brilliant than Max or anyone I’ve seen today. I can hardly look at him. His head snaps up at the squeak of the door, and his eyes find me.
    “You’re late,” he says. “I thought I said to meet me at six.”
    He drops Rosie’s hand. It flops to her chest and slowly slides across her body to dangle off the edge of the bed.
    Dead. Rosie is dead.
    I want to save your life. Aaron’s words to me this afternoon replay in my memory. And believe me, Libbi, saving lives is not something I do often.
    I stumble back, and my butt pushes the door behind me closed. Now I know why Aaron said he doesn’t often save lives. He’s the opposite of a lifesaver. He’s a murderer.
    “Oh,” is all I can say as my hand scrambles for the doorknob. A scream builds in my throat.
    “No, Libbi! Don’t leave, and don’t scream. I know this looks bad, but it isn’t what you think it is.” Other than the bruise from the punch I gave him earlier, Aaron’s face is pale. I suddenly wish I’d punched him harder. Added a little more color to those white cheeks of his.
    My stupid fingers scramble over the door behind me, but I can’t find the doorknob. Aaron takes a step toward me with one hand raised. I yelp and leap away from him and the door—my only means of escape—like an idiot.
    Aaron takes the opportunity my stupidity creates and blocks my exit. He raises both hands to the level of his chest, palms out, like my father used to do when he tried to calm Mom during a balls-out fight.
    “Look,” Aaron says, his eyes earnest. “There’s no need to be scared. I’m just doing my job. If you had been here on time, you’d know that.”
    “Killing old people is your job?” I say. “What are you? Some freaky, psychic hit man to the elderly or something?” I scoot deeper into the room, moving closer to Rosie’s dead body, but farther away from her killer. My fingers close around a glass of water on Rosie’s table. He may be able to predict my death and psychically lead me around town with a headache, but I know I can hurt him if he’s surprised. The greenish-purple mark on his chin is proof. Maybe Aaron will stumble away from the door if I throw the glass at him. Then I can rush out and sprint down the hallway, yelling for help the whole way.
    “What? No! I didn’t kill her,” Aaron says. “She was dying. It was her time. Didn’t you feel it? The headache? The pulling in your head?”
    “Yeah, I know about the headache.” I lift the glass off the table behind me and prepare to lob it at his head. “I’m not sure how you did it, but I felt it.”
    “I didn’t do it, Libbi, but I’m the reason you had it.” Aaron says this like the pounding explosion between my ears is some precious gift. “I can prove it.”
    “Oh yeah? You can prove you’re the reason I had a headache? Well, I’ve pretty much had a headache since I met you.”
    “Rosie told me she was ready to go. She called me Bruce. You heard that inside your head, right? How would I know that?”
    I don’t know how he