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chief inspector who’d handled the investigation into the deaths of my friend and her neighbor. When I’d told him about the auras, he’d closed up like a sea anemone poked by a crab. Sometimes, during the trial, when we had to be in the courtroom at the same time, he’d looked at me warily, as though I was an unexploded bomb. He’d made me swear not to tell anyone about my strange gift, convinced it would demolish the prosecution’s case if the jury thought that I, as a key witness, was mentally unstable.
    “Okay.” Anita drummed her fingers on the table. “How would you feel about going for some tests, Kate? MRI, CT scan?”
    “I’ve done them all,” I said. “Nothing shows up. I’m perfectly normal.” I laughed, but Anita didn’t.
    “So what did I say that made you gasp earlier?” she asked. “Something to do with Dr. Reid?”
    “He has an aura, Anita.”
    When she looked skeptical, not shocked, I felt a familiar sense of frustration.
    “And you really believe that means he will die?” she asked.
    “I’m sorry, but yes,” I said. “His aura and his recent erratic behavior are probably connected. What do you think? Could he be ill? Ill enough to affect his ability to work?”
    “Ill enough to die?”
    “Maybe you can persuade him to get a check-up? Tell him you’re worried about him and recommend he has an EKG and an MRI or something?”
    Anita stared off across the cafeteria. I could almost see her brain ticking through the options. “I’d be taking a huge risk, talking to him like that. I have to admit that I don’t feel comfortable about it.”
    “You don’t believe me.”
    She looked at me. “Would you believe me if our roles were reversed?”
    “Yes, actually I would, because it’s you. But I don’t blame you for doubting me. It’s hard to accept.”
    “I’ll try to persuade Dr. Reid to take some time off. The rest of it, I just don’t know. I need time to think about it.”
    When her pager buzzed, she glared at it. “I’m sorry. I have to go. We’ll talk later. I want to help you if I can.”
    I watched her stride away from the table, white coat flapping around her knees, dark hair wound in a neat bun. Her words echoed in my head. She wanted to help me, as though
I
were the victim. It was an understandable reaction. Sometimes I did think of myself as a victim, cursed with this extraordinary and unwanted ability. Wiping the table clean with a napkin, I let my mind wander, recalling the scrambled emotions of the previous year, the grief for my mother, the strange and unsettling encounter on the hill in Italy, followed by the terrifying realization that I could see auras that predicted imminent death.
    It was so weird. How could I expect Anita to believe me? Still, I wished that she’d just trust me. Acceptance could come later. Once, when we were students, I was about to turn down a chance to work on a research project with a celebrated professor, sure I wasn’t smart enough to keep up with him. Anita had talked me into saying yes. “Trust me,” she’d said. I did and it had all worked out. That coveted research opportunity had given me a choice of premium jobs when I graduated. I was always grateful to Anita for her faith in me.
    But now, I felt lonely, cast adrift. I’d have to find a better way to talk with her about it. Something that would make sense to a medical professional. I decided to walk part of the way home, to give myself time to think about how to broach the subject with her again. Turning out of the hospital, I took Newgate Street towards St. Paul’s. I loved this part of the city, where ancient and modern buildings stood side by side in the shadows of Sir Christopher Wren’s beautiful dome. Circling the cathedral, I weaved through the usual cosmopolitan mix of Londoners, interlaced with out-of-season tourists. Across the river, the spire-like structure of The Shard, currently the tallest building in Europe, soared upwards to the overcast sky. I dreamed