1

If this was the best they could do, she'd have to work with it. Too late to pull back now. Committed.

Jules leaned forward for the door and had her hand on the knob – smooth and old, brass, under her palm.

In her experience, it was always metal that seemed to hold onto vibrations, like memories – long past the rest of the natural elements, like wood or stone. But only if it'd been held close enough, for long enough. Like worn on the skin against the neck or the wrist, or down next to the heart – they were always the best.

But other things, ones that'd been handled over and over in some other way, could hold onto the energy, too.

Took some time for an imprint to happen. And then set properly. So it didn't radiate away, out to the ethers, off the metal. Very little left to sense then, after that. Metal could hang onto people's energy for years, decades, more. It was quite possible to tune in and feel it years later.

So, the brass under her hand – warm with memory. She'd noticed it, but then let it go – assembling her thoughts, instead, for what was to follow.

Jules opened the door and expected to find someone right there on the other side.

Exam rooms were almost always way too small. Whomever had designed them must never have actually had to work in one. The padded table – always pushed up against the walls in a corner. No way to get around it on all sides.

Then the carbon-copy short run of countertop and tiny sink dropped in at the end, two or three glass canisters sitting on the top. A stingy set of cabinets above and below. A guest chair or two. Too-bright fluorescent lights overhead that couldn't be dimmed. And any hint of natural light coming in, completely blotted for privacy's sake.

It must be a rule, she thought.

Clean, impersonal efficiency practiced here, it said. In and out in minutes, script in hand. Apparently, all satisfied with the encounter. And not at all what Jules was about.

So, here, in this old-timey building – with its thick oak doors and inset frosted glass windows and brass knobs – what should she expect to find on the other side of this door? A quick glance around – bigger than she'd expected and not like any modern exam room after all. A trace smell of cigarette smoke inside.

He sat in a chair on the far side of the room, alone, eyes anywhere but on hers.

Lucas watched her come in, without looking up at her face. Unusual for him. He was all about the face, and other things, of course.

Strange. When did they stop wearing white coats? His eyes flicked over her, then. Right to her shape, first. Hard to say for sure. Not heavy, not skinny. Something in between. Clean skin. No makeup that he could see. But not plain, either. Bare hands, strong-looking; no rings; no jewelry either.

He noticed she didn't carry a chart in. Maybe they'd stopped doing that, too. He let his eyes scan the room for a desk with a chart. Easier to keep his eyes roving like that. Didn't need to meet her eyes – have a reaction she could see. Hated feeling like a bug under a scope like this.

She sensed him more than saw him as she entered. No eye contact at all, but his eyes had darted to the rest of the room, like hers. Maybe he'd wanted to seem self-controlled. But when she let herself pay closer attention, nothing could be further from the truth.

Taut to the point of shuddering inside, pasty pale in spite of the summer tan on his skin, and the circles under his eyes? – not sleeping, or at least not getting the benefit from the time in. She wondered what his hand would be like when she crossed the floor to shake it.

Only a slight smile on her lips as she approached. He stood, but hadn't met her eyes just yet, and he'd spent a lot of time working on keeping his face blank. Handsome face, symmetrical; dark hair with a little gray starting to show.

Closer now, a scar. White and long and thin, stark against the tan on his skin. A straight line, drawn down from forehead right through the brow to the middle of his cheek. Lucky he hadn't lost an eye.

He watched her move.

Athletic, well-muscled in the legs, and a serious handshake. Couldn't avoid it anymore. Had to look her in the eyes. Blue gray.

Neither friendly nor probing. Neutral, he'd have to say. Over the first hump, then.

OK. He could work with neutral.

"Detective Davenport, good to meet you," she said. Strong voice. No nonsense. Neutral.

She smiled just a little with her eyes, saw him meet hers for just a second, and then she dropped hers to watch his hand.

Firm handshake back – when he felt the strength in hers. But tremulous – a fine shake in his grip that he couldn't hide. Pulled his hand away early. Must have felt it himself.

"Call me Lucas," he said, turning away to his chair.

She didn't give her name, and turned away herself, in fact, looking around for someplace to sit. The chairs were oddly placed in the room. Too much space between them.

Lucas thought about offering to help, but he'd been the one to move them where they were. He'd let it slide for now and watch her, instead.

She stepped across to a couple of heavy old wooden chairs in the room and dragged one closer – instead of using the lighter, less-comfortable plastic one nearer to him. Maybe, he'd thought, he'd buy himself a shorter interview with the plastic chair.

He watched her do it, dragging the heavy chair, eyes on her form again – how her clothes moved against her shape when she walked, how her legs looked when she lifted the chair into place.

Hadn't noticed any scent, no perfume on her when she came close enough to shake. Just neutral. She hadn't fallen for the move-her-chair-further-away ploy. In fact, she'd moved the heavy chair in too close for his own comfort, then dropped into it and made herself comfortable. It was a substantial chair, heavy and solid beneath her. She straightened herself to begin.

Jesus, he thought, how was this gonna go?