He looked to the weapon I held. “How did you know the gun was under the

couch?”

I answered before my mental brakes kicked in. “Kelsey managed to knock it

out of his hand during her fight.”

His eyes narrowed. “Who was Kelsey fighting?”

Nice slip there, Cyn. Never comfortable about actually talking about my little quirk, I got to my feet.

He caught my wrist, stopping me before I could walk away. When my gaze

dropped to his, he asked, “Who did you see, Cyn?”

Twisting against his grip proved useless. Not that I tried very hard. The warmth of his fingers sank past skin and bone and was strangely reassuring.

“Just her, I couldn’t see his face.”

He rolled to his feet with surprising grace. “Is that normal?”

A short, caustic laugh escaped. “Normal? What exactly about being a voyeur

to the past is normal?”

He let me go but studied me with an unsettling intensity. “How much do you

understand about your gift?”

His careful question scraped over emotions still raw from watching Kelsey’s

attack. “Not one damn thing, which makes living with it challenging, to say the

least.”

Difficult wasn’t even close to describing how it was to grow up under the watchful eyes of the foster care system, especially knowing you were different.

When I was younger, telling the past from the present was a challenge, one that

took a while to master. Even then, trying to explain how hard it was not to get lost in the past, made it sound like I lived in some fantasy world.

It took me years to discover how to suppress this stupid ‘gift’ and find my place in the real world, instead of floundering in the past. By then, understanding

the how’s and why’s didn’t matter, as long as I could keep it tamped down, I was

good. Only then could I function ‘normally’.

“Then let’s start from the beginning.” A steely undertone of his words rode

the edge of an order. “Tell me what triggers your ability.”

He wanted answers? Fine. “Emotions. The stronger the emotion, the clearer

the picture.”

“Does it matter if the emotion is negative or positive?”

I shook my head, but qualified, “Generally negative. The more intense the situation, the closer I am to the subject, the deeper the imprint it leaves behind.”

I struggled to explain something I never tried to put into words. “It’s like developing a photograph. If the emotional intensity of the person involved is the

developing solution, then the scene etches itself in more detail on whatever it is

that causes this ability.”

Now that I was giving him what he wanted, he relaxed. Leaning against the

back of the couch, he crossed his arms across his chest and gave a small nod.

“That makes sense.” His relaxed pose was deceptive because his next question was sharp. “How sensitive are you?”

Confused, I uttered an intelligent, “Huh?”

Studied patience colored his voice. “When you’re reliving a scene, how deep

do you go into it?”

Understanding dawned. “It depends. Generally, if it’s someone I know, I can

prepare for it. Surfing the waves is like watching a silent film.”

“Silent films?” He frowned. “So, you can’t hear anything, just watch?”

I nodded, not ready to admit that might have changed.

“If you’re not prepared?”

Revealing any weakness to this man made me uncomfortable, but he wasn’t

giving me much choice. “Then someone better be around to snap me out of it.”

“How?”

My hands curled into fists. “Physical distraction.”

“Like what?”

Heat crawled up my face and it took a lot to meet his gaze. “Shaking or slapping works.”