Page 64 of When She Dreams

She was in her robe and slippers. Her notebook was open on the table near the window. She had been jotting down a few observations and plot ideas when Sam had knocked on the connecting door a moment ago.

They had spoken very little on the drive back to the hotel. Both of them had retreated to their own private thoughts. When they unlocked the doors of their rooms, Sam had said a casual good night, as if he had intended to go straight to bed. She had envied him. She was too tense to sleep, and that was fortunate because she knew that when she did there would probably be dreams of a dead woman in a fiery crash and paintings that cast shadows.

She wasn’t feeling up to handling that sort of dreamscape tonight. Exhaustion and stress played havoc with her ability to control her dreams.

“I noticed you didn’t advise Miss Kirk to throw the paintings into the trash,” Sam said.

“That wouldn’t have worked,” Maggie said. “The energy in them was laid down by the artist. It came from his own dreams. I don’t know how to explain it. All I can tell you is that it wouldn’t do any good to try to separate the painter from the paintings. It wouldn’t change anything. He would just create more art infused with the same bad heat. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.”

“Think Pell will take your advice to paint a serene picture and then paint a hallway with a couple of doors?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know. People almost never—”

“—take good advice. Given that bit of wisdom, you picked an odd career path.”

“Assisting Lillian with the Aunt Cornelia column isn’t a career; it’s a job. I told you, I can’t make a living on confession stories. I need to support myself while I work on my novel.”

“I understand.”

“There’s another reason why I want to become a successful author,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“I will never be happy working for someone else. I don’t take orders well.”

Sam’s mouth curved in the faint smile she was learning meant he was genuinely amused. “Or good advice.”

“Evidently you possess a similar character flaw,” she said. “It explains why you made the career-ending mistake of arresting that horrible man in L.A.”

“Chichester.”

“The reason I hired you instead of one of those other two private detectives in Adelina Beach was because you struck me as a man who could not be bought.”

“Not all cops are on the take, Maggie.”

“I know.” She smiled. “And not all those who are interested in dreams are con artists or the sadly deluded victims of con artists.”

“I don’t think you’re a fraud, and I don’t think you’re deluded,” Sam said.

“Really? What am I, then? Besides a client, I mean.”

“You’re a mystery.”

“You’re in the business of solving mysteries.”

“I find them interesting.”

“I think you need them,” she whispered.

“You may be right.” He took a step back, retreating into his room. “Get some sleep, Maggie. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“Do you want to kiss me?” she asked.

He went still. “What kind of question is that?”

“The yes-or-no kind.”

“Yes.” He moved forward, crossing the threshold into her room. He brushed the side of her face with his knuckles. “I want to kiss you very much, but it would probably be a mistake.”

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