Symphony of Bones by L.T. Ryan (little bear else holmelund minarik .txt) 📕

in the backyard and the kitchen on repeat. A pair of worried parents and an inept psychologist had cost her a piece of her childhood. It had taken away decades of experience for dealing with and understanding her abilities.

How many people could she have helped in that time?

The answer was hundreds, if not thousands.

Cassie pulled into the parking lot outside the police precinct. She blinked the building into focus. On the drive, her anger had dissipated, but she’d replaced it with despair. She’d had the perfect opportunity to explain to her parents that her abilities were not delusions and that it was something she had been born with but hadn’t understood until recently.

Now she had to convince her brain it wasn’t too late to have that conversation. She would get through this interview with the FBI, she would tell them what she knew, and maybe it would lead them to Connor Grayson’s killer.

Then, she would go home and have a calm discussion with her family.

Cassie hooked two fingers around the doorhandle and pushed it open. She was still in a daze as she made her way across the parking lot, but as she stepped through the front door of the precinct and made eye contact with Agent Viotto, she snapped back into focus.

He held out his hand. “Ms. Quinn.”

She shook it. “Agent Viotto.”

He turned to the man next to him. “My partner, Agent Robert Mannis.”

She shook his hand, too. “Agent Mannis.”

Mannis returned the handshake and gestured to a door on her left. “Shall we?”

Cassie nodded and followed the two men down a hallway and into an interview room. It didn’t matter how many times she’d been inside one, or how many times she told herself she wasn’t a suspect, the effect of the room was too great.

Over the years, she had learned how to avoid looking guilty. Don’t squirm in your seat. Don’t look up at the camera in the corner. Make eye contact. Be polite. Never, ever lie.

But as they sat down across from her, a binder and a file folder in front of each, she had the urge to throw it all out the window. Despite being on the right side of the table for so long, Cassie had trouble not feeling like she’d done something wrong.

“Can I get you some water?” Agent Viotto asked. “Coffee?”

Since she didn’t know how long she’d be there: “Water, please.”

Viotto grabbed a bottle of water from under the table and placed it in front of her.

“Thank you.” She unscrewed the top, took a sip, and set it back down. Her movements felt robotic. Practiced. “I believe you said my file was enlightening?”

Viotto and Mannis exchanged a look that Cassie couldn’t quite read. When Viotto looked at her, he tapped a single finger against the folder that sat in front of him. Was that it? Was that her entire life story narrowed down into a few pages?

“I don’t want to ask you anything that might make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine.” Cassie smiled, one she had practiced countless times before.

People were curious about what had happened to her, why she had her scars, why the most mundane of experiences could send her reeling. She had tried avoiding the topic in the past, but she found being open about it was easier. Cathartic, in a way. The irony was that people were only curious to a point. If you got too detailed, too graphic, you’d make them uncomfortable. And then you were the one who had to apologize.

Wasn’t that bullshit?

The look on Viotto’s face told her he saw through her deception, but he played along, regardless. Mannis looked like he was on the verge of boredom. He was attentive, but in a passive sort of way. Like half his brain was thinking about a gruesome murder and half was running football plays.

“We don’t meet a lot of survivors in our line of business.”

Cassie lifted the corners of her mouth. “What about psychics?”

“One or two.” Viotto turned to Mannis. “He’s met a few more than me.”

“But none of them have a track record like you.” Mannis’ full attention was on her now. “You’ve done some incredible things.”

“Thank you.” She looked between the two men. “I’m not used to someone taking me at my word about that.”

Viotto tapped the file again. “More than a few people have vouched for you.”

She wondered who. There were so many people over the years. So many agents and detectives and cops that she’d needed to convince. Who had gone to task for her, and who had tried to forget what she’d shown them?

“Your abilities developed after Novak?”

Cassie forced herself not to squirm. “Funny you should ask that. New, ah, evidence came to light that makes me believe I’ve had them my entire life. They disappeared for a while, but after Novak’s attack, they resurfaced.”

Viotto flipped open the file, made a note, then closed it again. “How accurate are they, typically?”

“Pretty accurate. Sometimes I misinterpret them. But on the whole, they don’t lead me astray.”

Mannis cleared his throat, and Cassie got a sense they were entering sensitive territory. “What can you tell us about the Connor Grayson case? Preferably anything the public doesn’t know.”

Cassie took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Connor Grayson died while on his knees, begging for his life. The shooter was only a foot or so away when he fired the weapon. The bullet entered Connor’s head right between his eyes. I also know Anthony Lewis did not kill Connor Grayson.”

“And you know this because…”

Cassie got the sense that Mannis knew the answer but needed her to say it anyway. “The shooter was white.”

“And how did you come to this conclusion?”

“We were watching the news. I saw the press conference. It upset my mom—she knows Connor’s mother—and I put my hand on her shoulder. I only saw a few seconds of what transpired, but I know what I witnessed. I saw Connor Grayson die, and Anthony Lewis didn’t pull the trigger.”

“Did the shooter have any other identifying