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Praise for the novels of New York Times
bestselling author
KAT MARTIN

“[Martin] produces irresistible novels that blend the eerie and unexplainable with her own uniquely sensual and exciting style.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“In this intricately crafted novel, a terrific paranormal story unfolds that is sure to send shivers down many a reader’s spine…. Ms. Martin is a master storyteller.”

—Coffee Time Reviews on Scent of Roses

“A real page-turner…The Summit is a superb story…”

—Romance Reviews Today

“An edgy and intense example of romantic suspense with plenty of twists and turns; fans are sure to be turning pages well into the night to finish.”

—Paranormal Romance Writers on The Summit

“A terrific contemporary romance with an interesting setting, perfect pacing, compelling plot, fascinating detail.”

—Booklist on Midnight Sun

“A stunning achievement for such a talented author!”

—Literary Times on Bold Angel

“For once, here’s a paranormal book where the paranormal element is truly creepy.”

—All About Romance on The Silent Rose

KAT MARTIN
SEASON OF STRANGERS

To my friends on Rock Creek. What a great group

you are! Thanks for all the good times. It’s been

fun just getting to know you.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

One

It was an odd sound, like the wind whipping a heavy wire stretched too tight. She heard it and a tense shiver crawled up her spine. The sun scorched down, hotter than she’d expected. The sky, a washed-out white instead of its usual blue seemed to trap in the heat. There wasn’t the hint of a cloud to offer relief.

It was Wednesday, the middle of the week. No one swam in the ocean. No one looked down from the private, guarded cliffs rising up from this deserted stretch of beach. Only a stray black dog, little more than a pin-dot in the distance, wandered aimlessly in her direction, veering occasionally into the surf to cool its burning feet.

Ignoring the dog and the heat soaking through her red bikini, Julie Ferris turned to her sister, propped up on the sand just a few feet away. “Listen, Laura—do you hear that sound?”

The tall, sleek young woman beside her sat up on her faded yellow beach towel. A sticky breeze coming in off the ocean lifted strands of her pale blond hair. “What sound? I don’t hear anything.” She reached over and lowered the volume on the radio, extinguishing the low beat of rock music that filtered out toward the sea.

“It’s sort of a thick funny buzzing. I think it’s coming from someplace over there.” Julie pointed toward the west, out toward the breakers crashing in with the rising tide. They were lying in a private cove on Malibu Beach, part of a huge estate owned by Julie’s neighbor, Owen Mallory, a friend and her most important real estate client.

Cocking her head toward the odd hum that had begun to resonate along her spine, Julie rubbed her arms, trying to rid herself of the goose bumps prickling her skin. “Now it sounds like it’s coming from the east. I can’t exactly tell.”

Laura shifted in that direction, angling her slender frame and tilting her head. “Kind of weird, isn’t it? I can hear it and at the same time, I can’t. It seems to be sort of all around us.”

Julie dusted clumps of gritty sand from her hands, which were smaller, more petite than the long-boned supple fingers of her younger sister. At twenty-four, Laura Ferris had taken after their handsome fair-haired father, while Julie’s dark-red hair, lightly freckled nose, and small pointed chin came from her mother’s side of the family. She looked more pixieish than beautiful, though she was attractive. She was proud of her figure and shapely legs, and she thought she had a very nice behind.

“Whatever it is,” Julie said, “it’s irritating to say the least.” For a moment, the sound seemed to heighten and a sharp stab of pain shot into her head. “It’s getting on my nerves and giving me a headache.” She craned her neck, scanning the empty stretch of beach, careful to keep her eyes shaded beneath the brim of her big straw hat.

Glancing up at the washed-out blue sky, she tried not to stare into the harsh ball of early June sun. “Maybe it’s coming from above us…some kind of microwave something-or-other, or a military jet that’s flying really high.”

At twenty-eight, Julie was more outgoing than Laura, more vivacious, more driven to make the most of her life. Their father had left when they were just kids and the years of bare subsistence gave Julie her relentless drive. Laura had reacted in an opposite way, growing up shy and withdrawn, dependent on Julie to take the place of a mother who was rarely there. As a child, Laura was sickly much of the time—or at least believed she was.

“I don’t see anything,” Laura said.

Julie scanned the sky. “Neither do I, but that noise is giving me the shivers. Maybe we ought to go in.”

“I’m not ready to go in yet,” Laura said, sliding down onto her backrest. “Besides, it doesn’t seem quite so loud anymore. I think it’s starting to fade.” She yawned hugely. “It’s bound to stop in a minute or two.”

Julie rubbed at the irritating goose bumps, trying to ignore the piercing hum that didn’t seem to bother her sister. She lay back on the red-and-orange beach towel that read Watch Out For Sharks, which she had gotten at a real estate conference in Las Vegas.

“Turn the radio back up.” Julie clenched her jaw, wishing the grating noise would end. “Maybe that rock station you were listening to will drown out the sound.” Shoving her sunglasses up on her nose, she settled her straw hat over her face to shade her eyes. Beside her, Laura reached for the volume knob on the radio, but it was no longer working.

“Damned thing.”

“Probably the battery,” Julie mumbled from beneath her hat.

“Can’t be. I just replaced it.” Laura gave the radio a whack, but it didn’t go on. “They always crap out when you need them.” Grumbling, she picked up the book she’d been reading, a Danielle Steel novel about two sisters and the hardships they had suffered as children, a story much like their own early years.

“What time is it?” Julie asked, grateful the noise had finally stopped though the weird vibrations continued. Her body tingled from head to foot, her fingers felt numb, and her heart was throbbing strangely.

At the same time she felt unaccountably sleepy.

Laura glanced down at her diamond-faced wristwatch, a present from Julie last Christmas. “That’s weird…my watch has stopped working, too.” She grimaced and plopped the paperback book down over her face. “Nothing works when you want it to.” The words whispered out from beneath the pages.

“You’re not going to sleep, are you? One of us had better stay awake or we’ll wind up with a doozie of a sunburn.”

But already Laura’s eyes were closing.

And as the odd numbing sensations became more intense, Julie’s limbs began to feel heavy. Her eyes drifted closed and her thoughts slowly faded. A few moments later, she was soundly asleep.

When the stray black dog sauntered over from the edge of the surf, dripping water from the hair under his belly, he cocked an ear at the once again softly playing radio. A low growl rumbled from his throat and the thick black ruff of fur at the back of his neck shot up as he sniffed the terry-cloth folds of the two vacant beach towels, the empty backrests, and the cast-off book he found carelessly abandoned in the sand.

He growled again and glanced up, then whimpered and began to back away. Tucking his tail between his legs, the dog turned and bolted off down the beach.

Val lingered a moment in front of the monitor on the narrow metal table, studying the glowing blue screen. He’d been examining his research notes ever since the tests had been completed and all of the data assembled. Nothing he saw on the screen or in any of his other case studies gave him the answers he searched for, answers he so desperately needed.

He shut down the power and the monitor went blank. Panidyne would be waiting for a report and he still hadn’t reached a decision. He wasn’t usually so indecisive. Back home he tended to be somewhat outspoken, not a particularly desirable trait, considering the position he held. But this time the action he was considering was far too risky, too important to undertake without a great deal of thought.

The fact was, he needed more data before he put his radical notion before the council.

He moved away from the table, a sudden calmness settling over him. His superiors had wanted more testing, but he had disagreed. It was harmful to the subject, life threatening, they now knew.

But perhaps this time the council was correct. Perhaps it was worth the risk. Another round of tests might give them the key, hint at where to find the knowledge that up until now had remained so elusive.

More data would give him more answers. Perhaps he would know for sure if the perilous proposal he was about to make was worth the terrible risk.

Two

Julie Ferris shoved open the front door of her office on the corner of Canon and Dayton in Beverly Hills. Donovan Real Estate, a company that specialized in palatial-sized homes and properties, had been a fixture in the area for more than twenty years. Julie had been with the company for eight of those years, starting as a receptionist during her term at UCLA. She never thought she would wind up in a sales position—top sales—she corrected, thinking of the money she earned each year and the plaques that covered her office walls.

She stopped at the receptionist’s desk, dark mahogany, polished to a mirror-gloss sheen, the Queen Anne tables in front of the off-white sofa and chairs equally expensive and well-cared for.

“Any messages, Shirl?” Julie asked the voluptuous bleach-blond girl behind the desk, the only thing out of place in the elegant, conservative interior. “I meant to get in earlier, but my car wouldn’t start. I had to call Triple A and have them jump-start the battery.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to ignore the painful headache building behind her eyes.

“It’s been kinda slow so far,” Shirl said as she popped open a tube of bright red lipstick and began to smooth it over her pouty lips. Shirl was Patrick Donovan’s contribution to the office staff. His father had founded Donovan Real Estate and run the business for all but the last three years. A stroke had left Alexander Donovan partially paralyzed and his playboy son in charge. Shirley Bingham was a leftover from one of Patrick’s numerous affairs.

“There’s a call here from Owen Mallory and one from a Dr. Marsh,” Shirl said, putting the lipstick back in her purse. “The rest are on your desk.”

“Thanks, Shirl.” At least the woman was conscientious. She still carried a torch for Patrick, but then so did half the women in Beverly Hills. “Has Babs come in? I’ve got a client who’s interested in one of her listings.” Barbara Danvers was another sales associate, and Julie’s best friend.

“Sorry, Ms. Danvers hasn’t come in yet, but she phoned in a couple of times for her messages.”

“If she calls again, find out if she’s got plans for dinner. Tell her I’m tired of eating alone.”

“Will do, Ms. Ferris.”

Julie picked up her burgundy leather briefcase and started toward the door that led to her private office, one of the perks of being in a top sales position. Unconsciously, she rubbed her temple. The headache was building, growing with every minute. They’d been getting worse each day for the past two weeks, the first one hitting after she and Laura had spent the day together on the beach.

That was the reason for the message from Dr. Marsh. Three days ago, she’d awakened with a migraine so severe she couldn’t get out of bed. She’d been dizzy and nauseous, the pounding in her temples so excruciating four Advils hadn’t been able to numb it. She had gone to see Dr. Marsh that afternoon in an effort to discover what might be causing the headaches, and he had begun a series of tests. The doctor had promised to call with the results.

Lifting the receiver, Julie dialed his number, then waded through a barrage of secretaries and nurses until he finally picked up the phone.

“Julie, how are you feeling?”

“Not so good. My head’s beginning to pound. I hope I’m not getting another bad one. What did the test results show?”

“The MRI and CAT scans were clear. No sign of a tumor, nothing like that. The X-rays revealed no spinal problems. As a matter of fact, so far we’ve found nothing at all that would indicate headaches of the magnitude you’ve been suffering.” He paused and silence descended on the phone. Julie didn’t know whether to feel relieved or more worried than ever. “You’ve been working terribly hard, Julie. Stress can cause any number of problems. Severe migraine headaches are certainly among them.”

Julie said nothing. She had worried the headaches might be stress related. Though it would be simpler, in a way she hoped they weren’t. She had to work for a living. If stress was the trouble, there wasn’t much she could do about it.

“I’m not saying that’s what this is,” the doctor continued. “There are several more tests we need to run before we’ll know for sure. I’ve set them up for Thursday afternoon at two o’clock. If that doesn’t work, just call my assistant and have her reschedule.”

“Thursday’s fine, Dr. Marsh.” Julie said goodbye and hung up the receiver. She needed to return the stack of phone messages on her desk, especially the one from Owen Mallory, but the pain in her head had begun to worsen. So far the headaches had lasted no more than several hours. She could turn off her cell phone and have Shirl hold her calls, then close the door to her office and lie down on the sofa for a while. In a couple of hours she was sure to feel better. By then Patrick might have come in.

Giving instructions to Shirl not to be disturbed, Julie got up from the stack of paperwork on her desk, closed the door and the blinds over the window into the office, then lay down on the overstuffed camel-backed sofa. She had a bone to pick with Patrick over his bungling of the Rabinoff deal while she had been out of town. Typical Patrick, drinking and carousing instead of tending to business. She had promised the Rabinoffs the escrow on their house would close by the end of the month. Now she had to find a way to straighten out the problems and keep her word.

Julie closed her eyes and tried not to think of tall, dark and handsome Patrick Donovan. She tried not to see his disarming white smile, gleaming black hair, and perfect V-shaped body, all attractively packaged in expensive custom-tailored clothes.

Instead she forced herself to think of the wild, drunken parties he favored, the women, the drugs, the careless, reckless spending that was dragging Patrick and Donovan Real Estate right down the tubes. It was Patrick’s fault the company was near financial ruin. Patrick with his selfish overindulgence, his endless schemes, and self-destructive ways.

As she always did when her mind strayed to Alex’s charming, incorrigible son, she worried about the way he was destroying himself and thought what a terrible waste it was.

Patrick Donovan slammed the door of his sleek black Porsche Carrera a little harder than he meant to, then winced at the jolt of pain that shot from his head to his toes. Jesus, what a hangover. Sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll. Sometimes he wondered if it was worth it.

“Take care of her, will you, Monty?” He dangled the keys in front of the little valet who parked cars at Spago, the posh celebrity restaurant half a block down from his office.

“You got it, Mr. Donovan!” The kid grinned like a fool, grabbed the keys and a ten-dollar bill, and slid behind the steering wheel while Patrick continued on up the sidewalk to work. It was late afternoon. He should have been in the office hours ago, but the juicy little blonde he’d picked up at Jack Winston’s party last night had kept him up until nearly dawn.

She was into booze, big-time, a cokehead who occasionally got high with a needle, but she was also really built. She knew how to party and better yet, she knew how to screw. The trade-off was worth the price he’d paid for an eight ball of really good coke. And of course he hadn’t minded getting a little grilled himself.

“What’s up, Shirl?” Resting an elbow on the message center beside her desk, he leaned forward, giving himself a better view of her outrageous cleavage.

She beamed up at him. “I got tickets for Saturday night—The Jersey Boys. Front row seats. I didn’t really think you’d be interested, but if you’re not already busy—”

“I meant what’s going on around here. What calls I’ve had and whether or not anyone is desperately looking for me.”

“Oh.” She looked crestfallen. Shirley Bingham had never been long on brains but she was dynamite in the sack. Too bad getting her in bed meant he’d had to employ her. Shirl loved the job and now he didn’t have the heart to fire her. He was, however, smart enough to ignore the lure of temptation again.

She straightened in her chair, jiggling her magnificent breasts, and the front of his pants went snug. He might have one helluva hangover, but obviously he wasn’t dead yet.

“You’ve had a lot of calls, sir. I put them in on your desk. Oh, and Ms. Ferris has been waiting for you to come in. She’s in her office now.”

Julie Ferris. Patrick sighed as he straightened away from Shirl, turned, and made his way past the twin rows of desks, nodding to a salesman here and there as he walked by. If he had one regret in life it was Julie. He’d been attracted to Julie Ferris since the day she’d walked through the office front door eight years ago. She’d been only twenty then, not even old enough to drink. But she’d had a beautiful body and skin like cream, big green eyes, and the clearest, sweetest laugh he’d ever heard.

At the time, she was a junior at UCLA, looking for part-time work. He had convinced his father to hire her on the spot and begun to put the moves on her right away. Eventually he’d convinced her to go out with him, but he was seven years older than Julie, and she was wary of a worldly man like him. When he’d driven her to his apartment after dinner to try his hand at seduction, Julie had come unglued.

“You’re drunk,” she had said, unwinding herself from his sticky embrace and leaving him sprawled on the couch. “I feel like I’ve been out with an octopus, and the whole time we were having dinner, your eyes were on every other woman who walked through the door. That might work with the bimbos you’ve been dating, but it won’t work with me.”

“Wait a minute, Julie—” He struggled to get to his feet and finally dragged himself upright. “So what if I am a little drunk? We’re out to party, aren’t we? I only wanted to have a little fun.”

“Fun for you, maybe.” She snatched her coat off the chair. “Certainly not fun for me.” She started for the door. “You don’t have to drive me home. If you tried, you’d probably get us both thrown in jail. I’ll take a cab.”

Julie had gotten home on her own and she hadn’t gone out with him since.

He thought of that night as he knocked on the door to her office, then turned the knob and walked in. Things had changed a lot between them since then. He was her boss now. Over the years, she had won his respect and they had come to a sort of understanding. He glanced to where she sat on the sofa, gently massaging her temple. She was usually behind her desk with the phone shoved into an ear.

“You don’t look good,” he said, noticing the lines of fatigue beneath her eyes.

“Neither do you.” She glanced up at his drug-ravaged face. It was hard to fool Julie. She always saw through to the truth. “Another rough night, I gather.”

He grinned boyishly, wishing he could charm her as easily as he could the rest of the women he knew. “Kind of. What about you? Not feeling well?”

Julie sighed and came to her feet. As always, she looked at him with a combination of regret mixed with disapproval. It always pissed him off.

“I had a headache,” she said. “It’s pretty much gone now.”

He knew she was attracted to him, but Julie Ferris wasn’t the kind of girl who went for one-night stands. She disapproved of the drugs he used and badgered him about his drinking.

“You don’t look like you’re feeling much better,” she said, frowning at the smudges beneath his eyes, the slightly sallow color of his usually suntanned skin. “That stuff is going to kill you, Patrick. How long will it take before you figure that out?”

Patrick stiffened, drawing himself up to his full six foot three inches. “What I do is none of your damned business.”

Julie stopped a few feet in front of him, tilting her head to look up at him and fixing those big green eyes on his face. “It is when my clients are involved.” Her brows drew together, moving the tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose. “We need to talk about the Rabinoff deal. You really blew that one, Patrick.”

“I know, I know.” He raked a hand through his wavy black hair, shoving it back from his forehead. “Things just sort of got away from me.”

“They got away from you because you weren’t paying attention. You’re too smart for that, Patrick. If you kept your mind on business instead of Shirl’s cleavage or Babs’s derrière—”

“Okay, okay, I’ll fix it.” He didn’t tell her it was her derrière that usually snagged his attention. “I know the secretary over at the mortgage company. I’ll get her to put a rush on the documents. Anything else you want me to do?”

She rattled off a list of items, each word punctuated by a green-eyed glare that scorched right through him. Damn, she was pretty. Not beautiful like some of the women he knew, but cute and smart and sexy as hell. He forced himself not to think of what she’d be like in bed.

After eight years of giving it the old college try, he knew it wasn’t going to happen.

Julie lay in the middle of her big pine bed, listening to the pounding of the surf rolling in on the beach, the intermittent throb of a foghorn in the distance. Her bedroom was white, like the rest of the house, with light pine hardwood floors and woven throw rugs in bright southwest colors—a bit of New Mexico on the California shore. The house wasn’t huge, just three bedrooms and an office, living room, dining room, kitchen, sunny breakfast room and two-car garage.

It was the wall of windows overlooking the beach, the deck that ran the length of the house, and the privacy of the property that had seduced her into buying it. That and her friend, Babs, nagging her that with the money she was earning, she needed the tax deduction.

Julie thought of the evening she had spent with her friend. A pleasant dinner at The Grill after they’d worked late at the office, though later she had suffered another migraine headache. It was a bad one, leaving her weak and drained, but once she got home it had disappeared. She had slept for a while, then awakened abruptly from an unpleasant dream. Now she was finding it impossible to go back to sleep.

She rolled onto her side, pulling up the covers, plumping her pillow, trying not to think of the work piling up on her desk and hoping the sound of the ocean would lull her as it usually did. Her love of the ocean was one of the reasons she had bought the expensive beachfront property. She had stumbled on to the place while working with Owen Mallory, showing him a series of luxurious homes, hoping he would add one of them to his worldwide collection.

This little house sat next door to the vast estate he had finally chosen, which meant, at his insistence, she had access to a long stretch of private white sand beach.

Julie fidgeted and turned just as the phone began to ring on the nightstand beside the bed. Sitting up quickly, she reached for it with a suddenly unsteady hand. She had always hated late-night calls. They were usually nothing but bad news.

“Julie, are you there?” Her sister’s trembling voice crackled over the receiver. “Julie?”

“Laura, what is it? What’s happened?”

“I-I’m frightened, Julie. I think somebody is outside my window.”

Julie tensed. “Did you call the police?”

“No. The last time I called them, no one was out there. I’m afraid they won’t come if I call them again.”

“Of course they’ll come. It’s their job to protect you. Hang up and call them right now. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

“Julie, don’t hang up. I’m afraid they’ll come if you do.”

Julie’s fingers tightened on the phone. “You’re afraid who will come? The people outside your window?”

“No…I…I don’t know who they are.”

A knot balled hard in Julie’s stomach. Laura had been acting strangely ever since the day they had spent on the beach. Still, her sister lived in a small apartment in an older section of Venice, not the safest place for an attractive single woman. Julie had seen some of the oddballs and riffraff who frequented the zany beach town. She had tried to persuade Laura to move somewhere else, but her sister had refused.

“Listen to me, Laura, do exactly what I tell you. As soon as you hang up, call 911. Make sure the doors and windows are locked, then stay inside until the police get there. I’ll be carrying my cell phone. You can call me if you need to. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” Steeling herself against her sister’s protests, Julie hung up and jumped out of bed. In minutes she was dressed in jeans and Reeboks and a navy blue sweatshirt, racing down the front steps and into the garage.

The powerful engine of her silver Mercedes SL convertible, her pride and joy, fired up when she turned the key. It sat next to a nearly new, four-door Lincoln Town Car she used when she wanted to show property.

Julie grabbed her scarf from the passenger side of the sports car and tied it around her bouncy, just-above-the-shoulders dark red hair. Then she jammed the car into reverse, slammed her foot down on the gas pedal, and peeled out of the driveway. In minutes she was flying down the Pacific Coast Highway, headed toward her sister’s apartment, her heart pounding like a drum inside her chest.

She dialed 911 on her hands-free cell phone, confirmed that her sister’s call for help had been received, and hung up, praying nothing would happen to Laura before she could get there.

Laura Ferris finally opened her front door. The officer on the other side had been pounding, cajoling, trying to convince her he was really with the police department but Laura was too afraid to believe him.

She sagged with relief when she saw his billed cap, dark blue uniform, and the shiny chrome badge that glittered beneath the porch light. “I’m sorry, Officer, I was just so frightened.”

“It’s all right, Ms. Ferris. Why don’t we go into the living room?” He urged her in that direction and Laura let him guide her, feeling weightless with relief.

“Did you see anyone? Did you catch them?” She brushed past the big leafy philodendron that had outgrown its pot, and sat down on the sofa. The orange floral fringed throw was a little crooked so she nervously began to straighten it.

A few feet away, the tall thin policeman stood in front of her, a man in his forties, a man with experience, she thought. A man who could protect her.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Ferris. We saw no sign of an intruder, nothing at all that would indicate a presence outside the apartment.”

Laura frowned. Surely she couldn’t have been mistaken. She glanced up at the sound of the door swinging open and saw her sister rush in, a small bundle of energy beneath a cap of glossy red hair.

“Julie—thank God you came.” Laura shoved a tousled blond curl behind her ear. “This is Officer—” she read the nameplate over his badge “—Ferguson. He says they’ve checked things out but they didn’t find anyone. You’d think the guy would have left footprints or something, but I guess he didn’t. Anyway, I guess he’s gone.”

“You’re related to Ms. Ferris?” the policeman asked.

“I’m her sister. I’m Julie Ferris.”

“Could I speak to you a moment? In private?”

Julie glanced at her slightly disheveled sister, noticing the pallor of her skin and the tic that had surfaced beneath one dark brown eye. “Yes, Officer, of course.” They made their way into the cozy little kitchen, dodging potted plants and ducking behind the red beaded curtain that clattered in their wake.

“You weren’t able to catch the man?” Julie asked worriedly.

“There was no man, Ms. Ferris. Are you aware this is the fifth 911 call we’ve received from your sister in the past two weeks?”

“No…I…I had no idea. She mentioned that she’d called once before, but I didn’t know there had been others.”

“The dispatch says each call’s the same. Your sister’s frightened voice coming over the phone claiming someone is trying to break into the house.”

“Maybe someone is trying to get in and you’re just not here quickly enough to catch him.”

“Prowlers leave traces, Ms. Ferris. Footprints, loosened window screens, tire tracks—something. There’s nothing of that sort here. I hate to have to ask this, but has your sister had any kind of psychiatric problems?”