image forming once again in her mind. The wall wasn’t there, but there was a woman with black hair and she was . . . she was . . . Kate closed her eyes tight, trying to force her mind to make sense of the memory. “She was scratching the air,” Kate said aloud. Of that, she was sure. The woman had been scratching the open air, her fingers curled into claws, fingernails digging into the space before her as if the wall were still there. Kate shuddered. She was trapped. And she wanted out.
