“I thought he only followed you in Paris. Does he have a name?”
“I’m not supposed to even know he’s there — officially. I think his name is George.”
“So how long has George been with you…no, let me guess — about two months.”
“Yes. I stopped writing when I got worried. If these people could find me, maybe they would come looking for you.”
I frowned and my stomach interjected a large growl. “Why would they bother me?”
“If this does have something to do with psionics, they might be curious about any attachments I have. You’re a good friend. I don’t know what is going on, but I don’t want you involved.”
Marie got up, ending the discussion. “Let’s get you some real food.”
We kept conversation light during dinner. I told her about my drawings and the stores that had begun to sell my paint
