As soon as the words were out, I wished at once I could take them back again. Vincent looked at me. There was a long, uncomfortable silence and I wished that The Black Eyed Peas were roaring from the speakers again. Maybe the music would have drowned out what I'd just said.
Finally Vincent said, "What do you mean she told you? Molly Smith is dead."
I got up and went to the window and folded my arms across my chest. "I dream about her," I said, my back to Vincent. "They're more nightmares, really."
"What happens in these nightmares?" Vincent asked, sounding as if he was genuinely interested.
"I'm down in that well with Molly," I said, unable to turn and face him.
"How long have you been dreaming about her?" he asked, and I could hear him getting up from the sofa.
"Ever since I wiped out her family on that road," I whispered. "At first I thought I was dreaming about the old man because of a guilty conscience. Then you mentioned the death of a young girl in a well and I thought I'd dreamt of her because of what you had said."
"Why don't you think that anymore?" he asked, and I could see his reflection in the windowpane as he stopped just behind me. Part of me wanted to turn to him and be held in his arms. I felt scared all of a sudden. But I couldn't turn around and face him.
"I found out where that well was," I started. "So I went there today, and it's the well from my dreams. How could I dream about a well I'd never seen before? Don't you think it's a bit strange that I kill Jonathan Smith and his family, only to end up dreaming about his daughter who died in a well ten years before? What are the odds of that happening?"
"There could be any number of reasons why," Vincent said softly, that joking manner of his now gone.
"Like what?" I whispered, more to myself than him. "That old guy called me a witch before he died. Perhaps he was cursing me - and now I'm paying for what I did."
"But you didn't do anything, did you?" he asked. "It was his fault you drove into him and his family. Wasn't it?"
I very much wanted to tell Vincent what really had happened. I wanted to tell him what had happened between me and Michael up at that farmhouse, how I'd been drinking and how I'd fled at speed when I'd heard the control room trying to raise me on the radio. I wanted to tell Vincent how I'd been busy searching through the glove compartment for gum to rid my breath of the smell of whiskey when I ploughed into the horse and cart. I just wanted to scream. I wanted to confess it was another of my father's cover-ups which I had become involved in. But I couldn't. I didn't even know Vincent that well. It wasn't like I was planning on confessing to a priest. This was another copper who would be duty-bound to do the right thing and make sure justice was seen to be done.
"I guess it wasn't really my fault," I said, and a part of me felt like it had just died as I continued the lie my father had started out on the road.
"Then you have nothing to worry about," Vincent said. "And Jonathan Smith would have no reason to curse you."
"Then why call me a witch?" I said, summoning up the nerve to turn and look him in the eye.
"Who knows?" Vincent said with a shrug. "The guy was dying. He could've been trying to say anything."
"He definitely said witch," I breathed.
Vincent looked at me, and I could see biscuit crumbs on his work tie. I reached out to brush them off, when Vincent suddenly took hold of my hand in his. His touch was soft - gentle. Part of me wanted to pull my hand away, but I didn't. He looked at me, and I looked back at him. There was another uncomfortable silence.
"So if what you say is true, and Molly did tell you in a dream she was pushed into that well, then you know what we've got ourselves?" Vincent said.
"No," I whispered, shaking my head and looking into his deep near-black eyes.
"We've got ourselves an X-File, Scully," he smiled.
I snatched my hand from his. "I knew it was too good to be true," I hissed.
"What is?" he said, looking confused again.
"You taking what I had to say seriously," I snapped at him. "I thought you believed me, when all the while you've just been taking the piss!"
"Hey!" Vincent said back, taking my hand again, but this time more forcibly. "Who says I was taking the piss? I was being serious about the whole X-File thing. I believe you, Sydney. Honestly, I do."
"Why?" I said, trying to pull my hand free.
"Because what you told me about your dreams took courage," he said. "Most people wouldn't have said anything for fear of being laughed at. But you trusted me enough to tell me, and that means a lot."
"I could've been making the whole thing up," I said, still trying to wriggle my fingers free of his grasp.
"I don't think so," he said.
"Why not?" I demanded.
"Because I've never seen such fear in anyone's eyes before," he said, letting go of my hand. "Something has spooked you real bad, and I want to help you if I can."
"Why do you want to help me?" I asked. "You don't even know me."
"Does there have to be a reason?" he said, turning away and heading back towards the sofa.
"Yes," I said. "You only met me yesterday, so why would you want to get mixed up in something as mad as this?"
"For the same reason I drive you half crazy," he said, wheeling around to face me.
"And what's that?"
"Because I can't help poking my nose into stuff that has nothing to do with me," he said.
"You certainly have a habit of doing that," I sighed.
Looking at me, Vincent said, "You look kinda disappointed."
"About what?" I asked, confused.
"The reason for me wanting to help you," he said.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Now it was my turn to blush. It didn't happen often.
"You were hoping I only wanted to help you out because I liked you," he said.
"Well?" I dared to ask.
"Well what?" he shot back.
"Do you like me?"
Vincent looked at me for what seemed like the longest time, then shrugged his shoulders.
"You like me," I half-smiled at him. "You've hinted enough."
"Hinted?" Vincent said looking surprised.
"You know what I'm talking about," I said. "All that stuff about going to bed and playing romantic music. Your problem is you just don't know how to come out and say it."
"You just keep thinking that," he smiled, plucking his coat from the back of the armchair and heading for the door. "If that's what you want to believe." Vincent opened the front door and tucked the file inside his coat.
"When will I see you again?" I asked. "I thought you said we had a mystery to solve?"
"And we do," he said, turning to look at me with a smile. "I'm just gonna go back to the filing room and see if I can't find some more of those missing pieces. I'll be in touch. Be good."
Just as he was about to disappear behind the closing door, I called out and said, "Vincent, can you do me a favour?"
"What's that?" he said, poking his head back around the edge of the door.
"See what you can dig up on a guy named Michael Grayson and his father," I said.
"The farmer and his son, right?" Vincent said. "Any particular reason?"
"The well is on their land, that's all," I lied.
"Okay," Vincent said, closing the door behind him and leaving me alone in my apartment.
