Father John had promised not to tell them of her abilities, had given her his word she could explain in her own way.  Still, they brought a shoebox with them.  Why?  She stared at the box, seeing the most disturbing of images—death in its natural state. 
            Abby watched the young detective place the shoebox on the coffee table, lean his back against the sofa, squirm in his seat, and crack a brittle smile.  She shifted her attentions to the older of the two men.  He had stopped speaking, seemed confused, unsure of where to look.  It was always the same.  Her dark glasses served her well.  They protected her, not from the light alone, but from their searching eyes as well.