She’d have been safer downing an entire pot of coffee and staving off sleep entirely, because this level of exhaustion was a surefire prelude to one hell of a nightmare. In other words, empathically speaking, she was at her most vulnerable while sleeping. She’d become a control freak in her mission to distance herself from her so-called gift. Not only had it driven her to drink, but she’d almost lost her mind. That last case, the loss of control, had pushed her to the brink. She’d not only feared for her sanity, but for her own life. Battling her way through alcohol withdrawal had been bad enough. The sheer terror of encountering another needy spirit before she was ready still had the power to make her physically ill. Some people snored when they slept. Others belched and farted like Heppel’s hound. But not Beth Dearborn. No, she had to dream in wild, vivid, too-often-violent Technicolor. Sometimes her slumber was peaceful and undisturbed. Other nights—especially those when she was extremely exhausted—she had visitors.
