The first time she wakes up it’s with a tall, dark shadow looming over her. She opens her mouth to scream, but the shadow covers her mouth and nose with a cloth, muffling her voice and eventually sending her back to darkness.

The second time she’s on a broken cot and staring at the ceiling of a musty cell. She tentatively gets up and shudders when her feet touch the damp, cement floor. Besides the cot, a table, and lone chair in the corner, the room is empty. A light blub buzzes above her, keeping the room lit with dim, barely there, light. Besides the bulb, the only other light comes from a small window on front wall of the cell.

She sits back down. She has nowhere to go.

Suddenly, the window opens and a basket falls to the floor with a plop. The window falls closed and she hears it lock. She walks towards the basket and picks it up. Inside is a water bottle, a sandwich, and a note. The note simply reads: “Welcome Wren! Hope you are enjoying your stay!” She rolls her eyes, eats the sandwich, and goes back to sleep.

The third time she wakes up the shadow is back. She blinks, lets her eyes adjust, and then sits up in the cot.
“You know, if you wanted my service, you could’ve just asked,” she says. The shadow-or, really, in this light, not so much a shadow as it is a man in dark suit-shrugs.
“I wasn’t sure how you would respond to our tactics,” he says, “plus, we need to keep our location secret.” Wren laughs and leans forward on the cot, letting her elbows rest on her knees. For the first time, she gets a good look at him: slick backed black hair, blue eyes, stress lines marring his forehead. He was easily in his 20s, but Wren knows that he has had he experiences of a hundred year old man.  How she knows that, of course, is why she is here in the first place.
“Two problems with your plan, bud. A) I knew were coming. B) No one responds to kidnapping well,” she says. The man blinks at her.
“Oh,” he responds, “Well then. Sorry about the kidnapping, next time we’ll just email you and then knock you out.”
Wren can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but gets up and pats him on the back in sympathy anyway.
“Don’t bother knocking me out. I know where we are. That’s why you brought me here though, isn’t it?” 
“Yeah.”
“And you need me to find someone for you, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you really couldn’t have called first? I’m very busy, you know. I’m in college, I have classes, finals are coming up…” At this, she spins around her heel, hands on her hips, eyebrow practically reaching her hairline.
The man throws his hands in the hair.
“I said I was sorry! What do you want from me?” he says, voice laced with defeat.
“An iced chai latte, season 2 of Grey’s Anatomy on DVD, and all of the information you have Allan Armando. That’s who you’re looking for, right?”
As she ticks off her requests, the man unlocks the front wall (which, plot twist, is really just a giant door) and leads her down hallway. He sighs.
“Yes, we’re looking for Armando,” he says. Wren skips past him gleefully.
“It’s great being telekinetic,” she tells him.
“I’m sure it is.”

The bullpen of the NYPD (secret, underground location version), while very hectic in most movies and cop dramas, is in actuality just 30 year old men and women typing furiously on laptops. Wren can’t help but feel disappointed by this.
“Where’s Castle? And Becket?” She asks George (previously known as “the shadow” and “the man”) as he hands her an iced coffee (apparently they didn’t have time for chai’s).
“You realize that they are fictional characters, right?” he says. Wren shrugs.
“A girl can dream, can’t she?”
George shakes his head in what seems to be a mix of exhaustion and exasperation. He then hands her at thick packet, simply entitled “Allan Armando”.
“How much time do you think you’ll need?” George asks her. Wren flips through the packet, her eyes catching key phrases as she goes. Words like “murdered” and “dismembered” sticking out like a sore thumb. 5 victims. 3 months. Why hadn’t they called (kidnapped) her sooner?
“Not long,” Wren says, “but I need a visual. Or at least something personal that was his, like a piece of clothing or a treasured object. Something I can link him to.”
George nods and gets up from his seat, before coming back with a sketch of an older looking man. Ruffled white hair, beady black eyes, an unkempt beard. He could have been a grandfather or the weird uncle at the family party. But he’s a murderer. A monster. And she has to find him. His visual slams through her brain and she closes her eyes. Words pop into her head like pieces to a puzzle: Rochester, river, man, bridge, a struggle…
She quickly writes them down, trying to get a hold on his exact location before she loses the connection. This is bigger than her, or the NYPD, or kidnapping a college freshman who happens to be able to see more than the average eye. And she’s terrified. 
“I got him!” She says, jumping up from her seat in excitement. She quickly writes the address down and hands it to George. “22 Redhook Lane, Rochester, New York. He’s going to murder his neighbor. He’s under a disguise right now.”
George nods and she takes a deep breath. Seeing the future is exhausting. 
“Nice job, Wren,” he says with smile. She shrugs.
“All in days work. Kind of.”
“Time to catch a killer!”
George pats her on the back and then heads off, leaving her sitting in the bullpen of the NYPD alone-sans the other officers.
“Wait, George!” she yells, as he heads out the door. “You’re my ride back to college!”
Wren groans when he doesn’t stop. Forget telekinesis, she should learn how to teleport.