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Angel Café: A Novel Point here for more book info
by Jill Morrow

Paraview Pocket Books, 2003
ISBN: 0743475739
Fiction, 384 pages
Mass Market Paperback, $6.99

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Kat waited until steaming mugs of coffee had been served before looking up to meet his questioning stare. "My impression is that you went to the Ďmake-it-all-upí school of psychic reading," she said.

The heat of a deep blush crossed Stephenís face. "I thought weíd already established that. No hard feelings, okay? I apologize. It was a business move, pure and simple. As you can see, I donít do it anymore."

"Because getting caught would be a lousy business move."

"Damn straight. I donít believe in this psychic garbage. I run my restaurant according to the bottom line."

"I want to know, then, how you knew about Peter."

As quickly as the color had come to Stephenís face, it now drained away. Heíd spent the past weeks trying to forget the feeling or urgency that had forced him to deliver that last message. Such moments were better left unexplored.

"Oh," he said, licking dry lips. "That."

"Yes. That." Katís liquid gaze, nearly as compelling as the force which had produced the message, held him.

"Honest," he said, "I donít know where that came from. Letís just forget about it, okay? It was no big deal."

But her eyes refused to let him off the hook.

"It was an extremely big deal," she contradicted. "Because Peterís death was very real, and your words made perfect sense to me."

Stephen finally tore his gaze away. "Donít tell me that."

Her hand rested atop his. The fingers, small and delicate, gave his clenched fist an urgent squeeze. "So you see, Iíve got to know why you said what you said."

There was no way out. He leaned back in his chair, resigned. "Thereís not much I can tell you. Nothing like that ever happened to me before. There was just an overwhelming push to tell you that you were right about Peterís death. I canít explain it any further than that."

"Did you hear a voice?"

"Other than my own? No. But the words werenít mine."

"Whose were they?"

"I donít know."

"Youíve got to think!"

"Ms. Piretti, Iím not some witness on the stand. Youíre not going to wear me down. I donít know where the words came from. Furthermore, I hope that never happens to me again."

"It will," Kat said quietly.

The assurance in her voice made Stephen shudder. He rushed to change the subject. "So, who was he?" he asked, trying hard to keep his voice casual.

"Who?" The troubled pucker in Katís brow deepened.


An expression of raw pain flashed across her face. She mastered it quickly.

"He was a reporter," she said. "For the Sunpapers."


"And he was found dead in his apartment nearly two years ago."

"What happened?"

Kat stared down at the table and swallowed hard, but when she looked up, her eyes were clear and her jaw set. "I donít know. There was a gun in his hand and a bullet through his head. The place reeked of alcohol. His death was ruled a suicide."

"But you donít think it was."

"More than that. I know it wasnít."

© Jill Morrow 2003



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