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by Jill Morrow
Paraview Pocket Books, 2003
ISBN: 0743475739
Fiction, 384 pages
Mass Market Paperback, $6.99 |
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Excerpt
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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 ‘make-it-all-up’ school of psychic reading," she said.
The heat of a deep blush crossed Stephen’s face. "I thought we’d
already established that. No hard feelings, okay? I apologize. It
was a business move, pure and simple. As you can see, I don’t do it
anymore."
"Because getting caught would be a lousy business move."
"Damn straight. I don’t 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 Stephen’s face, it now drained
away. He’d 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." Kat’s liquid gaze, nearly as compelling as the force
which had produced the message, held him.
"Honest," he said, "I don’t know where that came from. Let’s 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 Peter’s
death was very real, and your words made perfect sense to me."
Stephen finally tore his gaze away. "Don’t tell me that."
Her hand rested atop his. The fingers, small and delicate, gave his
clenched fist an urgent squeeze. "So you see, I’ve got to know why
you said what you said."
There was no way out. He leaned back in his chair, resigned.
"There’s 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 Peter’s death. I can’t explain it any further than
that."
"Did you hear a voice?"
"Other than my own? No. But the words weren’t mine."
"Whose were they?"
"I don’t know."
"You’ve got to think!"
"Ms. Piretti, I’m not some witness on the stand. You’re not going to
wear me down. I don’t 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 Kat’s brow deepened.
"Peter."
An expression of raw pain flashed across her face. She mastered it
quickly.
"He was a reporter," she said. "For the Sunpapers."
"And?"
"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 don’t 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 don’t think it was."
"More than that. I know it wasn’t."
© Jill Morrow 2003 |
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