

### HEED THE PREDICTOR

### By

### Sally A. Breslin

Copyright  2014 by Sally A. Breslin

Cover art and design by Rachael Hollis

SMASHWORDS EDITION

### _This book is a work of fiction. Although some of the cities and locations actually exist, they are used in a fictitious manner for purposes of this work. All characters also are works of fiction. Any names or characteristics similar to those of any person, past or present, are purely coincidental_.

### Dedicated in loving memory of

### Joe Breslin

### (1948 - 2012)

### CHAPTER ONE

### 1999

"So, when can I expect your next manuscript...or at least a draft?" Calder York's agent, Richard, was on the phone. "You know you're under contract for another book by the end of the year...don't you?"

"I know, I know," Calder said as his mind raced to come up with an answer that wouldn't send Richard rushing to the pharmacy to stock up on antacid. "I have a really great subject for this one and I'm working on the outline. But I'm off to an appointment right now. I'll get back to you later!"

Before Richard could respond, Calder hung up.

The truth was, he had no clue what to write about, and time too rapidly was ticking away. It was August, so that meant he had only four months to produce a minimum of 60,000 words that not only would please both his agent and his publisher, but also his readers. His fans had turned his last three books into modest bestsellers that had earned him enough money to not only pay his rent every month, but also to purchase his dream car, a vintage 1965 Ford Mustang. And now, judging from the amount of email he was receiving on a daily basis, people were becoming impatient to read more of his work.

The problem was, he was experiencing a severe case – no, he thought, make that a _terminal_ case because it was going to be the death of his career – of writer's block. He knew he needed to write something fresh and exciting; something that would sell a million copies and, if all went well, even incite a bidding war for the movie rights.

Calder had made a career of writing books and articles based on his beliefs – or lack thereof – concerning the supernatural and psychic phenomena. His personal mission was to find a genuine psychic, clairvoyant or medium; someone whose "powers" he couldn't debunk. There had been only two or three he'd encountered over the years who had seemed real. But still, he'd never been 100-percent convinced. So his quest continued.

Which was why, at that moment, he was heading to a taping of the popular television show, _Spiritual Reconnections_ , hosted by Theo Ravi, a self-professed medium who supposedly could communicate with the dead. On TV, the man's abilities seemed amazing, but Calder wanted – needed – to actually see him in action. He hoped if this Ravi guy did turn out to be an authentic medium, he might make an intriguing subject to fill the currently blank pages of his next book...and save his career.

Two hours later, Calder was standing on a New York City sidewalk in 93-degree heat. He eyed the seemingly endless line of people that snaked ahead of him and was surprised so many had shown up for the taping. He was certain every person there was hoping he or she would be among the lucky audience members Theo Ravi would select for a spiritual reunion with some dear, departed loved one. He felt sorry for all of them, likening them to a school of fish, with Ravi, the hungry shark, circling them and waiting to feast on their weaknesses. But Calder still clung to a sliver of hope that the man would prove him wrong and turn out to be different from all of the other alleged psychics and mediums...that, by some miracle, he would turn out to be the real deal.

The line, which stretched past a row of old brick buildings, several of which had fallen victim to graffiti artists, hadn't moved as much as an inch in over an hour. Calder used the back of his hand to wipe the beads of perspiration that kept sprouting on his forehead. The heat made him think about a joke Johnny Carson once had told on the old Tonight Show: "It was SO hot out today, chickens were seen lining up in front of Kentucky Fried Chicken and begging to be plucked!"

Calder chuckled out loud at the thought, which caused the woman in front of him to turn and look at him. She was small in stature, the top of her head barely reaching the nipples on his six-foot frame. Her curly gray hair outlined a thin face, and silver-rimmed glasses sat on the tip of her nose.

"Hot out here today," she said.

Calder nodded. "That it is. The sidewalk makes it feel even worse because it holds the heat. I can feel it right through the soles of my shoes. I wish this line would start moving so we can get inside the air-conditioned studio."

"I just hope all of this waiting and sweating will be worth it," she said, fanning herself with her hand. "I came here all the way from Massachusetts because I'm hoping to be reunited with my husband, Eddie. It's been three years since he passed, and I still can't get on with my life until I know he's truly at peace." She looked up at Calder, and her eyes, filled with undisguised sympathy, met his. "Who are you hoping to reconnect with?"

"My brother, Michael," he said. "He died a year ago. He was hiking and slipped on some rocks. Ended up falling over the edge of a hundred-foot cliff."

"Oh my, that's terrible! Was he a young man?"

"Thirty."

She shook her head and sighed. "My Eddie was seventy-four and died from cancer – lung cancer. He smoked two packs a day, and no matter how much I begged him to quit, he just brushed me off and told me to quit nagging! He thought he was indestructible."

"I guess we're all guilty of thinking that way," Calder said.

The woman was silent for a moment before she said, "Maybe our seats are close to each other? I'm in row six, seat number twelve."

Calder glanced at the ticket in his hand. "Row ten, seat three."

"That's too bad," she said. "I'm here all alone and it would be nice to sit next to someone I've already met instead of total strangers."

* * * *

The TV studio was much smaller than Calder had imagined it would be. It also was much hotter, thanks to all of the lights. There were only twelve rows of seats, so, to his disappointment, row ten nearly was at the back of the room.

He'd barely folded himself into the theater-style cushioned seat when the audience members, the majority of whom were female, suddenly broke into cheers and applause. Calder leaned forward and focused on the front of the studio where Ravi, the star of the show, now stood on a low, wooden platform that served as a makeshift stage. He was short, only about 5'4", with dark hair pulled back in a long ponytail. His skin was olive-colored and pitted. He wore a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, and black trousers. For some reason, Calder instantly disliked the man.

"Welcome, everyone," Ravi, nodding and smiling, greeted the audience. "I know that each and every one of you here is hoping to reconnect with a loved one who has departed in the physical sense, but as you know, I cannot control which spirits will come through to me and make their presence known today. It is completely random. So I must apologize in advance if your loved one doesn't appear to me, for I know how disappointed you will be."

Calder rolled his eyes.

"So let's get started right away. Already, there is a spirit that seems very eager to reconnect with someone here. I am seeing a man, and elderly man, who has passed. His name begins with the letter E." His eyes briefly scanned the audience. "I am searching for his widow."

Four rows in front of Calder, the woman he'd met while waiting in line rose. "My husband's name was Eddie," she said to Ravi.

"He is holding up three fingers to me. Is that number significant to you?"

Calder couldn't help but think there was a certain finger _he'd_ like to hold up to Ravi at that moment. He then scolded himself for so hastily judging the man and not allowing him the benefit of the doubt.

"Yes!" the woman answered. "The number three _is_ significant! My Eddie passed away three years ago!"

Ravi nodded and closed his eyes, apparently attempting to concentrate on what the spirit was saying to him. "He is putting his hands around his throat. That is a sign to me that he was struggling to breathe at some point, gasping for breath."

"Oh, my goodness!" the woman responded, her tone filled with awe. "He had lung cancer and was on oxygen prior to his death!"

Ravi cupped his right hand over his ear and smiled, as if he were enjoying a private joke with the alleged spirit. "Eddie said to tell you he should have listened to you when you told him to quit smoking!"

Before the woman could respond, Ravi added, "He says he is fine, so he wants you to be happy and stop worrying about him. He also is telling me to ask you about the bright green ribbon."

The woman gasped, her right hand flying up to her chest. "I'm the only one who knows about that! I tied a green ribbon, his favorite color, around the base of the rosebush he planted for me on our fiftieth wedding anniversary. It's my tribute to his memory!"

"He wants you to know he appreciates it and that seeing it makes him smile."

"I'm so relieved to know he is truly at peace now," the woman said, her voice trembling with emotion. "Thank you so much!"

Ravi offered her a satisfied nod, then said, "Another voice is coming through to me loud and clear. His name is Michael and he's a young man, in his late twenties or early thirties."

When no one responded, his eyes swept over the audience. "I am envisioning him hiking, which he enjoyed. He's also telling me his brother is here today."

Still, no response. Calder suppressed a defeated groan as Ravi then did exactly what he'd hoped he wouldn't do...he looked directly at him.

"You, sir, in row ten," Ravi said. "Michael is telling me you are his brother. In fact, he is insisting you are. Am I correct?"

One of the cameramen swung around to zoom in on him and Calder saw his own face, larger than life, on one of the overhead monitors. He shook his head. "Sorry, there must be some mistake. I don't have a brother. I'm an only child."

The woman Calder had met in line, who still was standing, turned to stare at him, her mouth falling open.

"I see Michael losing his footing and plunging to his death," Ravi persisted. He removed a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and dabbed his face with it.

Calder smiled, secretly enjoying watching the man squirm. He wasn't enjoying, however, the fact that Ravi, the man he'd hoped would be the subject of his next book, was nothing more than just another fake.

It now was clear to Calder the woman he'd met while waiting in line was directly connected to Ravi. The innocent-looking old lady was a plant, gathering information for the phony psychic, most likely for some financial reward. Calder suspected she'd been wearing a wire or some type of transmitting device that enabled Ravi or one of his accomplices to eavesdrop on their conversation. That was why she had asked him about his seat number. Ravi obviously wanted to know exactly which audience members were seated where, so he could zero in on them. Heck, for all Calder knew, the old lady was Ravi's mother. He was willing to bet there had been at least another four or five similar plants scattered throughout the waiting line.

"Are you certain you don't have a brother named Michael?" Ravi's voice, now louder, interrupted Calder's thoughts.

A male audience member on the far side of the studio stood up. "My brother's name was Michael," he said. "Maybe it's him? But he was sixty when he died."

"No, no, this Michael definitely is much younger," Ravi said, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand. His eyes remained fixed on Calder. "Are you positive it's not your brother who is talking to me?"

Calder sighed for effect. "I told you, I'm an only child."

He spoke the truth. He'd made up the story about having a brother who'd fallen off a cliff.

Ravi's chin rose and he narrowed his eyes at him. He then looked away, took a deep breath, smiled at the audience and said, "Well, Michael is backing away now, and someone else seems very eager to get through to a loved one. I'm hearing a woman whose name is either Beth or Betty telling me she urgently needs to deliver a message to her daughter."

* * * * *

When Calder was desperate for ideas for his books, he usually called the most creative person he knew – a woman who'd made a successful career of writing books and articles – a woman to whom he could whine and complain and not feel embarrassed.

He picked up the phone and called his mother.

"Calder!" her tone did not disguise her delight. "It's not my birthday yet, is it?"

He chuckled. "I know it's been a while, Mom. Truth is, I need some creative input. My next book is due in only four months and Richard is breathing down my neck. But I'm drawing a blank. I'm really desperate. Any ideas?"

"How have you been?" she answered, ignoring his question. "Have you been getting enough vitamin C? The cold and flu season will be here before you know it."

"I'm fine, Mom. I drink plenty of orange juice. I haven't had a cold in three years."

"Well, this could be the year your body decides to make up for the last three, so never take your good health for granted. According to the experts, this is going to be a bad one for the flu. Maybe you should think about getting a flu shot."

Calder sighed. "Mom, I'm thirty-five. I can take care of myself. Don't worry about me, okay? So, back to my reason for calling...do you have any ideas at all for my next book? I'm really getting stressed about my deadline."

There was silence on the other end for several long moments before his mother said, "Actually, it's funny you should call and ask me that because there _is_ something I just recently heard about...something I think is really...intriguing. Is it possible for you to come up here and stay for a while? I have a gut feeling that by the time you leave, you'll have plenty of fodder for a bestseller."

"You want me to come all the way up to New Hampshire?" he asked, dreading the nearly five-hour drive from New York. The last time he'd driven on what he considered to be the world's most boring highway, the main route to his mother's, he'd been stuck in the center lane between two eighteen-wheelers for at least an hour and had felt like the filling in a metal sandwich. "It would really help if you could give me a hint about this so-called 'fodder' of yours."

"I'd rather not get into it over the phone," she said. "But I _can_ tell you it's happening right here in my mobile-home park. I honestly think it's something you should investigate for yourself, in person...and soon."

Her vagueness about the subject matter made him suspicious she might be using his desperation as a convenient means in which to lure him to New Hampshire for a long-overdue visit.

"If this story is so great, then why haven't _you_ written about it yourself?" he asked.

"Because I'd prefer to stick with writing my romance novels. They have been paying my bills for years and God willing, they will continue to do so for years to come. This is more up your alley anyway. You're the one who's so interested in psychic phenomena and all of that hocus-pocus stuff."

Calder was both intrigued and irritated. If, as his mother said, she had this great story idea for him, why hadn't she called and told him about it before this? If he hadn't called her, he wondered, would she even have mentioned it at all? He knew his mother's mobile-home park contained a plethora of colorful characters, but was it possible one of them actually possessed some legitimate psychic powers and might be worthy of an entire book?

"I sure wish you'd have told me about this sooner, Mom," he said. "I mean, I'm under a pretty tight deadline now."

"Well, I'm sorry, but she's lived here for only a few weeks."

_"She?"_ he repeated.

"See you tomorrow?" Her words told him the conversation was over.

He sighed. "I'll go pack."

* * * * *

Calder had grown up in New Hampshire's largest city, Manchester. He'd even gone to college in the state, where he'd majored in journalism. After graduation, he'd landed a job as a correspondent with a weekly small-town newspaper that paid him only minimum wage. As a result, he'd been forced to share an apartment with two of his college buddies in an area of Manchester where most of the residents kept bail bondsmen on speed dial. But in his free time, when he wasn't interviewing the local blue-ribbon winners at the county fair or the fire chief who was about to retire after forty years with the department, he was working on his first book.

It took nearly ten years of rejections and rewrites, but that book – which explained how things like creaking floors, drawers that popped open, lights that flickered, and all of the other things that went bump in the night could be attributed to everyday occurrences rather than ghosts or spirits – finally had landed him an agent, a publishing contract...and a new life in New York.

Now, three books and four years later, he was back in New Hampshire for only the fourth time since he'd left.

His mother lived in a small town about eighteen miles north of Manchester, in a sprawling mobile-home park completely surrounded by woods. There were about 120 homes in the park, but the lots were large, about 100 feet wide, most with broad areas of green grass and trees such as fir, pine and maple. His mother had moved there back in 1987, after his father passed away from a sudden heart attack. She sold their house in Manchester and paid cash for the mobile home.

She was strict about people calling her residence either a mobile home or a manufactured home and _not_ a trailer. A trailer, she always emphasized, was something you towed behind a truck and loaded with things like lumber or furniture. Also, she was deeply offended by the term, "trailer-park trash." Whenever she watched one of those TV talk shows where women either were strippers, cheating on their husbands, or having paternity tests done on six different men to find out which one had fathered their child, and an audience member stood up and shouted something like, "Tell me, do you live in a double-wide or a single-wide trailer?" his mother would all but toss a shoe at the TV screen.

Calder drove up the steep hill into the mobile-home park and pulled into his mother's dirt driveway, the fourth on the left. A fieldstone walkway lined with hosta plants led to the front porch of the beige home with brown shutters.

His knock was answered by his mother and Molly, her five-year-old Doberman and designated watchdog. Calder stepped inside to receive his mother's embrace...and Molly's nose up his butt.

"Molly!" His mother laughed. "Don't be rude!"

Calder gave the dog a vigorous rub on the head and then tossed his bag onto the brown leather sofa and plunked down next to it.

"Iced tea?" his mom asked, already heading toward the kitchen.

"Sounds good."

Calder scanned the living room. To him, it seemed pretty spacious for a mobile home. It had a high, beamed, cathedral ceiling with two skylights and crown molding. Dark wooden wainscoting decorated the bottom half of the beige walls, which rose from thick, beige wall-to-wall carpeting. The room was spotless – not even a speck of dust or a muddy paw print anywhere. He was relieved his mother never had seen his apartment in New York. One look at it and she probably would think a gang of thugs had broken in and ransacked the place.

His mother handed him a tall glass of iced tea with slices of fresh lemon in it, then seated herself in a tufted rust-colored recliner facing the sofa.

"You're looking good," she said, studying his face. "But then, you've always been the most handsome guy I know."

Calder shook his head and took a long draw from the straw in his glass. "You're just biased. But I have to say you're looking pretty great yourself!"

He was being truthful. His mother, who was just shy of sixty, was a perfect size eight and looked more like a woman in her forties. She had shoulder-length dark hair, wrinkle-free skin and large blue eyes. He had inherited her blue eyes and dark hair. And he figured if he didn't get his hair cut soon, he also might end up with it being shoulder-length like hers.

"So how's your writing coming?" he asked. "What're you working on now?"

"I just finished my latest romance – all 101,000 words of it. It's on my editor's desk at the moment. But I have no doubt she'll love it. I think it's the best thing I've written yet."

"What's it about?"

Her eyes lit up and she smiled as she spoke about her latest achievement. "It's called _Too Far to Whisper_ and takes place right here in New Hampshire back in the 1600s. It's about a young Pilgrim woman, the handsome son of the town's magistrate, and a real hunk of an Abenaki warrior. It's a love triangle like no other!"

Calder shook his head and chuckled. "Are you still using that pseudonym of yours – Arianna something?"

"Eastland. Arianna Eastland. Yes, I'm still using it. I have tons of fans who know me only by that name, so I'm not about to change it. Besides that, I don't want our local pastor discovering I write romance novels, so that's one of the reasons why I use a pseudonym. It's a small town, and there's a certain...stigma attached to writing that type of book, you know?"

"Yeah, Richard still calls them 'bodice rippers.'"

She frowned at him, then abruptly changed the subject. "So? Any special lady in your life yet?"

Calder thought she might have broken her previous record of waiting a full ten minutes before asking him that question.

He sighed. "No. Since my split with Eden, I haven't had much interest in getting back into the dating scene. It's a lot different in New York than it is here."

"Last time I checked," his mother said, "women were women no matter where they live."

"You know what I mean. Here, you can take a woman to a church picnic and have a great time. In New York, you can take her out for a $150 dinner and have a lousy time. It's just different."

"Have you heard from Eden at all?"

"She called me last Christmas. She's doing fine out in California. Her artwork is selling well and she's living in a loft with another artist."

"Male or female?"

"Craig."

"Oh."

Silence hung between them before his mother added, "I thought for sure she was the one for you. I mean, you were together for two years and seemed to get along so well...and you're in your thirties now, so I thought you'd be..."

"Ready to settle down and have a bunch of kids?" He finished the sentence for her. "I did seriously consider a future with Eden, but she felt her artwork was much more important than my writing...or than our relationship. So she put all of her time and effort into her art. At first, I really was supportive and I encouraged her to pursue her goals, but as time went on, I began to resent her for being so self-absorbed."

"Well, all relationships involve some compromise."

He frowned. "Maybe – but not if the relationship isn't all that strong to begin with."

His mother could tell by the deepening crease between Calder's eyes that the topic of conversation was upsetting him, so she thought it best to discuss the real reason for his visit. "I suppose you're curious about my book idea for you?"

"Well, I drove over five incredibly boring hours to get here and find out, didn't I?" He didn't mean to snap at her, but at that moment he was thinking if her idea turned out to be a dud, which he suspected it would, he'd be forced to tell Richard the truth – that he was suffering from writer's block and couldn't think of a damned thing to write about. His stomach knotted at the mere thought of it.

"Okay," his mother said, lowering her voice as if she feared she might be overheard by one of the neighbors. She leaned forward in her chair. "Three streets over from here, on lot number 82, there's a woman named Margaret Thorne. Everyone fears her."

"Why? Is she a mass murderer?"

"No...But I've heard from reliable sources that she can tell you the exact date, time and way in which you're going to die. They call her The Predictor."

Calder's first instinct was to burst out laughing at the absurdity of his mother's words, but he managed to suppress the urge. His interest, however, even if solely for entertainment's sake, was piqued.

"Really?" he said. "And do these so-called deadly predictions of hers ever come true?"

"From what I've heard, they _all_ do."

Calder's years of exposing phony psychics – charlatans – had made him a hardened skeptic. But how, he wondered, would this Margaret woman be able to dupe anyone when an actual death would have to be involved? Did the power of suggestion cause her victims to dwell so much on their impending doom, they actually did die? Or...perhaps Margaret was some deranged serial killer who fulfilled her own prophecies by killing the people herself?

He smirked. "How many deaths has she accurately predicted? One?"

"Upwards of twenty-five, I've been told."

He hadn't expected that response. "Sounds fascinating – unless what you're telling me is nothing but a load of gossip and hearsay. I mean, who are these so-called _reliable_ sources of yours anyway?"

"Well, for one, Pat down the street. She's lived here for over thirty years, but I've only just recently been getting to know her. She really seems well-informed about everything that goes on around here. Anyway, she's friendly with Joe, the park manager, who told her about Margaret's powers after he contacted some of her past references before she moved in."

"It's still only hearsay," Calder said. "I'll need more solid proof than just some gossip Pat was told by the park manager."

"Like what? You want to see some dead bodies?"

He laughed. "Well, first of all, I want to talk to this Margaret person. Do you think she'd be willing to give me an interview?"

His mother shrugged. "I don't personally know her, so I have no idea how receptive she might be. But you have nothing to lose by trying."

Calder wanted to shout, _Yes, I have everything to lose! I could lose a writing career I've spent most of my life struggling for! This is my last chance!_

Instead, he said, "I guess I'll see if I can meet with her the first thing in the morning, then. Do you have her phone number?"

"No, only her address."

He wasn't comfortable about visiting Margaret Thorne unannounced, but given the situation, he had no choice. A phone call at least would have allowed her time to consider granting him an interview. But if he, a complete stranger, just walked over there and knocked on her door, he knew he risked having it slammed in his face. Still, it was a risk he was willing to take. He was eager to meet this woman. And, if she professed to be the miraculous predictor his mother claimed her to be, he was even more eager to witness her powers in action. Then, hopefully, he quickly would be able to determine whether she was just another addition to his endless list of impostors... or, against all odds, someone who possessed a genuine gift.

* * * * *

Calder was awakened by something cold and wet on the side of his neck. He rolled his head to the right and opened his eyes. They met two large brown ones staring back at him. He sat upright. Molly the Doberman wagged her stub of a tail at him.

"Mom!" he shouted. "How'd your dog get into my room?"

"She knows how to lift up the handle with her nose." His mother's voice came from the kitchen.

Calder made a mental note to put a chair – or maybe a chest of drawers – against the door when he went to bed that night.

He hadn't slept very well, so it took him a few minutes to clear the cobwebs out of his head. The double-sized bed was comfortable and the room was cozy, although a little too green for his taste – green carpeting, green drapes on the two windows; a green bedcover, and pale green wallpaper sprinkled with a pattern of tiny green leaves. Even the half-bath, on the other side of a door to the left of the foot of the bed, had been a victim of the green explosion – green hand-towels, a green vanity top, and even an avocado-green toilet seat.

Calder attributed his insomnia to the constant flow of thoughts that had been running through his head all night. How, he'd wondered, while tossing and turning, would he approach Margaret Thorne? How could he make a first impression that would be so charming, she wouldn't be able to resist granting him an interview? And if she did agree to the interview, would she then consent to allow him to become part of her life for a while so he could gather enough material to write an in-depth book about her?

After a breakfast of pancakes, bacon and two cups of coffee, Calder hugged his mother, thanked her for the "great feed" and left to walk the short distance to Margaret Thorne's mobile home. The sun had risen barely two hours before, but already the heat and humidity were oppressive enough to make his skin feel clammy. Either that, he thought, or his nerves were causing his clamminess. He noticed that his palms seemed unusually damp. He wiped them on his jeans.

As he walked along the paved street that was dotted with so many potholes it looked as if it had been blasted with giant-sized buckshot, he was intrigued by the vast differences in the mobile homes and their yards. To his left was one of the newer 72-foot homes – long and sleek, with gray vinyl-siding, black shutters, a shingled roof and a sturdy-looking front porch with two rockers on it. The grass was trimmed and landscaped with a rock garden, rosebushes and rhododendrons. But to his right sat a small fifty-footer with rusted metal siding, a screen door hanging off its hinges, a broken window taped with cardboard, and grass that apparently hadn't been cut for so long, it had turned into a miniature hayfield. Assorted junk – car parts, garden tools, crates, rusted bicycles – poked up from beneath the grass. He wondered if there might be a body lying under there somewhere, too.

Calder rounded the corner onto Margaret Thorne's street, which rose to a steep hill. As he walked up the hill, he tried to imagine what Margaret looked like. A vision of a heavyset woman with a round, jowled face and wild, teased jet-black hair came to mind. She'd be wearing, he decided, one of those voluminous muumuus with huge flowers splashed all over it, and probably would have a cigarette dangling from her bright red lips, the color of which would match her long, false fingernails.

He checked the lot numbers on the mailboxes as he passed them, and spotted Margaret's place just ahead on the left. Her mobile home, white with pale-blue shutters, was smaller and older looking than his mother's. In the dirt driveway sat a Volkswagen Beetle, about a 1968 or '69, from what he could tell, which had been painted lime green. Cracked slabs of concrete served as the walkway, and the front steps were the portable wrought-iron kind that appeared to have been haphazardly propped up against the home's vinyl skirting.

Taking a deep breath, Calder climbed the lopsided steps and mentally rehearsed what he was going to say to prevent Margaret from immediately telling him to get lost. He then knocked on the scarred, white metal door.

After several seconds, the door opened to reveal an attractive, chestnut-haired, porcelain-skinned woman who looked no more than twenty-five. Her eyes, a bright, almost neon-green color, were fringed with dark lashes and seemed to instantly hypnotize him. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

Her voice was soft and, Calder thought, as hypnotic as her eyes.

### CHAPTER TWO

"I-I'm looking for Margaret Thorne," Calder said. He figured if this was her daughter, there might be a chance Margaret looked much different than his preconceived vision of her.

"I'm Margaret," she said. Her eyes made a quick sweep of him from his hair down to his running shoes and back up again.

"You're not at all how I'd pictured you," he blurted out, then mentally gave himself a kick. "I apologize," he quickly added. "I'm Calder York. My mother, Sarah York, lives three streets over." He cocked his head in that direction. "You may know the place – she has a hyperactive Doberman named Molly."

Margaret nodded. "I've seen the dog out in the yard. She usually barks at me when I pass by there on my daily jog."

"Well, I apologize for just showing up unannounced this way, but my mother told me the most interesting story about you and your ability to predict people's... deaths. If it's not true and my mom is totally off the wall here, then I apologize in advance. But I'm a writer whose genre is psychic phenomena and the paranormal, so I just had to come over here to find out for myself if the rumors about you are true."

She stared at him, her expression revealing nothing. Calder felt as if her green eyes were penetrating right through him.

"And if they _are_ true," she said, "what then?"

"Then I was hoping you might grant me an interview and allow me to write about you."

"Would you use my real name or location?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Not if you don't want me to."

Again, her eyes locked with his. "And if I refuse, you'll lose your job." It was a statement, not a question.

Her words caused Calder to suck in his breath. "As a matter of fact, I probably will. But what made you say that?"

"There's a lot of desperation in your voice...your eyes."

Margaret felt an immediate attraction to this handsome, dark-haired man with the pleading blue eyes. She sensed he was a good person, someone not to be feared. She had spent most of her life trying to avoid the media in an effort to shield her powers from the public eye because she didn't want to be labeled a freak or become the equivalent of some carnival sideshow attraction. This was the reason why she moved so often. She had lived in this mobile-home park barely two months, and already she was attracting more attention than she'd anticipated...or wanted. It wouldn't be long, she knew, before she'd be packing her things and moving once again. But there was something about Calder York that made her momentarily forget about protecting herself from being exploited. She wanted to get to know him better. And try as she might, she couldn't dismiss a sudden, strong desire to help him.

She opened the door wider. "Come on in."

Calder hesitated, unable to believe his good fortune. He hadn't expected her to be so receptive, especially so quickly. The best he'd hoped for was a response of, "I'll think about it." In fact, he had been so certain she'd refuse him, he hadn't even bothered to bring a pad of paper or his recorder with him. Nevertheless, he followed her inside.

A rush of cool air from a window air-conditioner greeted him. The room, the kitchen, was cluttered, but clean. Pots and pans hung from a rack on the pale yellow wall. An assortment of ceramic bowls and mugs ranging in colors from bright orange to dark brown lined the short counter. In the window, a Native-American dreamcatcher was attached with suction cups to the glass. A small oak table stacked with newspapers and magazines sat in front of the window.

"Have a seat," Margaret said to him, indicating one of the two chairs at the table. "I was just about to have a cup of herbal tea when you knocked. Care to join me?"

He nodded and sat down. "One sugar, please."

He studied Margaret as she removed the steaming kettle from the stove's burner and poured water into two of the ceramic mugs. She had what he considered to be a model's figure – and he'd seen plenty of them in New York. She was wearing snug-fitting white shorts and a navy-blue tank top with a low neckline that revealed a respectable amount of cleavage above two full, nicely rounded breasts – a D cup, from his estimation. Her hair was straight and thick, and was pulled back in a ponytail that fell halfway down her back.

Margaret set down a mug in front of him, then carried another mug to the opposite side of the table, where she took a seat facing him.

"Before we begin," he said, "could I trouble you for some paper and a pen? I'll need to take notes, but I didn't bring anything with me."

"And you call yourself a writer?" Her tone hinted she was teasing.

For the first time that morning, Calder began to relax.

"So tell me about this talent of yours," he said, gripping the glittery pink pen she'd handed to him.

Margaret traced the edge of her mug with the tip of her perfectly manicured pale-pink fingernail and didn't look up at him. "It's more of a curse than a talent. If I had one wish, it would be to rid myself of it and live just a simple, normal life."

"So you really _can_ do what the rumor-mill here in the park is saying about you?" he asked. "You can predict people's deaths?"

Her eyes met his, but she only nodded.

"When did you first realize you had this...ability?"

She sighed. "When I was still too young to understand what my visions meant. Every person I walked past, every person I met – even the actors on TV, all gave me visions. I instantly knew when and what time they were going to die, along with the cause of it. The most painful part was I couldn't do anything with these visions. I mean, I couldn't warn anyone about an impending death or do anything to prevent it."

"I don't understand," Calder said.

She took a sip of tea and then carefully set down her mug. "Most people believe that if they know when and how they're going to die, they'll be able to stop it somehow. But that's not true. It still will happen. Your death is determined on the day you're born. There's nothing anyone can do to change it."

Calder took a moment to digest what she was saying. "You mean, if you were to tell some guy he was going to die in a plane crash tomorrow at six o'clock, and he stayed home all day and locked himself in his basement, he'd still die in a plane crash?"

She nodded. "As I said, there is no way to stop it."

"That's difficult for me to believe. I mean, how would that even be possible if he didn't leave his basement?"

She shrugged and offered him a weak smile. "A plane probably would crash into his house, then."

Calder couldn't suppress a chuckle. She had a point, he thought.

Before he could pose his next question, Margaret added, "Haven't you ever heard people say, 'Oh, it just wasn't his time to die,' when there's a lone survivor in some sort of a disaster?"

He nodded.

"Well, that's the reason why I can't prevent any of the deaths I envision. I'm the one who _does_ know when it _is_ a person's time to die. I'm the one who knows the exact date and time that was etched in stone on the day he or she was born. As they say, when your number is up, your number is up, and there's nothing you can do about it. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

" I think so." He looked thoughtful for several moments before he said, "Then if you saw a man about to get run over by a bus and you knew it was his time to die, you wouldn't shout at him to get out of the way?"

She shook her head. "There would be no point." She paused before adding, "And besides that, there is the...rule. It would prevent me from intervening anyway."

"Rule?"

She took another sip of tea before responding. "The rule is I'm not allowed to reveal a vision, warn someone or make a prediction unless that person specifically _asks_ me to."

Calder stopped writing on the pad of lilac-flowered paper she'd given him and gaped at her. "You can't say a word unless you're _asked?"_ He repeated.

"That's right. It's the rule. It can't be broken."

"Then what good is that?" he blurted out. "I mean, what is the point of having your powers if you can't do anything with them? You're supposed to just stand around and _wait_ for people to _ask_ you for the information? Why on earth would anyone even think to do that? It makes no sense!" He knew he was bombarding her with questions, but he needed to clarify everything she was saying.

Margaret sighed. "I told you my powers were a curse, Calder. The reason why I have to wait until I'm asked for a prediction is because I'm not allowed to play God...or, in my case, the Grim Reaper, and run around doling out death predictions at my own discretion. It's only fair that people should be allowed the option to choose whether or not they want to hear something so...traumatizing. The information shouldn't just randomly be tossed at them. Not that I ever would do that anyway because, as I said, there would be no point in it. Their deaths can't be prevented, so why needlessly freak them out in advance?"

Calder jotted down some notes before he looked up at her. "And are there actually any people who _do_ ask you when they're going to die?"

She smiled, but it was a sad smile. "More than you might imagine. There are people who want to know the information so they can accomplish the things they've always wanted to do before it's too late. There are others who want to make sure all of their affairs are in order well in advance. And then there are people who have been diagnosed with terminal illnesses and their doctors have given them only a certain number of weeks or months to live, and they want me to verify if the doctor is right. In rare instances, I've had the pleasure of telling them the doctor was way off and they'll actually live another ten or twenty years. So in some ways, I _can_ use my powers to be helpful."

She waited for Calder to finish writing before she added, "I have to admit, though, there have been many times when I've felt an urgent need to give the information to someone who didn't ask me for it. I remember way back when I was young, only about nine or ten, and one of our neighbors, Mr. Langley, was telling my father how excited he was because he and his wife finally were going to fulfill their lifelong dream of going on an Alaskan cruise at the end of the year. Well, I knew he was going to die in only four months, so I really wanted to tell him that he and his wife should plan to go on their cruise as soon as possible. That's when I discovered my powers wouldn't _allow_ me to tell him. When I tried, it seemed as if my tongue suddenly had been stapled to the roof of my mouth! I couldn't utter a word, no matter how desperately I wanted to."

Calder looked up from his notes. "Couldn't you have just written down the information and handed it to him?"

"Oh, I tried that. What came out on the paper ended up looking like hieroglyphics." She frowned. "Not that Mr. Langley would have believed a kid anyway. And before you ask, no, I can't use sign language or charades, either. The rule just can't be broken. If I'm not asked for a prediction, there is absolutely no way I can give one. The best way to explain it is that some strong, invisible power or force prevents it."

"But what if someone else, like the person's spouse, asks you when his loved one is going to die?" Calder asked. "Can you answer then?"

She shook her head. "I can't give the information to anyone else, either, not unless I have the permission of the...victim. So if your mother were to come over here and ask me when you're going to die, I couldn't answer her unless I contacted you first to find out if it would be okay."

"Knowing my mother and her insatiable curiosity," he muttered, "she probably _will_ come over here and ask you!"

Margaret smiled, amused. She lifted her mug but didn't move it to her lips. "So I assume you'll want to see some actual proof of my powers?"

Calder felt uncomfortable answering her question, especially since he knew an actual death would have to be involved. Still, he said, "Well, yes, that would help."

"Unfortunately – or perhaps, in your situation, _fortunately_ – you won't have to wait very long."

"Why? What's going to happen?" he dared to ask.

She appeared to be struggling with her next words. "At three o'clock tomorrow morning, Joanne Upton, who lives on the corner of your mother's street, is going to drown."

Calder's eyes widened. "Really? How, exactly? In a boating accident? Swimming?" He then recalled the time she had mentioned – three in the morning. More than likely the woman would be in bed at that hour, not out swimming or boating.

"I honestly don't know how the drowning will occur," Margaret said. "In my visions, I see only the _cause_ of death, after it's already happened – not the specifics leading up to it. For example, if I envision someone dying from a fall, I can't distinguish if the fall is going to be out of a tenth-floor window or caused by something as simple as tripping on a shoelace. And if I predict someone will die in a plane crash, I don't know if the crash will be on land, in the water or in mid-air. Like I said, I can't see any of the details leading up to the death. But even if I _could_ , it still wouldn't matter. It makes no difference."

"Then I'm to assume this Joanne Upton woman actually _asked_ you when she was going to die?"

She nodded. "A couple days ago she came over here, said she had heard about my 'gift' and asked if I could help her. She said she was currently going through a divorce and wanted to know how to plan for her future...how much time she had left to make a new life for herself. I probably should point out here that once a person asks me when he or she is going to die, I'm obligated to answer. I can't refuse or choose to keep the information to myself. I also can't conceal or change any of the facts to lighten the blow, so to speak. But I do give people the opportunity to change their minds before I actually make a prediction...I don't just immediately blurt it out. So, although I would have preferred not to, I granted Joanne's request and told her about the drowning at three o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Did she take you seriously?" Calder asked, thinking that if this Joanne woman possessed even a pea-sized brain, she probably had burst out laughing at the absurd prediction.

Margaret shook her head. "She treated the whole thing as if it were all a big joke. She said she'd be sound asleep at that hour of the morning and the only way there would be any liquid in her bed would be if she accidentally peed in her sleep!"

Calder bit down on his tongue as he struggled not to laugh. Margaret looked so serious, the last thing he wanted to do was offend her.

"She did say," Margaret continued, "that just to be safe, she wouldn't bathe or shower that day." She paused before adding, almost in a whisper, "I know she thinks my prediction is ridiculous and, given the hour, impossible – but she still will drown."

Calder never would admit as much to her, but he fully agreed with Joanne Upton. The prediction, in his opinion, sounded too unbelievable to be taken seriously. He had checked the week's weather report for New Hampshire just before he'd left New York, and not even a sprinkle of rain was predicted for days. So that, he figured, pretty much ruled out a flash flood.

"Then Joanne gave you permission to share her information?" he asked, thinking of the rule Margaret had mentioned about no one else being allowed to learn the details of her visions without the victim granting his or her permission. "I mean, you're telling me, a complete stranger, about her impending death."

She nodded. "I asked Joanne if she wanted the details kept a secret, just in case one of her family members approached me, and she laughed and said I could tell everyone in town, for all she cared. Obviously it was because she didn't believe anything I told her."

"Does that happen often? Do people ask you for a prediction and then don't believe you?"

"Often enough. I'm pretty sure Joanne came over here on a dare, just to prove me wrong. But I'm used to it. I'm not too blind to see that the majority of people think of me as a joke or someone who probably should be locked up in an institution somewhere." She paused to once again stare at him. "I'm sure you're also thinking the same thing at this moment."

Her relentless gaze made him squirm in his chair. "I'm not sure what to think yet," he said. "After all, I've just met you."

She finally looked away and studied the dreamcatcher in the window. "The problem is," she said, "people don't realize that when they ask me for a prediction, even if they think it's going to be good for nothing more than a laugh, they're opening a door they can't close. They are going to walk away from me knowing exactly when they are going to die, whether they believe it or not."

"Do you charge a fee for your predictions?" Calder asked, figuring it was how she made her living, just like most of the other so-called psychics he'd met. He knew of several in the New York City area alone who charged upwards of $500 for what they referred to as a private reading or session.

Margaret turned to look at him. Her expression clearly told him she was offended by his question. "No, not a penny."

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to insult you. Please understand that I have to ask you these things. My readers will want to know."

"Which newspaper do you write for?" she asked.

"I don't – I'm writing a book."

"Oh?" She seemed surprised. "You really think I'm interesting enough to warrant a whole book?"

"I'm hoping so."

He scribbled something else on the pad of paper, then asked, "Are you the only one in your family who has this special power?"

"No, my grandmother and mother had it also. They're both gone now, but if I ever have a daughter, she'll also inherit it. It seems to be passed down only to the first-born female of each predictor."

"So you're all females," Calder said, mostly to himself. He drained the remainder of his herbal tea in one gulp. It left a bitter aftertaste, which made him wish he'd asked for two sugars instead of only one. "Then if you never have a daughter, you'll be the only one left with the power...and it will end with you?"

"It will end, but only in my family. My grandmother always was convinced there were other families – other women – with the power, too."

Calder had to admit he was very much attracted to and intrigued by this mysterious young woman. Even if she turned out to be the biggest fraud he'd ever met, he knew he still would want to see her again. He already could tell she was different from the other "gifted" people he had interviewed. Unlike them, she didn't appear to be making much of an effort to convince him she was the real thing. She seemed more casual and at ease, as if she couldn't care less whether he believed her or not.

"So let me get this straight," he said, leaning back in his chair and tapping the tip of the pen against the pad of paper, "if you knew at this very moment exactly how and when I was going to die, you would be physically incapable of telling me anything about it unless I specifically asked you to?"

"Right." She slowly lifted her eyes and her gaze locked with his. "I _do_ know when and how you are going to die, Calder." Her voice was so soft, he barely could hear her. "I knew from the very moment I answered the door." She continued to stare, not even blinking. "Would _you_ like to know?"

Her words momentarily rendered him speechless. He felt as if his blood suddenly had been replaced with ice water.

A part of him was curious enough to be tempted to ask her for the details of his impending death...and then pray she would say he'd peacefully die in his sleep at age 110, which would make a great addition to his manuscript. But another part of him was screaming, _"No! Don't ask!"_

And that disturbed him.

"I guess I'm not curious like Joanne Upton," he said. "I think I prefer the mystery."

The look of fear in his eyes was fleeting, but it didn't escape Margaret's notice. She knew he didn't fully believe in her powers, but his reaction told her at least some small part of him did...whether he was willing to admit it or not.

"How many predictions would you estimate you've made?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I've lost count. Over a hundred, I suppose."

"And how many have been accurate?"

Her eyes grew wide and she cocked her head at him. "Well, all of them, of course. My predictions are based on fact, not on speculation or guesswork."

Calder was disturbed to find himself actually beginning to believe her, which was rare, even unheard of, for him. Margaret just seemed so sure of herself and of everything she was saying, he was finding it difficult to dispute her claims. His common sense, however, was telling him her confidence most likely was due to the fact she was...well, delusional.

"I'm curious," he said, looking up at her, "can you foresee your own death?"

"Thankfully, no. We're unable to see in ourselves what we see in others. My grandmother used to refer to it as the self-preservation factor."

"But what if you _really_ wanted to know?"

"I could have asked my mother or grandmother and they then would have been obligated to tell me. Unfortunately, it's too late now. So I guess my future will have to remain a mystery."

"Until you have a daughter," he reminded her.

She rolled her eyes and smiled. "I don't even have a boyfriend. Don't rush me!"

Calder secretly was pleased to learn she was unattached. He didn't know how long it would be before he returned to New York, but he hoped it would be long enough to become good friends with Margaret Thorne. Very good friends.

"Well, Margaret," he said, flipping through the pages of the pad and scanning what he'd written. He rose from his chair. "I think I have more than enough information to at least get started on my book."

"Please, call me Meg," she said, also standing. "Margaret is too formal."

"Okay...Meg. If you need to contact me about anything, I'll be staying at my mother's for a while." He wrote his phone number on a corner of the pad of paper, then tore it off and handed it to her. "And I'm sure I'll have a lot more questions for you, especially after tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow morning?"

"Joanne Upton's drowning?"

"Oh...yes, Joanne." She shook her head and sighed. "I really wish she had taken me seriously. She could have used her final days to reconnect with her loved ones or get all of her affairs in order...or maybe even eat an entire gallon of her favorite ice cream. But I'm sure she's just going about her usual routine right now, which is a pity."

Calder remained silent. He had the feeling Joanne Upton still would be among the living at 3:01 the next morning. In fact, he was positive he would be returning to Meg's to ask her to explain the reasons for the failure of her prediction, especially since she'd emphasized she's never wrong...that her powers are based on fact.

"So if I walk outside right now and you happen to see the landing gear from an overhead plane falling straight toward my head, you can't shout at me and warn me to get out of the way?"

She knew he was teasing, and offered him an amused smile. "I could...but only if it wasn't going to kill you. Otherwise, I'd just have to stand there and watch you get flattened."

He chuckled. "It was really nice meeting you, Meg," he said as he headed toward the door. She followed him. He stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and turned to look at her. "And I can't tell you how much I appreciate you taking the time to answer all of my questions."

She smiled. "It was my pleasure."

After he left, Meg latched the door and leaned against it. "Calder York," she whispered, closing her eyes. "You really seem like such a nice guy." She took a long, deep breath and opened her eyes. "It's just not fair you're going to die so young."

* * * * *

Calder, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, whistled the old Broadway tune, "Oh What a Beautiful Morning," as he walked back to his mother's. He decided the first thing he was going to do was give her a big hug for telling him about Margaret. The second thing he was going to do was finally start working on his book. He figured he should get a head start on it, even though he still had no clue whether Meg was a genuine psychic or not. Joanne Upton's future – or lack thereof – would help determine that.

He entered his mother's living room and tossed his notes onto the coffee table. He then headed over to the refrigerator to get some orange juice, but paused when he heard what sounded like sobbing coming from his mother's bedroom. Concerned, he walked down the hallway. He found his mother sitting on the edge of her bed. Her head was lowered and she was wiping her eyes with a wad of tissues.

"Mom, what's the matter?" Calder sat down next to her and slipped his arm around her shoulders.

Her eyes, red and puffy from crying, met his. "The guy came to read the electric meter and forgot to close the back gate," she said, sniffling. "I didn't know it was open when I let Molly out. She took off into the woods! She's gone, Calder!"

"Oh, I'm sure she'll come back when she's hungry," he said, trying to calm her. He rubbed her upper arm. "Dogs are like that."

His mother shook her head. "There's an old logging trail back there – the people here in the park use it in the winter to go snowmobiling. They say if you follow it to the end, you'll end up in Canada. Dobermans are runners, Calder. Molly could be halfway to Canada by now!"

"How long ago did she run off?"

"About five minutes ago."

"Mom, Molly's a dog, not a race horse. If she's like other dogs, she'll stop to sniff things along the way. She's probably still only a few feet into the woods out back here. Please, stop crying. You're getting yourself all stressed out for no reason. I'll go look for her, okay?"

He wasn't eager to go roaming through the woods, especially since he wasn't familiar with the area. With his luck, he figured Molly would come back home while he was out searching for her and he would be the one who'd end up missing. But he was willing to do anything to make his mother stop crying. He hated it when women cried.

Calder stood and reached out his hand. His mother took it and rose to her feet.

"If you can get Molly's leash for me," he said, "I'll get going right away. Oh, and it wouldn't hurt to give me a couple of her favorite treats, too."

"Thank you, son." She managed a weak smile. She moved toward the kitchen where she removed a box of dog biscuits from the cupboard. "I'm so glad you're here!"

The trail through the woods behind his mother's house was more challenging than Calder had anticipated. It was hilly, rocky, littered with acorns and lined with trees that were so close together in some spots, the sun couldn't be seen through them, which made parts of the trail seem as dark as night. The first hill he came to was steep, like a small mountain. By the time he reached the top, he was gasping for breath and his calves were aching. He leaned against the trunk of a broad pine tree and paused to rest for a minute. When he inhaled, the scent of fresh pine reminded him of the Christmases when he and his father used to hike through the woods behind his grandmother's house to cut down their annual tree.

He sighed. _Back when I was a kid and didn't have a care in the world._

When his heart stopped racing, Calder continued walking. As he did, he called Molly's name over and over again...but there was no sign of her.

He knew he had to find the dog or his mother would be so distraught, there would be no consoling her. Ever since he'd moved to New York, Molly had become his mother's baby, her companion, her protector...her everything.

He followed the trail around a curve and then down a steep slope, where he nearly lost his footing. Sections of the trail had turned into mud. The moisture, he soon discovered, was caused by a narrow stream that trickled alongside the trail and pooled into a large swamp at the bottom to the right. As he approached the swamp, he began to feel uneasy. The classic old horror movie, _The Creature from the Black Lagoon,_ immediately came to mind. Dead trees, dark and twisted, rose from the murky water on which a thick green slime floated. The area smelled like rotted plants, and the air above the swamp was thick with insects.

"Molly!" Calder shouted. His voice, he noticed, was higher pitched than usual. "Molly! Want a cookie?"

Please, Molly! Show yourself! I want to get the hell out of here!

To his left, he heard a twig crack. His head snapped in that direction. He prayed that Molly, not some drooling, rabid, man-eating beast would appear. Through the trees, he caught a glimpse of a figure – a man – thin and dirty with long straggly hair.

Calder had no clue who he was or what he was doing out in the woods, but at that moment, he was so desperate for information about Molly, he didn't care.

"Hello!" he called out to the stranger. "Have you seen a dog anywhere around here?"

The man turned to directly face him. The small amount of sunlight that managed to filter down through the trees highlighted his face. His eyes were wide, sunken and dark – nearly black. They looked as if they contained only pupils, no color. Calder estimated him to be in his late twenties. The man didn't respond. He just silently stared.

Calder's uneasiness increased. For all he knew, this guy was an escaped convict or some murderer on the run. He even could be armed.

Or even worse, maybe he's not alone!

As discreetly as possible, Calder dropped his gaze to the ground. He was searching for something to use as a weapon – a rock, a pointed stick, anything. He still held Molly's leash in his hand. Maybe, he thought, he could use it as a whip...or strangle the guy with it if he came too close.

The stranger moved several steps toward him but still remained in the shelter of the trees. His gaze was glassy, unblinking.

Calder recalled the zombie movies he used to watch when he was a kid. This guy, he thought, could have starred in one of them without even needing makeup. Calder wanted to slowly back away, but the swamp was directly behind him. If he ran back the way he'd come, he'd be climbing a steep, muddy hill, which, he figured, all but guaranteed he'd slip and fall flat on his face. And if he ran in the other direction, he'd be following the trail deeper into the woods. His options, he decided, all pretty much sucked. He resigned himself to the fact he had no choice other than to stay where he was and fight the guy, if it came to that. At least, Calder thought, he was taller and more muscular than the stranger, which he hoped might give him some advantage. Still, he knew if the guy turned out to be high on something like PCP, he might have the strength of ten men, even if he weighed only 110 pounds.

The stranger stepped to the left and into a small clearing. Calder saw it then; a knife tucked in the waistband of his filthy, torn jeans.

"Have you seen a dog out here?" Calder repeated, trying to sound calm, nonchalant. His heart, however, felt like a jackhammer in his chest. All he could think about at that moment was the irony of leaving a high-crime city like New York only to end up with his throat slashed and his body dumped into a swamp in a small New England town. He also wondered if Meg's vision of him dying had included some knife-wielding, glassy-eyed psycho.

The man's hand moved to rest on the handle of the knife. Calder, his fists clenched at his sides, braced himself for the attack

Calder suddenly felt something slam into the side of his right thigh, nearly knocking him over. He glanced down to see Molly, panting and furiously wagging. Quickly, he hooked the leash onto her collar and pulled her close to his side. At that same moment, Molly spotted the stranger. She growled at him and tugged on the leash.

"It seems I've found my dog," Calder said to the man. "I was afraid, considering she's a trained attack dog, she might tear somebody apart before I could get to her. I don't need any lawsuits!"

He was lying. In fact, this was the first time he'd ever heard Molly growl. But he was grateful she had chosen that particular moment to act vicious.

Within seconds, the stranger disappeared back into the woods.

Calder took several deep breaths in an effort to regain his composure, then turned to Molly and rubbed the back of her neck. "Come on, girl. I think there's a filet mignon waiting for you back at Mom's."

* * * * *

"Molly!" Calder's mother burst into tears when he and Molly entered the living room.

"Bless you, Calder!" She rushed to embrace him, then bent to also embrace the dog. "I honestly thought I'd never see her again!"

"No problem," Calder said, shrugging. "I needed the exercise. Those hills out back are better than a workout at the gym."

He decided not to mention anything about his encounter with the wild-eyed guy in the woods. He didn't want to needlessly frighten his mother. And for all he knew, the guy probably already was long gone and heading for Canada. Calder still was curious, however, about what the stranger had been doing hanging around out in the woods in the first place...especially in such a dark, dank area. He also wondered what would have happened if Molly hadn't come along when she had.

His mother gave Molly a drink of water and a rawhide chew. Calder, his legs still feeling a little shaky, sat on the sofa.

"So, tell me," his mother said as she walked back into the living room, "how did things go with Margaret Thorne? I've been dying to know!" She pulled a tissue out of the pocket of her shorts and used it to wipe her eyes and nose.

"Fine – better than expected," he said. "But you didn't tell me she was so...attractive."

"Really? She's pretty?"

Calder laughed. "You're lousy at feigning innocence, Mom. You knew darned well she wasn't some old gray-haired witch with a wart on the tip of her nose! She really is stunning. She has these haunting green eyes that seem to look right to the very core of you."

"And big boobs?" his mother added, smiling. She lowered her slim frame into the sunken seat of the recliner and faced him. "So, aside from thinking she's sexy, did you find out anything interesting about her?"

"How well do you know Joanne Upton?"

She cast him a bewildered look. "Not that well, but from the few times I've spoken to her, she seemed pretty friendly. Why?"

"Is she getting a divorce?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I have no idea. I don't even know if she's married or single. Why are you suddenly so interested in Joanne Upton? How do you even _know_ Joanne?"

"Well, your predictor lady claims Joanne is going to drown at three o'clock tomorrow morning."

His mother clasped her chest and gasped. "Ohmigod! Joanne? That's terrible! She's so young...I'm guessing only in her early fifties!"

Calder shook his head and groaned. "You don't really believe that prediction do you? It took everything I had to keep a straight face when Meg told me about it!"

"Meg?"

"She thinks Margaret is too formal."

"I _do_ believe her, Calder! And you should, too, until you have a good reason not to! I know how you are – you're thinking she's probably just another nut case who could use a long vacation in a padded cell somewhere. But unlike you, I have an open mind about these things. I mean, I'm still convinced the house we used to live in on Walnut Street was haunted! Yet every time I mention it, you laugh at me!"

"Mom, that house was over a hundred years old! No wonder it made weird noises. It probably was on the verge of caving in!"

"Well, all I can say is I'm really worried about poor Joanne now. In fact, I think I'll go right over there and keep her company. She shouldn't be alone at a time like this."

"You'll do no such thing! The information about Joanne was told to me in strict confidence. I don't want the whole neighborhood hearing about it and then gathering at Joanne's to see if she'll die or not – as if they're watching some corny crime drama unfold on TV!"

"The _whole neighborhood_? Are you suggesting I'm a gossip?"

"Well, if the loose lips fit..."

His mother folded her arms and sighed dramatically. "Can't I just drop by Joanne's for an innocent, friendly visit, and pretend I don't know anything?"

"When was the last time you just 'dropped by' Joanne's for a friendly visit?"

"Well...never. But we always say hello and make small talk when we see each other outside or at the local grocery store."

"You're staying put, then," Calder said. "And I'm keeping my eye on you. I'll be working on my book right here all day. Believe me, Mom, you're worrying for nothing. Joanne will be just fine. I'm willing to bet on it."

"Fine. I'll stay put." She narrowed her eyes at him. "But you'll be eating your words when you wake up in the morning and find out Joanne is dead!"

"Mom, there's not even a drop of rain predicted for days. And even if a pipe burst in Joanne's house, the water wouldn't rise up to the level of her bed and drown her. Hate to say it, but these old mobile homes aren't exactly airtight – and they don't even have basements that can flood. I mean, it's not as if Joanne lives in an aquarium!"

"She could drown in the bathtub!"

"At three o'clock in the morning? What is she, a vampire? Besides that, she told Meg she wouldn't bathe or shower, just to be safe."

"Well, we'll find out tomorrow morning exactly how she drowned!"

Calder chuckled. "Yes, Mom, we certainly will." He stood and stretched. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to call Richard and tell him I'm finally working on my book. I'm about to make him one very relieved agent – and I have _you_ to thank for it! Even if Meg turns out to be nothing more than an attractive, delusional woman, I still think her story is an interesting one."

His mother wasn't listening to a word he was saying.

"Poor, poor Joanne," she whispered.
CHAPTER THREE

Joanne Upton watched the weather report on the late news – clear skies, sunny and hot. She was stretched out in bed, her back propped against two pillows as she focused her attention on the small television that sat on the chest of drawers facing her. The time, according to the digital clock on her nightstand, was 11:15 p.m.

She sighed and said out loud, "Well, in about four hours I'll be dead."

Her words made her smile. She remembered the week before when Pat, the woman who lived directly across the street from her, first had told her about Margaret Thorne.

"Joe, the park manager, did a background check on her," Pat, who'd been a resident of the park for over thirty years, had said, "and he told me she's moved over twenty times in the past five years. He checked some of her references and they told him she actually can predict when people will die!"

"Nonsense!" Joanne had responded. "No one possibly can do that!"

"Maybe not," Pat said, "But I still don't think I'd be brave enough to ask her when I'm going to kick the bucket...would you?"

Joanne had hesitated only briefly. "Sure. Why not? It's all just a bunch of baloney anyway!"

"Oh, really?" Pat's eyebrows rose. "Well, in that case then, I _dare_ you to go over there and ask her when you're going to die!"

"You want me to just barge in on her and ask her that? I don't even know her!"

"Oh, that's just a flimsy excuse! You're too chicken...admit it!"

"No, I'm not chicken at all," Joanne had said, her chin rising. "There's absolutely no reason to be. And I'll prove it to you. I _will_ go over there and ask her. She may throw me out, but I'll go over."

And she had done exactly that, with a phony story about getting a divorce. The fact was, Joanne lived alone. Her husband, who'd been heavily into drugs, had vanished from her life over fifteen years ago. She suspected his body was lying at the bottom of a lake or river somewhere – a drug deal gone bad. And her son, Mark, who was nearly thirty, had followed in his father's footsteps – years of drug abuse before pulling a vanishing act. She liked to think she was better off without either one of them in her life.

Joanne hadn't believed a word of Margaret's prediction. If the woman had told her she was going to fall down the front steps, hit her head or suffer a heart attack, then she might have taken her a little more seriously. But drowning at three in the morning? Ridiculous.

Joanne yawned, picked up the remote control and shut off the TV, then reached for the hurricane-style lamp on the nightstand and clicked it off. She fluffed her pillows, stretched out on her back and closed her eyes.

"Goodnight, world," she whispered. "See you in the morning!"

* * * * *

Joanne's eyes opened, but she saw the same thing she'd have seen if they had remained closed...pitch darkness. She rolled her head to the side to look at the numbers on her digital clock. They glowed red at night, but the glow was only just enough to make them visible, not enough to cast any light in the room. It was 2:40 AM

She turned away from the clock and gazed up at the ceiling. Still, there was only blackness. She momentarily considered getting up and going to the bathroom, but decided to ignore the urge. Sighing, she closed her eyes and willed herself to fall back to sleep.

She felt it then...a presence in her bedroom. She had gone to bed alone, yet she no longer felt alone. Someone – or something – was in the room with her.

Don't be silly! You're imagining things! All of the doors and windows are locked. Go back to sleep!

She inhaled deeply to calm herself, and then slowly released her breath through her mouth. From a corner of the room, a breath – deeper and louder than her own – echoed hers.

Joanne's eyes grew wide and her heart began to pound. She tried to move to turn on the lamp, but her body wouldn't cooperate. Fear momentarily paralyzed her.

She heard the breathing again, this time nearer, and then the sound of a footstep, closely followed by another, slowly moving toward the bed.

"Who's there?" she whispered, her voice cracking. Instead of once again trying to reach for the light, her hands slid down to grasp the bedcovers, which were folded down around her waist. She yanked them up to her neck and clutched the edge of them in a futile attempt to protect herself.

There was no response, no sound other than the rapid thumping of her heart.

Had she imagined the breathing and the footsteps, she wondered? Was her mind playing tricks on her because of all of the recent talk about her impending death? She lay perfectly still for nearly a minute, but heard nothing. Still, she could not shake the feeling she wasn't alone. She also detected an unfamiliar musky odor in the room.

"Is anyone there?" she repeated, still not daring to move. Perspiration, caused by a combination of fear and the thick bedcovers on a warm summer's night, began to dampen her skin.

A breath, which sounded more like a snake's hiss, was the response.

Oh, God! I didn't imagine it! Someone IS here in the room with me!

Tears sprang to her eyes as her mind raced. Who was the intruder and why was he in her bedroom? Was he looking for money or...and she felt sick at the mere thought...a woman to assault? And how could she escape him? If she, she wondered, jumped out of bed and made a dash for the bathroom, which was only a few feet away, would she be able to make it? And if she did, would she have enough time to close the door and lock it?

As she lay there contemplating her next move, she realized the room had become silent once again...too silent. She remained motionless, straining to hear anything out of the ordinary. When she heard nothing, she gathered the courage to slowly roll over onto her right side and use her left hand to reach for the switch on her bedside lamp.

As she felt for the switch, her hand touched something...something that caused her to open her mouth to scream...something that caused her to lose her voice so she wasn't able to.

She touched a hand.

Before she was able to jerk her arm away, fingers – cold, clammy and bony – clamped around her wrist. Again, she tried to scream, but no sound came out.

"Where is it?" a hoarse male voice asked her.

Joanne struggled to comprehend what was happening. Despite the heat in the room, she began to shiver.

The viselike grip on her wrist tightened, causing her fingers to tingle until they felt as if they might go numb.

_"Where_ is it?" the voice repeated, the tone more demanding...more urgent.

"Wh-where is _what_?" She finally managed to find her voice.

"Your mother's ring!"

Joanne felt as if someone had knocked all of the air out of her lungs. This intruder was no stranger. He _knew_ her...and he knew about the ring. The ring was her mother's wedding band – six perfectly cut diamonds set in platinum. It had been left to her in her mother's will back in 1991 and at the time, had been appraised at over $5,000. Wanting to protect her cherished treasure, the only thing of value she owned, Joanne kept it locked in a safe-deposit box in the bank in town.

"It's in a safe-deposit box at the bank!" she cried. "I don't have it here!"

"You're lying!"

She felt herself being yanked out of bed. She stumbled, nearly falling, but was jerked back upright until she was standing on her bare feet. The fingers around her wrist maintained their relentless grip on her.

"Tell me where it is!" the intruder ordered.

"I'm telling you the truth! I don't have it here!"

In an instant, her body was pulled back against his. Ribs and hipbones poked through the thin material of her nightgown and dug into her back, and his rancid, musky odor surrounded her. She felt the bile rise in her throat and could taste the saltiness of it. She gulped hard, certain she was about to vomit.

Cool steel pressing against her throat caused her to momentarily forget her nausea.

"Who _are_ you?" she managed to choke.

"WHERE...IS...THE...RING?"

Joanne realized there was no communicating with this man. He obviously had only one thought on his mind and it rendered him incapable of comprehending anything else.

His mouth was so close to her ear, she could feel the heat of his breath, which reeked of stale cigarette smoke. She also felt his hair, long and greasy, against the side of her face. Once again, she swallowed against the urge to vomit.

"Is protecting a ring really worth getting your throat slit?" he whispered slowly, deliberately. "So just tell me what I want to know and save me the trouble of having to tear apart every inch of this dump."

When he moved his mouth away from her ear, his body also moved slightly away from hers. Without pausing to think about her actions, Joanne brought her right arm forward, then turned just slightly to the right and rammed her elbow into his stomach. When he gasped, the knife briefly lost contact with her throat. In a split second, she broke free and dashed into the bathroom. She slammed the door and locked it.

Panting, she flipped on the light and frantically began searching through the cabinet underneath the sink, hoping to find something to use as a weapon – a rat-tailed comb, a razor, scissors – anything. She flung items onto the floor as she searched: a box of cotton balls, a roll of toilet paper, a container of bath powder. There was nothing she could use to protect herself.

The sound of fists pounding on the bathroom door made her dig deeper into the cabinet. Her hands were trembling so violently, she barely could grasp the items to toss them aside.

Please, God! Let me find the nail scissors or a metal nail file! I know they're in here somewhere!

She found a spray-can of deodorant and grabbed it. If nothing else, she thought, she might be able to temporarily blind him if she sprayed it into his eyes.

Her search was interrupted when the bathroom door suddenly burst open with such force, the wooden frame splintered. Startled, she dropped the can and it rolled away from her.

There in the doorway stood her assailant. In the bathroom's light, she was able to get her first good look at him. He was dirty and emaciated to the point of looking skeletal, with long, stringy hair and sunken eyes with noticeably enlarged pupils. He still gripped the knife in his hand.

There in the doorway stood her estranged son, Mark.

"Mark?" Her voice barely was audible. She stood and slowly backed away from him until her shoulders were pressed against the wall. "Is that you?"

"Yeah! Happy to see me, _Mommy_?" He moved toward her. "You should have changed the lock on the front door. I still have my key."

She didn't have to guess why he wanted the ring. He was looking for money for a fix, or to pay off some drug dealer. Nevertheless, she asked the question, "What are you doing here?"

"I need money...a lot of it. And I need it _now._ So give me Grandma's ring and I promise you I'll get the hell out of here!"

She closed her eyes, not wanting to look at the creature her son had become. "The ring's in a safe-deposit box! How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"Liar!" He spat the word at her. "You'd never let that ring out of your sight!"

Her eyes flew open. "It's not safe to keep it here!" Then, before she could stop herself, blurted out, " _You_ certainly are proof of that!"

As soon as she uttered the words, she regretted them. Anger contorted her son's features until he resembled something more beast-like than human. His top lip curled back, revealing the stumps of rotted teeth, and his nostrils flared.

In a flash, he was on her. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her, hunched over and stumbling, over to the toilet. He released his grip on her and used both hands to push down hard on her shoulders, forcing her to her knees. He then flung open the toilet's lid, lifted the seat, and shoved her head into the water. He held her down with such force, she was unable to move.

"When I let you come up for air, you _will_ tell me where the ring is!" he shouted. "Or I swear I'll keep doing this over and over again until you do!"

Joanne struggled to breathe as water filled her nose and mouth. She had heard that when people are facing death, their lives flash before them, but at that moment, all she could think about was how, a few years ago, in an effort to conserve water, the park manager had made it a rule that each toilet tank had to have a brick in it. The brick, he'd said, would take up space and cause the tank to use less water when it filled. Joanne had complied, but after a few months had grown frustrated with the shallow water in the toilet, often requiring her to flush twice, so she'd removed the brick.

She now regretted that decision.

The back of her neck felt as if it might snap from the pressure her son was exerting on it. Drugs, she was certain, had given him this nearly super-human strength. Seconds ticked by, each one causing her to suck in more of the water. She attempted to calm herself, realizing that her panic was making her breath come in short gasps, which caused her to inhale water more rapidly. But she was beyond calming.

Just when she was certain her lungs were about to burst, her head was roughly yanked up by the hair.

She gasped for air and choked, coughing up water, which also spurted out of her nose.

"Had enough?" her son growled.

Still choking, she managed to nod, despite his relentless grip on her hair.

"Good! Now tell me where the ring is!"

Her struggle to catch her breath made her unable to answer him. She had no idea how to pacify her son, whose brain obviously was so damaged from years of drug abuse, it made him incapable of any sort of rational thinking. Every time she tried to explain to him that the ring was in the bank, he flew into a rage, so she decided her only chance of surviving would be to lie and tell him she'd hidden the ring in the kitchen and would go get it for him. Then, she prayed she'd be able to make a dash outside and scream for help.

"Answer me!" He jerked her head to the side, then knelt down next to her so he could see her face.

"I-I'll get it for you," Joanne finally managed to say between gasps. "It's in the kitchen."

"No, you just tell me where! I'll get it myself!"

"It's in the freezer...hidden in a box of frozen peas," she lied.

He studied her face for several seconds, his uncertainty obvious. She clamped her eyes shut to avoid his scrutiny. Even when he was a kid, he'd always been able to tell when she wasn't being honest with him. He'd once told her it was because she had a habit of looking to the left whenever she lied.

"You'd better be telling me the truth!" He released his grip on her, stood and walked out of the bathroom.

Joanne realized she had only a few seconds to escape. All she had to do was make it back out through the bedroom and then into the hallway. The back door was right there. She knew she _had_ to get to that door and run outside before her son discovered she had lied to him. Gripping the edges of the toilet seat, she rose to her feet. The room began to spin around her, and her knees buckled. Her wet hair dripped water into her eyes, blurring her vision. When she moved her arm to wipe her face, a searing pain shot down the length of her neck and across her shoulders. For a moment, she feared she might black out.

Please, Lord, I beg you! Give me the strength to make it to the back door! This is my only chance!

She coughed, bringing up more water. Her lungs ached and her heart thumped an irregular beat, making her feel as if she had to cough again. She could hear her son tossing frozen food onto the kitchen floor as he searched for the ring.

Hurry! I have to hurry! I'm wasting precious time!

Gathering every ounce of strength her body could muster, Joanne turned and ran toward the bathroom doorway. Gasping for breath and clutching her chest, she quickly moved through the bedroom. The ten feet seemed like a hundred miles to her, especially since every step made her feel as though she might collapse. Finally, she reached the bedroom doorway that led out to the hallway...and to her freedom.

Her son reached the doorway at the same time.

"Going somewhere, you lying bitch?" he snapped, blocking her way.

Joanne gasped and gazed up into the face of pure rage, pure evil. At that moment, she knew, with no doubt whatsoever, she was about to die.

Before she could open her mouth to speak, her son grabbed her by the upper arm, his nails digging deeply into her flesh. He roughly shoved her back through the bedroom and toward the bathroom.

"No!" she pleaded. "Please, Mark, don't do this!" Panic flooded through her as she recalled his earlier threat to keep dunking her head until she gave him the information he wanted. "You need help!" she cried. "We can work it out...together! I'll help you get clean again. I'll be right by your side, supporting you every step of the way, I promise! You can even move back in here with me, if you'd like! I love you, Mark!"

But he wasn't listening. Joanne heard a loud cracking sound and felt nearly unbearable pain in her knees as he slammed her down hard on the floor in front of the toilet. She was certain both of her kneecaps were fractured.

Once again she felt the cold water, this time deeper, filling her ears as her son forced her head even lower into the bowl. She struggled to break free of his grasp, but the more she fought him, the stronger and more enraged he seemed to become. In an act of desperation, she flung her arms wildly about, hoping to cause him to loosen his grasp. She knew if he didn't allow her to get a breath of air within the next few seconds, she wasn't going to survive.

"Stop fighting me, bitch!" He rammed his knee into her back, pinning her lower body against the toilet.

Joanne could hear him shouting at her, but the water in her ears made him sound muffled and far away. She felt her chest tightening, slowly squeezing her heart as her lungs fought for a breath. Her head pounded until she feared it might explode.

I can't believe my own son – my only child – is doing this to me! I still remember how thrilled I was when I first found out I was pregnant with him! How did this happen? How could such a blessing turn into such a nightmare?

Just when she thought she couldn't bear the pressure and pain one moment longer, she felt a sudden sense of relief – an overwhelming sense of peace – spread throughout her body.

"Had enough yet?" Her son's voice rose. "Are you ready to tell me the truth now?"

He pulled her head out of the water. Her body went limp.

He stared wide-eyed at her for several long moments.

_"Mom!"_ he finally shouted.

There was no response, no movement.

He used his free hand to slap the side of her face. It had no effect. He slapped her harder. Still nothing. He knelt next to her for nearly a minute, his hand still clutching her hair as he stared at her face, waiting for her to breathe.

She didn't.

Shit! What have I done?...And what do I do now?

He knew that calling 911 wasn't an option...not unless he wanted to spend the next fifty years in prison. He also considered trying to give her CPR, but he had no clue how to properly administer it...and the fact his mother's face was covered with toilet water didn't make him eager to try. His gut told him she already was beyond help anyway.

Finally, he released his grip on her. The toilet water splashed when her face hit it again, wetting his shirt. He stood and backed away, leaving his mother right where she lay.

" _Damn!"_ he cried. He began to pace in circles. " _Damn!_ "

He bent to pick up his knife where he'd dropped it on the floor earlier, then ran a trembling thumb along the edge of the blade and sighed a heavy, defeated sigh.

"So much for only wanting to scare you," he muttered, taking a last look at his mother.

Shaking his head, he walked out of the bathroom.

The clock on the nightstand read 3:02.

* * * * *

"Calder!" his mother's voice came from the other side of his bedroom door. She pounded on it and tried to open it, but the chair he'd propped under the door handle held fast. "Calder! Quick! Get up!"

He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear them. The room was dark. "What time is it?"

"It's nearly four a.m.!" his mother answered. "Get dressed!"

He climbed out of bed, threw on a T-shirt, gray sweat pants and his slippers, and then opened his bedroom door.

"What's going on?" he asked, yawning.

His mother, who was fully dressed, grabbed his hand. "Joanne Upton's place is on fire! The fire engines woke me up! Didn't you hear them?"

"Mom, you should know by now that I can sleep through anything."

"Come on, I want to go see what's going on!"

Calder followed his mother outside. In the distance, he could see an orange glow in the sky.

Chaos surrounded Joanne's mobile home. There were fire engines, an ambulance, police cars, firefighters and hoses cluttering the street. A group of about 20 onlookers had gathered on Pat's front lawn directly across from Joanne's.

Calder and his mother joined the group on the lawn. His mother took a quick visual inventory of everyone there, then rushed over to a gray-haired woman who stood trembling and weeping. She was wrapped in a blanket, despite the heat of both the summer air and the fire.

"Pat!" his mother cried, embracing the woman. "Are you all right?"

Pat shook her head. "I got up to go to the bathroom and could see a bright light flickering through my front window. I looked outside and saw Joanne's place on fire! I grabbed the phone and called 911, then I rushed over to see if Joanne was still inside or if she'd managed to get out. But the heat of the fire made me back off. And she has that big propane tank near the back steps. I was afraid it might explode!"

She burst into fresh tears. "I should have gone in there anyway! Maybe I could have saved her! They haven't found her yet!"

Calder eyed the scene across the street. The fire seemed to be concentrated mainly at the front of the mobile home, in the room facing the street, while the back still looked relatively unscathed. The long length of the home, with flames shooting out of the now-broken front window, reminded him of a fire-breathing dragon.

A few minutes later, he saw a body being passed out through a window at the rear of the home and into the awaiting arms of one of the firefighters. He carried it a safe distance away and laid it on the grass. Immediately, two of the medical technicians from the ambulance crew rushed over.

"Dear Lord!" Calder's mother cried out. "They've found Joanne! But I don't think she's moving!"

"I'm going to go get a closer look," Pat said, heading across the street.

Calder thought they should remain right where they were and stay out of the firefighters' way.

"Mom! Get back here!" he called out to her as she began to follow Pat across the street. He was afraid that in her current state of mind, she'd end up tripping over a fire hose and breaking a hip.

She ignored him.

He sat down on the grass and tried to sort through his thoughts. _Fire._ If Joanne really was dead, then it was obvious she hadn't died from drowning – just the opposite. But that still would make Meg's prediction half right, which was, in his opinion, a damned freaky coincidence. In the light from the blaze, he could see the ambulance crew performing CPR on Joanne, and he could hear Pat wailing. Had the fire, he wondered, started before three o'clock and caused Joanne to die of smoke inhalation at the time Meg had predicted she would die? No way, he thought. The fire looked as if it hadn't been burning very long. He knew that when mobile homes caught fire they burned fast, and often already were completely involved before the fire department even arrived. So his calculations told him Joanne couldn't have died in a fire at the predicted time nearly an hour ago because her place would be nothing but a pile of ashes by now. Still, he felt the timing was close enough to be impressive.

A few minutes later, his mom and Pat, escorted by a frowning police officer, were back on the lawn.

"Those cops are too darned pushy!" his mother huffed.

"I told you to stay here," Calder said.

"Joanne is dead," Pat whimpered, wiping her eyes with a corner of the blanket around her shoulders. "They can't revive her. It's too late."

"Seriously?" He looked at his mother.

She nodded. "I'm afraid so. From what we managed to see, she's gone, barring some miracle."

"The fire started in the kitchen, according to one of the firefighters," Pat said. "They said the fire marshal will be here to investigate, then they'll know more about the cause."

"I guess they'll be doing an autopsy on Joanne, too," Calder said flatly. "It's procedure."

Both women turned to glare at him, as if he'd just said something incredibly insensitive.

"By the way, " his mother said to Pat, "this is my son, Calder. He's here visiting me from New York City."

"Nice to meet you," she said. "Although I wish it were under much better circumstances."

Calder nodded and frowned. "I wish we were meeting under different circumstances, too."

He turned back to gaze at the now-dwindling flames. He assumed that mobile-home fires were fairly easy to extinguish, considering all of the rooms were in a straight line with no additional floors or staircases to complicate things.

"Oh, look, they're going to load Joanne into the ambulance now," Pat said, using the back of her hand to wipe her nose. "I'm still praying they'll be able to use some of their new-fangled equipment at the hospital and revive her there. I've heard about people being declared dead and then being brought back to life hours later. Sometimes they even wake up on their own...in the morgue! Miracles _do_ happen, you know!"

Calder didn't want to dash her hopes, but the expressions on the faces of the medical personnel and their obvious lack of urgency to rush Joanne to the hospital all but told him she already was far beyond help. In fact, he suspected they probably were waiting for the coroner to arrive and weren't going to be taking Joanne anywhere...at least not for a while.

No, he thought. There would be no reviving Joanne Upton.

* * * * *

Calder didn't bother to go back to bed after he and his mother returned home at nearly sunrise. He was too keyed up to sleep. He sat watching the clock, wondering how long he should wait before he paid a visit to Meg. He was eager to talk to her about what had happened at Joanne's. By seven o'clock, he decided he had waited long enough. He headed over to Meg's.

He could smell the lingering smoke in the air as he walked in the opposite direction of Joanne's. He turned to look at that end of the street and could see a lone fire truck and a police cruiser still at the scene.

Blue jays and crows squawked at him from their perches in the trees as he walked past them. It seemed almost surreal to him that life in the park was continuing as usual, exactly the way it had the day before, even though someone only a street away had died such a tragic death just a few hours before.

It took nearly a full minute before his knock, which turned into pounding, on Meg's door was answered. Meg, her eyes still heavy with sleep and her hair pulled up into lopsided knot, was wearing a pale lavender robe tied at the waist. She squinted at him.

"Calder? What are you doing here at this hour?"

"I'm really sorry to wake you," he said, "but I couldn't wait to talk to you about what happened earlier this morning."

"Come in," she said. "I'll put on the kettle for tea."

He entered the kitchen and took a seat at the now-familiar table. Meg filled a copper-bottomed teakettle with bottled water and set it on the stove to heat.

"I prefer bottled water," she said. "The water in this park smells like fish to me. They say the water comes from a couple artesian wells fed by underground springs, but I'm not so sure. Who's ever heard of fish in an underground spring?"

"I've been drinking it at my mother's and I haven't smelled anything fishy," he said.

"That's not surprising," she said. "It's a known fact that men have less sensitive noses than women. I mean, they never think their feet smell, either!"

Calder couldn't help but chuckle.

"So, tell me," Meg said, sitting down. "What is it you're so eager to talk to me about?"

"Joanne Upton is dead."

Her expression didn't change. "Well, of course she is. I told you she would be."

"But you weren't quite accurate with the details," he said.

A crease formed between her perfectly arched eyebrows. "What are you talking about?"

"She died at about 3:45 in a fire – most likely from smoke inhalation."

Meg vigorously shook her head. "Impossible. She drowned at three o'clock, just as I predicted."

"Meg, I was there. The fire engines woke up my mom and we ran over. Didn't you hear all of the commotion?"

"I wear ear plugs when I sleep, so I never hear much...which is the whole point of wearing them." She gave him a weak smile. "Your knock, however, practically shook this place off its axles."

"I saw the fire. I saw them remove Joanne's body from the burning mobile home," he said. "Believe me, Meg, she died in a fire."

Again, she shook her head. "I don't care what you saw. I know what I know, Calder, and you're wrong."

"Well, you were right about the date when she was going to die," he said, attempting to pay her a compliment. "And you were just slightly off on the time. That in itself is really amazing."

"I was right about _everything!"_ Her lips tightened. "You don't seem to understand. I'm _never_ wrong."

"Well, there is always a first time," he said, beginning to grow aggravated with her stubborn insistence that she was infallible. After all, he'd been right there at Joanne's and had witnessed it all. _She_ hadn't.

"No, there is never going to be a 'first time' when I'm wrong," she said evenly. "It doesn't work that way. My powers are based on fact. And the fact is, Joanne drowned at three in the morning."

Calder's patience finally ran out. "You're being ridiculous!" he snapped. "How the hell could she possibly _drown_ in a raging thousand-degree fire? Stop being so damned stubborn and admit you were wrong!"

Meg's eyes narrowed and she stood. She walked over to the door and opened it.

"I think you should leave now," she said.

"Fine!" He stood, then moved past her and, without even so much as a glance at her, walked out the door. He heard it slam behind him.

As Calder headed back toward his mother's, he silently cursed himself.

What the hell have I done? I've ruined all of my chances of getting more information for my book! Why didn't I just keep my mouth shut instead of ridiculing and alienating her? I'm such an idiot!

By the time he set foot back in his mother's living room, he was in a self-loathing, rotten mood.

"Where did you disappear to?" his mother, who was holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a toasted bagel in the other, asked. "I woke up, thinking you were in your room, sleeping, but the door was half-open and when I passed by, I could see that your bed was empty."

"What are you doing up so early?" he asked, not answering her question. "I thought for sure you'd be sleeping until at least nine."

"I dozed, but I kept waking up, so I finally just gave up and got up. I'm too stressed about Joanne to sleep." She took a sip of her coffee. "Did you even go to bed at all?"

He shook his head. "I stayed up, then went over to talk to Meg about what happened at Joanne's."

"And what did she say about it?" She set down her bagel and coffee on the end table near the recliner and then seated herself.

"She still insists that Joanne drowned at three in the morning. I told her I was right there at the fire and saw them bring out Joanne's body, but she wouldn't listen to anything I said. She just kept saying she's _never_ wrong."

"Well, I hate to say it, because I, for one, really believed in her," his mother said, "but she _was_ wrong this time. No doubt about that. Joanne died in a fire."

"Try telling _her_ that!" He flopped down on the sofa and groaned. "Trouble is, I got her so upset, she asked me to leave. I may not be able to finish my book now. I let my temper rule my dumb mouth."

"Surely, with all that happened at Joanne's last night, you'll have enough to write about?"

"It's only _one_ prediction," he said. "I can't base an entire book about Meg on just that! I have to find out more, much more, about what makes her tick before I can come to any solid conclusions about her so-called powers. Unfortunately, I've blown that chance big-time now."

A loud rapping on the front door interrupted their conversation. Molly, who'd been asleep in the den that doubled as an office, barked and came running down the hallway.

"Who on earth can that be at this hour?" Calder's mother glanced at the brass clock on the living-room wall. "I never have visitors this early in the morning."

"Let me answer it, then," Calder said, rising. He, with Molly at his heels, walked over to the door and opened it. Pat brushed past him and into the house.

"Pat!" his mother rose to greet her with a brief hug. "What brings you here so early? I thought for sure you'd be sleeping all day."

"Who the heck can sleep when the firefighters, with those dumb radios of theirs blaring all sorts of numbers and codes, are still hanging around practically under my windows?"

"Well, have a seat," Sarah said. "Can I get you some coffee?"

"Yes, thank you." Pat lowered herself into the recliner. Molly sniffed her kneecaps.

Calder returned to his spot on the sofa and sat staring at the petite, gray-haired woman. He noticed that her bottom lip was trembling. Her hands also were very noticeably shaking. When Pat saw him looking at them, she clasped them together in her lap, as if attempting to steady them. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles and she was wearing the same clothes she'd been wearing at the fire – minus the blanket.

"Cream? Sugar?" his mother called from the kitchen.

"Black, please!" Pat answered.

His mother entered the room and handed mugs to both Pat and Calder. She then took a seat next to her son and stared expectantly at Pat.

"Sarah, I honestly can say I have never been more frightened in my life!" Pat said. "When you hear what I have to say, you'll be frightened out of your wits, too."

Both Calder and his mother gazed unblinkingly at her.

"You know my friend, Donna Barrett, who lives down by the park manager's place?" Pat asked.

Calder's mother shook her head. "No, why?"

"Well, her brother is one of the firefighters who was there at the fire at Joanne's. Actually...he was the one who went inside and found Joanne's body."

Calder and his mother continued to stare.

Pat drew a long, shaky breath. "Donna talked to her brother just a little while ago and he told her some _very_ interesting – unbelievable – things about what he saw inside Joanne's place!" She paused to take a sip of her coffee and then closed her eyes as she savored the taste of it.

Calder, whose nerves already were on edge after his visit with Meg, couldn't bear the anticipation. " _What_? What did her brother see?"

"Well," Pat said, opening her eyes, "he said he found Joanne in the _bathroom_...she was on her knees with her head down in the toilet – her face in the water! To get to the bathroom, he had to go through her bedroom, which even through all of the smoke, he said he could see had been ransacked. All of the drawers had been removed and emptied onto the floor, the mattress and pillows were ripped to shreds, and even the TV was smashed. He said it looked like a burglary...and a murder! Her bathroom door apparently had been locked from the inside, but someone broke it down! He also said the fire probably was set as an afterthought by the burglar in an attempt to cover up the evidence! But, mind you, nothing will be certain until after a thorough investigation, so what I'm telling you is strictly confidential! You can't breathe a word of this to anyone!"

Calder's chin dropped.

"Dear Lord!" his mother gasped. "They think Joanne was _murdered?_ You mean we might have some dangerous maniac running around loose in the neighborhood?"

Pat nodded. "That's why I'm so frightened! For all we know, he could be hiding right out back here in the woods at this very moment, watching us!"

Calder's thoughts immediately turned to the wild-eyed man he'd seen lurking out in the woods the morning before. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he mentally reconstructed everything Pat had just said. How, he wondered, had Joanne ended up with her head in the toilet? Had her killer stabbed her and she'd staggered over to the toilet because she'd felt sick, and then passed out with her head in the bowl? Also, according to Pat, the intruder had spent some time ransacking the place before he finally set it on fire. That meant it was possible Joanne had died long before the fire even was set. And her head was in _water!_

"Then Margaret Thorne was right after all?" he said mostly to himself, barely believing his own words.

Both Pat and his mother turned to look at him, their eyes wide.

"My God!" Pat gasped. "You're right! Joanne told me Margaret had predicted she would _drown_! We'd had a good laugh over that one! And I'll bet it was at three a.m., too, just like Margaret had said it would be!" She moved to set her mug down on the coffee table, but her trembling was so severe, some of the coffee splashed onto the dark maple top. "I was the one who dared Joanne to go see Margaret in the first place! She went there only because of me! I'll never forgive myself!"

"Even if she hadn't gone to Margaret's for a prediction," Sarah said as she headed out to the kitchen to grab a paper towel to wipe up the coffee spill, "she still would have died the same way! I mean, how could you or anyone else have prevented such a tragedy? You have nothing to feel guilty about, Pat. After all, it's not as if you had a part in planning the murder!"

Calder was on his feet. "If you'll both excuse me, I have to go talk to Meg," he said. He then added, too quietly for anyone to hear, "And eat some crow."

* * * * *

"Please, can I come in for just a minute?"

Calder couldn't read Meg's expression as she stood in her doorway and stared at him.

"Please, Meg," he repeated, "I really need to talk to you."

Her piercing green eyes contained no warmth and not even a flicker of forgiveness.

"Why? So you can argue with me some more?" she finally asked. "So you can tell me I'm full of crap?"

She was wearing a white halter-style sundress that had tiny blue flowers sprinkled all over it. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was barefoot. Calder thought she looked sexy as hell.

"I just want to talk," he said. "No arguing, no upsetting you. You have my word."

She shrugged. "Fine. Come in. You have five minutes."

For the first time, she led him into the living room. The walls were painted bright green, the exact color of her eyes, and were covered with framed abstract artwork that consisted mostly of neon-colored circles, squares and triangles arranged in different patterns. A burgundy-colored sofa sat against the wall facing the windows. Calder thought the oval rug on the floor looked as if it had been woven from something exotic, like llama fur. A platform rocker with burgundy cushions sat in the corner.

Although he wasn't offered a seat, he chose the rocker and sat down. Meg plunked down on the rug. She crossed her legs and pulled her dress down over her knees to cover them. She then looked up at him, but didn't speak.

"You don't have a TV?" he asked, looking around.

"No. And even if I did, I wouldn't watch it anyway. It's impossible to concentrate on the programs when I keep seeing expiration dates on all of the actors."

Calder could have stalled the conversation longer, but decided to say what he'd come to say and get it over with. "I want to apologize for doubting you," he said. "I now believe that Joanne really did drown, just as you predicted she would."

Her right eyebrow arched. "Really? And to what do I owe this dramatic change of heart in less than an hour?"

"One of Joanne's neighbors told us that the firefighter who found Joanne's body said she was in the bathroom with her head submerged in the...toilet."

In spite of the seriousness of the topic, Meg giggled. "The toilet? Really? I'd _never_ have thought of that one when I made my prediction!"

"They're pretty certain she was murdered," Calder said. "I guess her place was ransacked and then set on fire to destroy the evidence. So apparently she'd been dead for a while before the fire even started."

"Oh? But _you_ were there at the fire, Calder! And _you_ swore she died of smoke inhalation, isn't that right?"

He frowned. "Okay, I was wrong, Meg. And as I said, I really do apologize for coming down on you the way I did."

She was silent for a moment, then her eyes locked with his. "So, does this mean you might actually be starting to believe in my powers? Or do you still consider me to be just another addition to the list of fakes you seem to take so much pleasure in exposing?"

He gaped at her.

"I do have a computer," she said. "I looked up your books, your bio, your reviews online and found all of it to be very...enlightening. Should I feel honored that you've decided to include me in your mission to save the 'innocent, gullible people of the world' from us psychic phonies?"

Calder felt the heat rush up his neck and into his cheeks. He hoped his face wasn't as visibly red as he suspected it was. "Well, you have to admit, Meg, that most of the so-called psychics in this world are about as psychic as I am. Unless they can provide me with solid proof of their abilities, how can I, in all good conscience, write that they're genuine? I feel I should let my readers know the truth, no matter what it is. And to be honest, it's still much too soon for me to form any definite opinion about you. You can't argue with that."

"The fact that I predicted Joanne's drowning wasn't enough to convince you?"

He gave her a slight smile. "Well, how can I be certain you're not the one who murdered her to make your prediction come true?"

She chuckled. "Thanks a lot, Calder! Now I'm a murderer?" Her expression sobered. "I suppose I _do_ understand how you feel, though. I mean, I guess I'd be skeptical, too, if I were in your shoes. It's just that I really take it personally when people don't believe me, because I know I'm a hundred-percent genuine. How would you feel if someone told you that your writing was nothing but a load of garbage?"

"They tell me that all the time – especially the people who make a living as psychics." He laughed. "But it's made me develop a thick skin. My agent always reminds me that it doesn't matter if people love what I write or hate it – just so long as they keep buying my books."

"Well, what I do is a little deeper than writing books. After all, I have to tell people when and how they're going to die. I don't think anyone who's not in my position can even begin to understand just how stressful that is...or what a huge effect it has on my life."

"No, I suppose not. Frankly, I don't know how you handle it. I know I sure as hell wouldn't be able to."

"Unfortunately, I don't have much choice other than to learn how to deal with it."

There was a silent pause before Meg spoke again. "So, then, I suppose you're hoping to witness another one of my predictions?"

"Well, I'm not wishing for anyone else to die, but I really do need more than just one prediction to go by." He glanced at his watch. "By the way, are my five minutes up yet?"

He finally saw a hint of warmth return to her eyes. "Yes, but I'm feeling generous. I'll grant you an extension."

A soft knock at the door caused them both to turn and look in that direction.

"Wonder who that could be?" Meg said. She stood and smoothed the skirt of her dress. "Excuse me while I get it."

She headed out to the kitchen. Calder could hear a woman's voice, but because she still was outside, he couldn't understand what was being said. A few seconds later, Meg returned to the living room. Behind her was the woman.

When Meg stepped aside, Calder was surprised to see his mother standing there.

"Mom!" he said. "What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"

She nodded. "I'm fine. I've just been doing some serious thinking since all of this happened with Joanne."

She then turned to look directly at Meg. "That's why I'm here." She took a deep breath and said, "Margaret, I want to know when I'm going to die."
CHAPTER FOUR

"Mom, _no_!" Calder leapt to his feet and grasped her arm. "Don't do this!"

Her chin rose. "If you don't want to hear the prediction, Calder, then maybe you should step outside."

He turned to Meg. "Please, don't tell her. Just forget she asked!"

Meg looked down at the rug. "Calder, you know I _have_ to tell her. As I said, once the question is asked, I can't refuse to answer."

Even though he still wasn't entirely convinced of Meg's powers, he knew if she gave his mother the information she was seeking, his mother would dwell on it constantly – worrying, waiting, counting the days. He was afraid she would spend so much time thinking about her death, she'd forget how to live.

"You're sure about this?" Meg looked directly into Sarah York's eyes. "There is still time to change your mind."

"I'm positive," she said.

"Do you mind if your son hears what I have to say?" Meg, going by the rules, asked for her permission.

"No, I don't mind." She looked up at Calder. "But I doubt he wants to hear any of it."

"When I said I needed more proof for my book," he said, "I didn't mean _this."_

"Will you be staying or leaving?" Meg asked him in a tone he thought suddenly sounded a little too businesslike.

He hesitated. A part of him wanted to witness an actual prediction. Did Meg, he wondered, go into some kind of a trance beforehand? Did her eyes roll back? Was there an incantation she recited? Yes, he was curious. But did he really want to hear when his mother was supposed to die? He knew that even though he probably wouldn't believe the prediction, it still would be embedded in his mind from that moment on, permanently etched on his brain like the words on a tombstone.

Four eyes gazed expectantly at him.

"I honestly don't know what to do," he said. "I'm feeling kind of torn right now."

"Well, if my opinion counts," his mother said, "I'd like to have you right here holding my hand when I receive the news. I mean, this is just like having a doctor tell you that you have terminal cancer. It's something you'd rather hear when you have a loved one by your side for support."

The last thing he wanted to do was abandon his mother when she wanted him to be with her. He already was suffering from enough guilt for having been such an absentee son over the past four years.

He sighed and moved to clasp his hand over hers. "Okay, Mom, if it's what you want, I'll stay here with you."

She smiled. "Thank you."

"Well," Meg said, "why don't the two of you sit on the sofa and get comfortable? Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, I'm too nervous," Sarah said. "It probably would come right back up."

She and Calder then sat on the sofa. His mother placed her hand on his knee, and he covered her hand with his. Calder thought her fingers felt as if they had been soaking in ice water. Or, he wondered, were they his own that suddenly felt so cold?

Meg stood in front of them and took a deep breath. "Ready?"

Sarah nodded. "Let's get this over with."

Calder felt her hand tense beneath his. He hated to admit it to himself, but he also felt apprehensive. For all he knew, Meg would say his mother was going to die that night in the same violent manner Joanne allegedly had. He was certain if it actually did come to that, he would do everything within his power to prevent it, even though Meg had emphasized the futility of trying. But if Joanne's killer decided to break into his mother's bedroom, what was he supposed to do – just stand there and allow it to happen because it was her time to die? Hell, no. There was no way he could do that.

Meg's voice sliced into his thoughts. "Sarah, you will die at 10:58 p.m. on November 20th."

Calder's grip tightened on his mother's hand. November was only three months away. That meant she wouldn't be around for the holidays – that they wouldn't even share another Christmas together. In the past four years, Christmas week had been the only time of year he'd visited her. The rest of their relationship had been via telephone or email. Shame and regret flooded through him. He not only was her only son, he was her only child. And that, to him, made his past actions seem even more unforgivable.

Both Calder and his mother lowered their heads as they attempted to absorb Meg's information.

Meg smiled. "In the year 2032! I guess the simplest way to put it is you'll die of old age."

Their heads snapped up.

"You don't see any drownings or fires...or murder?" Sarah asked.

"None of the above," Meg said.

Sarah released a long breath of relief, then squinted as she mentally calculated the years. "That means I'll live to be in my nineties?"

When Meg nodded, Sarah cried, "Thank God!" and turned to give Calder a nearly bone-crushing hug. "This means I'm not going to be murdered in my sleep tonight!"

"Nor for the next thirty-three years," he responded, returning her embrace. He didn't know whether Meg's prediction would come true or not, and he figured he probably wouldn't live long enough to ever find out, considering his love of greasy cheeseburgers and the fact his father hadn't lived to see fifty, but he was happy the prediction was a positive one. He still believed it was possible for his mother to die slowly and painfully or even violently, but as long as _she_ believed she wouldn't, he knew she'd be happy. He hoped, however, she wouldn't suddenly think she was indestructible and start doing crazy things like skydiving or picking fights with women who looked like female gang members.

"Can you predict how long dogs will live?" his mother asked Meg. "I'd really like to know how much longer Molly is going to be with me."

Meg gave her a slight smile. "Sorry, but my powers apply solely to humans."

Sarah sighed. "That's too bad. I'm sure people would pay you good money to find out when their pets were going to die."

"Oh, I could never accept money for any of my predictions," Meg said. "It just wouldn't seem right, getting rich from other people's misery."

Sarah turned toward Calder. "Well, how about you, son? Don't you want to know Meg's prediction for you? I did it and it was painless. In fact, I feel rejuvenated right now!"

Calder noticed that Meg's expression changed the moment his mother mentioned he should ask her for a prediction. And what he clearly saw in that expression was fear. When he looked directly at Meg, she averted her eyes. It was obvious to him she was hoping he wouldn't ask her anything – that he wouldn't force her to reveal any information about his future...or lack thereof.

"Uh, I really prefer to live one day at time," he said, forcing a smile. "I don't think I could handle any more than that."

"Oh, you're just a big coward!" his mother said with a wave of her hand. "Doesn't it embarrass you that your old mother is braver than you are? Come on, ask her!"

"If he doesn't want to know, then you shouldn't try to force him," Meg said. "We're not talking about daring someone to jump off the high diving-board at a pool or to scale a fence on someone's private property. We're talking about someone's life...someone's future. It shouldn't be taken as lightly as a childhood dare."

Calder's mother's lips formed a straight line. "I'm sorry," she said, considering herself properly put in her place. "Point taken." She rose to her feet. "Well, if you two youngsters will excuse me, I'm eager to go tell Pat about your prediction. I'm sure she'd like to hear some good news for a change."

Calder stood and she embraced him. "See you later, son."

She then moved to embrace Meg. "And thank you once again for making me a very happy woman."

"There is no need to thank me," she said. "I have no say in my predictions. They just are what they are."

Meg escorted Sarah to the door and then returned to the living room.

"Iced tea with fresh mint?" she asked Calder.

He'd seated himself in the rocker once again. "Sounds good."

The cold, fragrant tea soothed his throat as he sipped it. He hadn't realized just how dry his throat had become during the stress of the last half-hour.

"So," he mustered the courage to broach the subject, "was that a real prediction, or were you just trying to make my mother feel good?"

Meg was on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her. She stopped sipping her drink and stared at him. "It was genuine. As I told you before, I can't lie. If I could, do you think I'd be telling people they're going to burn to death or be fatally shot?"

"No, I suppose not."

He took another gulp of his tea. The glass was sweating. He used the tip of his index finger to write his initials on it. He then looked directly at Meg.

"Is my death really going to be that terrible?" he asked her.

She cocked her head. "What do you mean?"

"I saw it – the look of fear in your eyes – when my mother suggested I ask you about it."

"You were imagining things." She looked down into her glass.

"Was I?"

Meg tried to appear unfazed by his question, but deep inside, her stomach felt as if someone had just rammed a knife into it.

No, Calder, you weren't imagining things! Please, don't ever ask me about it...don't force me to have to say it out loud! When we first met and I asked you if you wanted to know when you were going to die, it was because I didn't really know you...or care about you. But now that I'm becoming better acquainted with you, your death is the last thing I want to discuss.

"Perhaps the reason why I look upset when I think about your death is because, and I have _no_ idea why, I'm actually beginning to like you." She looked up at him and smiled. "So I guess I'd prefer to think of you as being immortal."

She hoped that by speaking the truth, she hadn't made him uncomfortable. Still, she would be lying to herself if she said she hadn't thought about what being kissed by him or having his well-toned arms wrapped around her would feel like. It had been a long time – much too long – since a man had touched her, and she thought Calder, especially physically, more than fulfilled all of the requirements of her fantasies.

Calder couldn't believe Meg actually said she liked him, especially after the way he'd lashed out at her earlier. Did he dare, he wondered, hope she was as attracted to him as he was to her? And if their attraction did turn out to be mutual, then what? Should he make an attempt to become more intimate with her and risk being rejected, or should he just take things slowly and see where they'd lead? But, he also wondered, did he even _have_ time to take things slowly? For all he knew, he could be dead by morning.

His earlier thoughts about trying to save his mother if Joanne's killer chose her as his next victim suddenly returned. Was that the way he was going to die, he wondered, defending his mother from a murderer, so she could live to be in her nineties? Was that why Meg had looked so fearful when his mother tried to convince him to ask for a prediction? Was _he_ going to be the murderer's next victim?

I have to stop thinking this way! I'm letting Meg mess up my mind!

"Before your mother interrupted us," Meg said, breaking the silence, "I was about to tell you that three people – a husband and wife and the wife's sister – are coming over here tonight for predictions. A group session, you might say. If I get their permission to allow you to observe as part of your research, would you be interested?"

"Yes, definitely."

"Then I'll call you when I find out," she said.

"Great. By the way, I gave you my phone number, but I don't have yours."

"I'll write it down for you."

* * * * *

Calder spent the rest of the morning working on his book. He knew he probably should be catching up on the sleep he'd missed, but he felt inspired to write. The words seemed to fly from his fingertips, which pleased him. With each word he entered into the computer, he felt more and more optimistic that his prolonged case of writer's block rapidly was becoming a thing of the past.

It was close to noon when he leaned back in his chair and stretched, raising his arms over his head. The window in the tiny combination den and office where he was working faced another mobile home. Calder gazed through the window and studied the neighbor's place. He noticed that the driveway there, unlike his mother's, which stopped at her front steps, continued all the way back to the edge of the woods. At the end of it sat two snowmobiles covered with a clear plastic tarp. He also noticed that the logging trail he'd hiked on during his search for Molly went right through that section of the woods, so the neighbor had easy access to it whenever he wanted to go snowmobiling.

As Calder continued to sit and stare out the window, he saw something that made him jump up to get a better look. It was Meg, walking at a brisk pace up the neighbor's driveway. She then disappeared into the woods.

"What the heck?" he said out loud, wondering where she was going...and why. At the same time, he thought about the guy he'd seen out there – the zombie-looking character with the knife. He wondered if he should have mentioned him to the police, especially after he learned Joanne allegedly had been murdered. He'd seriously considered telling the authorities about him, but then thought he might needlessly cause even more panic, especially if the man turned out to be nothing more than some down-on-his-luck homeless person or one of those hippie-type wilderness survivalists.

But what if he really is the one who killed Joanne? Meg is going to be out there alone in the woods, completely unaware he could pop out of the bushes and grab her! After all, she can't foresee her own death!

Calder hesitated, wondering if Meg would think he was stalking her if he followed her. He decided he didn't care what she thought. He had to make sure she was safe. Before he could change his mind, he headed for the door.

He hit the trail running, forgetting how steep the first hill was. By the time he scaled it, he was gasping for breath. He hoped he'd be able to catch a glimpse of Meg on the other side, but there was no sign of her. He figured she'd either taken off jogging...or she wasn't following the trail. But for what reason, he wondered, would someone choose not to follow it and instead hike through thick woods loaded with poison ivy and ticks?

As Calder continued to walk along the trail, he grew increasingly concerned about Meg. The dark, swampy area lay only a short distance ahead and he dreaded having to go near it again. He liked to think of himself as someone who was pretty strong and brave, yet he had to admit the place scared him. He was certain it would be just as, if not more, frightening to Meg. And there also was the strange guy to think about. He, in Calder's opinion, was even scarier than the swamp.

He could smell the swamp before he reached it. The stench of rotted plants and stagnant water hung heavily in the air. He thought the hot and humid weather made the odor seem even stronger because there wasn't even a slight breeze to help disperse it

Calder's pace, which had slowed as he maneuvered around the slippery rocks on the muddy, downhill slope of the trail, now quickened. His eyes darted back and forth as he approached the swamp. At any moment, he expected someone or something to leap out in front him, blocking his way. His mom casually had mentioned that the area behind the park was called Catamount Hill. He'd looked up the word "catamount" online and the definition said it was any large cat, like a cougar or bobcat, which hadn't made him eager to go for another hike in the woods any time soon. Not only that, there was a 10,000-acre park, Bear Brook State Park, nearby. Calder figured it had "bear" in its name for a good reason.

In spite of his uneasiness, he chuckled at the thought that maybe Bear Brook actually was a popular gathering place for skinny dippers and they'd misspelled the word "bare" when they'd named it.

Although the possibility of being shredded by a bobcat or becoming a snack for some drooling bear disturbed him, the possibility of the weird guy holding Meg captive, his knife pressed against her throat, disturbed him even more. He silently cursed himself for not having had the good sense to grab a weapon of some sort before he'd so hastily taken off after her.

When Calder passed the swamp without being accosted by the Swamp Thing or anything else of the four-legged or two-legged variety, he allowed himself to exhale. He had no clue what lay ahead on the trail because he hadn't gone any farther than the swamp on his previous hike. And that, in his opinion, had been more than far enough. But his concern about Meg made him keep moving forward into unfamiliar territory. The trail leveled out and widened, and the woods became thinner and began to look less foreboding, which helped ease his tension.

Just as he allowed himself to relax, he heard leaves rustling to his left. He stopped abruptly and turned to look in that direction just as a partridge flew straight up out of the bushes, its fluttering wings sounding like a miniature helicopter. Startled, Calder jumped and grasped his chest. He felt certain his heart was about leap out through his throat.

"I think I've had my fill of nature for a while," he said, trying to catch is breath. "New York is beginning to seem about as dangerous as Disney World compared to this place."

He managed to regain his composure just enough to continue walking. Within a few minutes, he spotted a clearing up ahead, bright with sunlight and clusters of white, yellow and purple wildflowers. As he approached the area, his first thought was it looked out of place in the middle of the dark woods. In fact, he half expected Julie Andrews to pop out at any minute and burst into a song from _The Sound of Music._

At the far edge of the clearing stood Meg.

Without thinking, Calder bolted toward her. The sound of him running caused her to abruptly turn around. Her wide-eyed expression plainly told him he'd startled her.

"Calder!" she gasped. "You scared me! What are you doing here?"

He approached her and breathlessly said, "I happened to see you through the den window and I wanted to make sure you were safe. This is no place for a woman alone!"

She smiled, obviously amused. "Trust me, it's a lot safer out here in the woods than it is in the city."

"Don't be so sure. Molly ran away yesterday and I chased after her out here. I met up with this guy who was just hanging around in the woods. He was pretty creepy looking...and he had a knife."

Meg didn't seem at all fazed by his words. "I've seen him before, too. I think he camps out here somewhere. And _of course_ he has a knife – he needs it to survive."

"And the thought of some strange guy roaming around out here in the woods doesn't bother you?"

She shrugged. "I just accept him as part of the woods – like one of the animals."

"Well, did it ever cross your mind that this particular _animal_ might have killed Joanne?" Calder frowned at her.

Meg's eyebrows rose just slightly. "No, it didn't. To be honest, I haven't thought much about him at all. I don't think he's some crazed killer, though. I'm sure he's harmless."

"Harmless? My first impression of him immediately brought the word 'psycho' to mind!"

She giggled. "I think you've spent too many years in New York!"

"It's not funny, Meg. You should be more careful. I get the feeling you're too trusting. That could prove to be dangerous."

She still seemed amused. "Well, I'm standing here in the middle of the woods with _you_ , a guy I barely know. So, according to what you're saying, I shouldn't trust you, either?"

He rolled his eyes. There was no reasoning with the woman, he decided.

"So, tell me," he said, changing the subject, "what _are_ you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?" He used the palm of his hand to wipe his sweaty forehead. "And how did you get here so fast? I was only a minute or two behind you...or so I thought, yet I didn't even catch a glimpse of you until now."

"Oh, you must have taken the old logging trail," she said. "That thing's a mess, with all the rocks and mud...and that creepy old swamp. I took the footpath through the woods – it runs right off the logging trail, behind your mom's neighbor's place. It's much nicer."

_"Now_ you tell me," he muttered. "I nearly killed myself on that obstacle course of a trail. And then there was the sinus-destroying scent of the swamp."

She laughed. "Sorry. I'll show you the footpath on the way back so you can use it next time."

"There won't _be_ a next time if I can help it. I've had my fill of these woods." He smacked a mosquito that landed on his wrist.

"I love it out here," she said. "In fact, I come here as often as I can."

"All alone?" Calder began to feel embarrassed he'd felt scared of the place, while Meg seemed to think of it as some kind of private paradise. "Even if the creepy guy _is_ harmless, Meg, there's still a murderer running around loose somewhere. Doesn't that bother you?"

She sighed. "I think I've become immune to anything having to do with death and dying." She bent to pick up a plastic container from the deep grass by her feet, then pointed to a row of prickly looking shrubs laden with berries. "And as to what I'm doing out here, I'm picking wild blackberries. This place is loaded with them. I was thinking of making some blackberry jam. Want to help me with the picking?"

Although Calder had an unshakable feeling their every move was being watched and he wanted nothing more than to get the heck out of the woods and head back to his mother's place, he said, "Sure! I used to pick blueberries at my grandmother's when I was a kid. These look easier. For one thing, they're a lot bigger than blueberries."

Meg smiled and handed the plastic container to him. "Here then, you hold this. I like to use both hands when I pick."

"Do you think that's why the guy who lives here in the woods looks so scrawny?" Calder asked as he purposely avoided a clump of plump, dark berries that had a huge tan-colored spider sitting on top of it. "Because he's living mostly on a diet of blackberries?"

Meg laughed. "You think of the weirdest things, Calder!"

"Well, he looks in desperate need of a good steak. No, make that a whole cow! Actually, I saw a partridge just a couple minutes ago. Maybe he should eat that."

"And I suppose next you're going to tell me he might come murder us at any minute because we're depleting one of his main sources of food?" Again, she laughed.

"Hey, you never can tell."

Calder allowed his gaze to linger on Meg. He thought she looked even more beautiful in the sunlight. It brought out the gold and copper highlights in her hair and the smoothness of her skin, which was shiny with a light film – a glow – of perspiration.

"By the way," Meg said, popping a couple berries into her mouth, "everything is all set for tonight. Those three people who are coming over for a group prediction gave me permission to allow you to observe."

"Good. I'm looking forward to really seeing you in action. Not that I'm complaining, but my mother's prediction was, well...kind of boring."

Meg tossed a handful of berries into the container. "Would you prefer it if I'd told her she was going to die while skydiving because she was going to land in a pit of poisonous snakes?"

He chuckled. "Well, you have to admit it would have been a heck of a lot more exciting."

"You make it sound as if I should be onstage giving a performance, complete with music and colored lighting!"

"And one of those scanty little costumes like the magicians' assistants wear," he teased.

She playfully elbowed his ribs. "Shut up and keep picking!"

* * * * *

Calder wrote another 3,500 words on his book that afternoon. By the time he stopped to take a break, it was five o'clock. He was supposed to be at Meg's at six.

His mother had spent the afternoon telling anyone and everyone she could think of about Meg's prediction. She'd visited neighbors, made phone calls and emailed people she hadn't heard from in months. He'd even seen her talking to the mailman and suspected she also was telling him about the prediction.

"Mom," Calder said to her after she finally hung up the phone for the first time in two hours, "you _do_ realize that the more you tell people about Meg, the more you're going to draw attention to her? If you keep it up, reporters will be camped out on her doorstep – and so will people who want predictions. She'll never be at peace, never be able to lead any sort of normal life. And I'll bet Pat has been talking to everyone about her, too, in reference to her 'spot-on' prediction about Joanne's drowning, even though Pat herself made us promise _we_ wouldn't mention anything about how Joanne died."

"Well...Pat might have mentioned it to a few people. But that's only because it was so _amazing_!"

"But, Mom," he attempted to reason with her, "can't you see what this could do to Meg...to her life? Do you really want to turn her into some kind of carnival sideshow attraction? Put yourself in _her_ place."

His mother studied his face for a moment, then folded her arms, narrowed her eyes and smirked at him. "You're falling for her, aren't you?"

He was visibly taken aback by her question. "Don't be silly. I barely know the woman."

"Calder York!" she said, waving her index finger at him, "I've known you for thirty-five years and I know how you act when you're getting hung up on a woman. Admit it, you're so hooked on Margaret Thorne, all she has to do is reel you in for the catch!"

"I just feel kind of sorry for her," he said. "Whether she turns out to have real powers or not, she's still made a life for herself that's difficult, at best. And I hate to say it, but people like you and Pat are just making it even more difficult for her."

His mother sat down in the recliner and raised the foot section, then stretched her legs straight out in front of her. "I can't believe you're still having doubts about her being a real psychic! I'm sorry, Calder, but not only am I convinced she's authentic, I believe a talent like hers should be shared with the world. I mean, I asked her for a prediction, and look what it's done for me! I feel eighteen years old again. Heck, I may even cancel my colonoscopy next month. After all, I know I won't be dying of colon cancer now."

Calder was unable to conceal his irritation. "You may not die from it, but you sure as hell can still get it! If you don't mind having half your colon cut out and going through radiation and chemotherapy, then by all means, go ahead and cancel your appointment!"

Her eyes grew wide and she gaped at him. "Well, aren't _you_ the bubble burster!"

"I'm just trying to be realistic, Mom. You seem to think you're suddenly indestructible. Well, I hate to break the news to you, but you still could have a stroke and become paralyzed, or even lose a limb in an accident! You just won't _die_ until 2032...if you insist upon believing what Meg told you. You could spend twenty years in a nursing home, not even aware of what day it is, before you pass away! Have you even stopped to consider such things?"

When he saw the stricken look on his mother's face, he immediately felt guilty for so blatantly destroying her "walking on air" mood. But, he told himself, she needed a wake-up call. She was so busy thinking about living to be a ripe old age, she wasn't even considering everything else that could happen in the meantime.

His mother adjusted the back of the recliner to its full reclining position and stretched out on her back, closing her eyes. "If you don't mind, I'm going to take a nap now," she said. Her voice was cold, flat.

In the matter of a few minutes, Calder thought, he had transformed her from an eighteen-year-old into an eighty-year-old.

"Look, Mom," he said, sighing, "I didn't mean to sound so harsh. I just want you to be aware that you're not Super Woman."

"It's fine," she said tightly. "You can go back to writing your book now."

"I'm going over to Meg's tonight. She's doing predictions for three people, and she invited me to observe."

His mother's eyes remained closed. "Well, then be sure if she tells them they're going to live nice long lives, to destroy their happiness by reminding them that they still could end up blind or hideously disfigured."

Calder groaned and shook his head.

"I'm going to go take a shower now and change," he said, even though he was pretty sure his mother already had tuned him out. "And then I'll be heading over to Meg's."

As he turned to walk toward his bedroom, his mother called out to him, "Why don't you make it a _real_ group prediction and ask her to do one for you, too?"

He knew his mother was trying to make him feel like a coward, but he still had no intention of asking Meg anything about himself.

* * * * *

Calder arrived at Meg's before her guests did. Meg looked different – but in a good way, he thought. It was the first time he'd seen her hair down long and not pulled back in a ponytail. Her eye makeup also was more dramatic, giving her eyes a smoky look. She was wearing white slacks, sandals and a rose-colored cropped top that exposed a trim, flat midriff.

He took a seat in the now-familiar rocker and ran a hand through his thick hair, which still was damp from his shower. He clipped a pen to his pad of paper and tucked it down the side of the chair's cushion. He had thought about recording the session, but he knew he'd have to ask the group for permission first, and he figured he already was pushing his luck just by being there.

"So what time are your guests arriving?" he asked Meg.

She sat in the corner of the sofa that was closest to him and glanced at her watch. "About a half-hour. I thought it would be better if you were already here with me when they arrived."

"You seem on edge," he said. He noticed she kept fidgeting with the fringe on the border of a green and burgundy striped throw-pillow on the sofa.

"I am. I don't know anything about these people. And I have no clue how they will die...that is, until I actually come face to face with them. Our only contact has been via the telephone. To be honest, Calder, no matter how many times I do this, it never gets any easier. Sometimes I think it actually gets more difficult."

"Well, if you wanted to, couldn't you just cancel the whole thing and not meet with them?"

She shook her head. "Once I'm asked, I am obligated to make the prediction. The only way for me to get out of it is if the people change their minds."

"That stinks."

She sighed. "It does. But my powers control me. I don't...can't...control them."

"I had words with my mother just before I left tonight," he said, "because she was contacting everyone she's known for the past forty years and raving about you and your abilities. I told her she was going to turn you into some kind of local attraction if she didn't stop."

"Too late for that," she said. "I'm already a local attraction. My reputation seems to precede me no matter where I go or where I try to hide. I mean, I don't even have a clue how these people who are coming over tonight even heard about me or got my phone number. They could be tabloid reporters, for all I know."

"You didn't ask anything about them when they called?"

"No. They told me they were a husband and wife, and the wife's sister, and I just told them to come over."

"And it doesn't concern you to know nothing about them?"

She shrugged. "I'm still going to tell them when they're going to die, no matter who they are. So I'm pretty sure they have more to be concerned about than I do."

"I'm even more convinced now that you're too darned trusting."

"You really shouldn't worry so much, Calder." She smiled. "You'll give yourself an ulcer."

A fleeting image of the fear he'd so plainly seen in her eyes when his mother had mentioned he should ask her for a prediction, ran through his mind.

"Does what you see sometimes frighten you?" he asked. "As I said earlier, I couldn't help noticing your reaction when my mother suggested that you make a prediction for me."

"Sometimes what I see does scare me," she admitted. "But most of the time I can mask my feelings...that is, unless the death involves someone I really care about."

Calder's eyes locked with hers but he said nothing.

She looked away from him and down at the pillow in her hand. She noticed she had fidgeted with the fringe so much, it was tangled into several knots. She wished Calder would stop mentioning his death. Every time he did, she was forced to relive the vision of it. She wanted to blot it out and not have to think about it again...not ever.

She then said softly, "The older I get, the more I begin to understand why both my mother and grandmother wanted to take their own lives."

Her words rendered him momentarily speechless. "Have you...have you ever considered doing the same thing?" he finally asked.

She looked up at him and he clearly saw the pain in her eyes. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. Ironically, the only way I can ever stop seeing other people's deaths is to cause my own. But what would be the point of trying to kill myself? I mean, if it's not my time to die, then no matter what I did to myself, I'd still end up alive...and maybe even worse off for the attempt."

As Calder sat studying the alluring and intriguing woman facing him, his confusion was tearing him in two directions. He'd spent most of his adult life exposing phony psychics and even mocking people who were gullible enough to believe in them. Yet, here before him was a woman who seemed so genuine, he was finding himself teetering on the verge of becoming one of those believers, even though his common sense kept telling him he was crazy...and so was she. Still, Joanne's drowning had been so off-the-wall, there was no way he could just rationalize it away as simply some tragic coincidence.

A knock at the door made him hope he'd be able to figure out the answers after he witnessed more of Meg's predictive powers in action.

The three people who entered the living room stood stiffly, their eyes darting back and forth as they scanned their surroundings. Meg invited them to be seated on the sofa, which they did in unison. All three then folded their hands in their laps.

Meg grabbed one of the chairs from the kitchen and placed it a few feet in front of the sofa, then sat facing her guests.

"Well," she said, smiling slightly, "I'm Margaret Thorne, and this is Calder York, a friend of mine who is writing a book about psychic phenomena."

Three heads turned to look at him, then turned back to Meg.

"I'm Lillian Hanright," one of the women said. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties, plump, with curly salt-and-pepper hair. "And this is my husband, Patrick."

Calder sensed that the balding man, his cheeks sunken and his eyes dull and rimmed with dark circles, was ill.

"And I'm Lillian's older sister, Marie Turcotte," the other woman said. She was slim, with a thin nose, thin lips, and closely cropped gray hair.

"Pleased to meet you," Meg said. "Before we begin, may I ask how you heard about me?"

"Joe, the park manager here," Lillian said. "He spoke very highly of you and your special...talent."

Well, Meg thought, that solved the mystery of how they'd obtained her address and phone number. The park manager had all of her personal information on file. She thought she probably should pay Joe a visit and not so subtly remind him that the tenants' private files in his office were called _private_ for a reason and weren't meant to be shared with everyone else in town.

"So," Meg said, taking a deep breath and looking from one person to the other. "Before we begin, I must again ask all three of you if you agree to allow not only each other, but Calder here, to witness what I am about to say."

Her three guests all responded with nods.

"Fine, then," Meg said. "Who wants to go first?"

"We drew straws," Marie said. "Patrick will go first."

"All right," Meg said. "But you have to ask me yourself, Patrick, before I can make a prediction."

Patrick's already wan complexion paled even more and he cleared his throat several times. His wife reached over and clasped his hand.

"I want to know when I'm going to die," he said, looking at Meg.

"You're certain?" she asked. "You have the opportunity to change your mind before I say anything."

"I'm sure," he said.

She nodded and then said, her voice clear and steady. "February 12th, 2000, at 3:46 in the morning from...cancer." She paused to gauge his reaction. His expression did not change. She then continued, her tone apologetic, "I'm sorry, but I can't elaborate on what type of cancer it will be or if you will be at home or in a hospital at the time. My visions aren't that detailed."

Patrick slowly nodded. "I already know the type of cancer. It's lung cancer... advanced. My doctor gave me four to six months to live when he diagnosed me last week. I was hoping you would tell me he was wrong."

Tears filled his wife's eyes. "We were praying for a miracle, despite the doctor's grim prognosis."

Meg stood and reached for the box of tissues on the end table, then handed it to Lillian. "I'm really sorry," she said as she sat back down.

"Well, I can't say I wasn't prepared for that prediction," Patrick said, sighing. "At least I'll have time to get everything in order."

"I'll go next," Lillian said. She dabbed at her eyes with one of the tissues, then sat up straight on the edge of the sofa, pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin. "I want to know when I am going to die...and yes, I'm sure."

Without any hesitation, Meg said, "November 30th, 2019 at 1:32 in the afternoon, from a heart problem."

"Just like my mother." Lillian sighed and shook her head. "She died when she was in her mid-seventies...from cardiac arrest."

Calder, who sat silently witnessing all that was occurring, was becoming restless. These predictions, he thought, couldn't help him – not before his manuscript was due. He'd have to wait six months to see if she'd been correct about Patrick, and twenty years for Lillian. He knew he was being selfish, even heartless, but he'd secretly been hoping one of them would die sooner...a lot sooner. And how, he wondered, did he even know if these people were for real? For all he knew, they could be friends or relatives Meg had convinced to come over and follow some script she'd prepared to impress him. He needed something he really could sink his teeth into...not this high-school play of a performance.

"I guess that leaves me," Marie said. She opened her mouth, as if she were about to ask Meg for her prediction, but then just as rapidly, clamped it shut.

"Having second thoughts?" Meg asked her.

"Yes, unfortunately," she said. "I haven't slept in two nights, debating about this. One moment I'm certain I want to know, and the next, I think I'm better off remaining clueless, like the other 99.9 percent of the population."

"Well, there is no pressure," Meg said. "If you change your mind and don't want a prediction, then it's fine. It's completely up to you."

Marie shook her head, released a long sigh and with severely shaking fingers, rubbed the side of her neck as she contemplated what to do.

"I-I don't know," she said. "I just don't know."

"Take your time," Meg said. "Can I get any of you something to drink? Iced tea? Cola?"

All three politely refused. Calder thought the iced tea sounded pretty tempting, but decided not to bother Meg to get a glass for him. It seemed as if every time he was near her, his throat became tight and parched.

"Okay," Marie suddenly blurted out. "I've made my decision. I _do_ want to hear your prediction about my death. Margaret, please, tell me when I'm going to die."

Meg's green eyes studied her face. "You're certain?"

"Yes. But please be quick about it."

"You will die on..." Meg hesitated, and Calder could tell she was struggling to say her next words, "August 20th, 1999 at 11:55 in the evening...in a motor-vehicle accident. I rarely see what type of vehicle it will be, but strangely, I'm clearly seeing a vision of you...on a motorcycle."

Marie's eyes seemed to grow as wide as saucers. "August 20th is the day after tomorrow!" She paused to digest what she'd just heard before adding, "Forgive me for doubting you, but I'm sixty-six years old and am in bed and sound asleep by ten o'clock every night. And you're really _serious_ about me being on a motorcycle? I wouldn't go ten feet near one of those things – and certainly not at nearly midnight! That's just ridiculous! I don't even know anyone who owns one!"

"I never can see all of the details in my predictions," Meg said. "So I can tell you only the cause of your death, not where or exactly how it will happen. But I assure you that whatever the prediction is, and no matter how absurd it sounds, it _will_ happen. There is no preventing it."

Marie shook her head. "I'm sorry, Miss Thorne, but this time I'm _positive_ you're going to be wrong."

Meg responded, her voice cool and composed, "I'm _never_ wrong."

Calder's interest once again was piqued. He would have to wait only two days for further proof for his book. If Marie Turcotte did die, especially in the strange manner in which Meg just had predicted, he felt certain he'd then be convinced Meg really did have mind-boggling special powers. And if Marie lived, well, he'd be one step closer to adding Meg to his long list of psychic failures. Either way, he figured the worst that could happen was he would have something interesting to add to his book.

"Do you live near here?" Calder asked Marie.

"About three miles away," she said, "on River Road."

_Good_ , he thought. She lived close enough so that if she somehow _did_ die in a horrific motorcycle crash, not only would it immediately be big news spreading throughout town, it probably would be the top story on the local morning news. Not that he was wishing the poor woman would die...but if, as Meg had told him, people's deaths indeed were pre-determined on the very day they were born, then Marie Turcotte still would die on her assigned date anyway, whether _he_ wanted her to or not.

"Well, we thank you very much for the information," Lillian said, rising. She then bent and took her husband by the arm, helping him to his feet. "How much do we owe you?"

"I don't accept payment of any kind," Meg answered. "My powers are considered to be a gift, so I offer them as exactly that. Although, I'm certain most would agree it's not a gift they are pleased to receive."

"Well, I'm sorry," Marie said, also rising to her feet, "but your 'gift' hasn't convinced me of anything. I came here tonight only because Joe built you up to be some kind of a walking miracle-woman. My biggest fear was I'd leave here tonight feeling scared and probably wishing I hadn't asked for a prediction. But I don't feel that way at all. In fact, no offense, but your prediction for me is so ridiculous, all I feel like doing is laughing!"

"I'm really sorry you have such little faith in me, Marie," Meg said.

Calder was surprised she didn't repeat her "I'm never wrong" speech. He guessed Meg was figuring that Marie soon enough would find out for herself whether or not the prediction was accurate. Although, he thought, suppressing a chuckle, if Meg did prove to be right, Marie wouldn't be able to say, "Gee, Meg, I never should have doubted you!" unless she returned from the grave.

Meg escorted her three guests to the door, then returned to the living room and flopped down on the sofa.

"Well, that was exhausting," she said.

"I thought it was intriguing," Calder said, scribbling a few more notes on his pad before he shoved the pen back onto the cover flap and put it aside. "To be honest, though, I'm also having some trouble swallowing your prediction about a senior citizen being on a motorcycle at nearly midnight."

She smiled at him. "Just like you didn't believe that a woman could drown in her home at three in the morning...in a fire?"

"Touché!" he said, laughing and holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I guess I'll just have to wait and see what happens."

"I'm sure I'll receive a call from Marie's sister, Lillian, when it does happen. And then I'll know all of the details. I'm really curious about how my prediction actually will manifest itself. I mean, even I have to admit it sounds absurd...and I'm the one who made it!"

"Well, if it does happen and you receive a call, be sure to call me right away and let me know. I don't care what time it is."

"There you go, saying 'if' again! You still don't believe in me, do you, Calder?"

He looked directly into her eyes and said with complete honesty, "No, not yet – not completely. But I'm trying to keep an open mind about it, Meg. I really am."
CHAPTER FIVE

After Calder came home from Meg's, he spent the rest of the night writing on his book. It wasn't until the morning sun shining through the blinds cast a striped pattern on his laptop screen that he realized he probably should get some sleep. He awoke at noon and on an impulse, grabbed the phone and called Meg.

"I want to take the day off from working today and do something fun," he said to her. "Want to take a ride to the beach? We can walk in the sand, eat cotton candy, go for a swim, play skeeball, grab a seafood dinner – whatever you want."

His invitation rendered Meg temporarily speechless. Was Calder York _really_ asking her out on a date? Most men feared her, and the few who didn't and were brave enough to ask her out, usually received a negative response from her anyway. She never had set down roots in one place long enough to develop any sort of a lasting romantic relationship. And she rarely allowed herself to think about a future that included love, marriage and children. Not that she ever wanted children anyway...not unless she could be guaranteed to have a boy. A girl would inherit her powers, and she knew she'd never be able to live with the guilt of dooming her own child to the same lifetime of pain and sadness she'd been forced to live.

"Meg? Are you still there?" Calder's voice snapped her back to the present.

"Y-yes," she said. Her common sense was telling her to turn him down and not become any more involved with him than she already was. But her heart was telling her that spending the day with a good-looking man who'd probably do justice to a pair of swim trunks, was just what she needed.

"I definitely could use a day of fun, as you call it – especially after all of the stress of the last two days," she heard herself saying.

"Great! I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes."

The afternoon was hot and sunny as Calder and Meg, in his blue 1965 Ford Mustang, headed toward Hampton Beach. Although New Hampshire's coastline was short, not even fifteen miles long, Calder thought what it did have was nearly perfect – clean beaches, white sand, dozens of unique shops, arcades and plenty of food stands and restaurants. And best of all, it was only forty-five minutes from his mother's place.

"I really like your car," Meg said as they turned onto Route 101, heading east. "Must have cost you a small fortune."

"I got a good deal on it," he said. "I used my first big royalty check to treat myself – a reward for all of my hard work, you might say. I don't use it much back in New York City, though. I use public transportation whenever I have to see my agent or publisher, because it's actually less of a hassle than trying to find a place to park. And most of the time, I work from my apartment, so I don't need a car. So I guess you could say it's a luxury item...a guilty pleasure."

He pulled out to pass a slow-moving pickup truck, then asked, "So where did you live before you moved here?"

"Oregon."

"That was a big move. What made you come here to New Hampshire?"

"I picked it because it was about as far away from Oregon as I could get without leaving the country."

"You sound like a criminal on the run," he joked.

"No, just on the run. If I stay in one place too long, I become an object of interest. Then my life no longer is my own."

He glanced at her, then back at the road. "Does that mean you'll be moving again soon?"

"Yes, unfortunately. Unless I can find an old ghost town or some deserted island where I can hide out for the rest of my life, it's a pattern I'll probably keep following until the day I die. Every time I try to rent a place to live, I have to show valid identification...and then there's usually the inevitable background check. After that, I'm pretty much doomed."

"Have you ever lived with someone else...a roommate?" he asked, hoping he wasn't being too personal. He particularly wanted to know if she'd ever lived with a guy. "I mean, you wouldn't have to worry about background checks if you moved in with someone you know who already has a place."

"No, I've never lived with anyone, not since my mother died. I've always believed I'm better off alone – less explaining to do that way, especially when I have my visions. I'd probably scare off a roommate anyway."

"But haven't you ever been in love and wanted to be with that person twenty-four hours a day?" he asked.

"Just once. But he couldn't handle my 'gift,' so the relationship didn't last very long. When he ended it, he called me a freak. The worst part was I honestly couldn't disagree with him."

Before Calder could comment, she asked, "What about you? Have you ever been in love? Ever lived with someone?"

"Yes and yes," he said. "For a while, I really believed Eden was my soul mate. We were together for two years. But she and I had different opinions about certain things. And when she wasn't able to convince me to see and do things _her_ way and we were unable to compromise, that's when we realized it wasn't going to work."

"I'm sorry." She turned to study his profile. "I think what makes people interesting is their individuality. We're not pack animals, following a leader." She smiled. "And in my case, you might say I'm a lot more 'individual' than most!"

"That's what makes you so special," Calder said, and he meant it. The more he and Meg talked, getting to know each other on a more personal level, the more comfortable he was beginning to feel with her.

"You can tell me if I'm being too nosy," he said, "but how do you support yourself? I mean, you haven't mentioned a job, and you don't charge for your predictions."

"My father was a brilliant man who invested his money wisely. When he died, my mother inherited it all – more than she'd ever imagined. Then when she passed away three years ago, I inherited the house and all of her assets. I also was listed as the beneficiary on her life-insurance policy. I have enough money left to live out the rest of my life comfortably, providing I don't get careless with it or decide to buy a castle or a fleet of Rolls Royces!"

"Or rent an apartment in New York City. For what I pay for rent there, I could buy a private estate here, with my own lake!"

Meg laughed. "And a yacht to go on it?"

Calder glanced at the speedometer and noticed he was doing about fifteen miles over the speed limit, so he slowed down. The police in the area, even way back when he was in college, were notorious for catching speeders, and the last thing he wanted was to be pulled over and given a ticket on his first date with Meg.

"You said you inherited everything from your mother," he said to her. "Does that mean you're an only child, like I am?"

"I have an older brother, Malcolm. He left home the day he turned eighteen. He said he couldn't put up with the craziness any more, meaning, of course, my mom's powers and mine. We never heard from him again. I do think about him often, though, and wonder how he's doing. For all I know, I even could be an aunt by now, if he has any kids."

"You never know, your paths might cross again someday."

"I hope so...then maybe I wouldn't feel quite so alone in the world."

* * * * *

The beach was crowded, but not to the point where people were elbow to elbow on their blankets. Calder was fortunate to find a parking spot only a few yards from the most popular area of the public beach, but only because a car was pulling out just as he approached. Usually, finding a parking space at the beach involved driving around for an hour until someone finally decided to leave. And if no one did, it wasn't uncommon to end up having to settle for a spot so far away, the trek to the water practically required hiking boots and a backpack.

Calder parked the car and turned off the engine.

"I think we should walk around and check out the shops first," he said to Meg. "We can leave our beach stuff in here for now. What do you think?"

"Sounds fine to me," she said, smiling at him.

They walked hand in hand along the boulevard, which ran parallel to the beach, and browsed in several of the shops. There were the usual mass-produced souvenirs in most of them – decorated seashells, petrified starfish, T-shirts with beach scenes on them, and mugs imprinted with the name and location of the beach. One shop, however, featured handcrafted items such as jewelry, scarves, pottery, paintings and framed photographs. The jewelry was displayed in and on top of glass cases, while the other items were arranged on artistically designed driftwood shelves.

Meg paused to pick up a necklace that was displayed on a black velvet easel on the counter. It was a silver chain with a delicate star-shaped pendant. In the center of the star was a bright green stone.

"Isn't this beautiful?" she asked Calder, holding it up to her neck and looking at her reflection in the stand-up mirror on the counter.

"You really like green, don't you?" he answered, recalling the bright green walls in her living room and her equally bright VW Beetle.

"It's my favorite color. I guess it's because of my eyes. Everyone's always commenting about them."

"That's because they're really stunning," he said. "The first day I met you, I honestly thought your eyes were hypnotic."

"I don't believe I've ever hypnotized anyone with them." She smiled. "At least not intentionally."

"Well, if you like green, you'd love my room at my mother's. It has so much green in it, it's like sleeping in a rain forest."

She turned and arched an eyebrow at him. "Oh? Are you inviting me to spend some time in your room?"

He laughed. "That all depends on whether you'd be able to tolerate a dog with her nose up your dress, and my mother, with her nose in the door!"

She shook her head and giggled. She turned back toward the mirror and held the necklace up to her neck once again. "I think I'm going to buy this. It will be a nice memory of today."

"Let me buy it for you," Calder said, not even knowing how much it cost.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly..."

"I insist." He took the necklace from her hand. "And I don't want to hear any protesting. I told you I wanted you to have fun today, and I'm going to make it my mission to see that you do. You deserve it."

Meg smiled and didn't argue with him. She hadn't felt so carefree in a long time. The sights, sounds and smells of the beach – the salty ocean air, fried dough and caramel corn, the cry of the seagulls and the shouts and laughter of the people – blotted out all thoughts of the past and future. For a change, she was enjoying living only in the moment...a moment she was beginning to wish would last forever.

Calder paid the $59 for the necklace and then put it around Meg's neck. His big fingers fumbled with the dainty clasp on the back, but he finally managed to hook it.

Meg reached up to touch the pendant and then looked at him. "Thank you, Calder. I'll never take it off."

He took her hand. "Ready for some ice cream? I hear some Rocky Road calling my name."

"And some pistachio calling mine!"

They headed over to a nearby ice-cream stand and ordered two cones. The ocean breeze made the hot summer air seem cooler. Calder never had liked swimming in the ocean here at Hampton, however, because the water always felt as if it had been siphoned from glaciers. He remembered running into the water when he was a kid and running back out just as fast, screaming because the water was so cold it actually hurt. Still, he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to see Meg in her swimsuit. He was willing to jump into water with icebergs sticking out of it if it meant she'd join him for a swim.

"Want to go back to the car and get our blankets and towels and go finish our ice cream on the beach?" he asked her.

"Sure. I think I'm about ready for a swim, too."

"Have you ever taken a dip in this particular part of the ocean before?"

"No, why? Are there sharks?"

"Could be," he said, pausing to chew one of the big almonds in his ice cream. "But the water temperature will kill you faster. It's enough to cause goose bumps the size of golf balls."

She laughed. "I think you're exaggerating."

"Tell me that when you turn blue and your teeth start to chatter like castanets!"

They walked slowly, stopping to look at some posters displayed in the window of one of the shops. They finished their ice cream just as they reached the car.

"Hope you don't mind," Calder said, "But I'm going to strip off my pants right here. I wore my trunks underneath."

"Should I hum something sexy to give you inspiration?"

He smiled and shook his head as he removed his drawstring-waist pants.

"To be honest," Meg said as she watched him, "I've been waiting to see what kind of body you've been hiding under all of those jeans and T-shirts you wear."

He was tempted to tell her he'd been thinking about her body, too. In fact, he was hoping that at the very least, she was wearing a string bikini underneath her sundress.

He tossed his pants into the trunk. His wallet was in the pocket, so he figured the trunk was a safe place for it. No sense taking money and credit cards out onto the beach where they'd be easy targets for thieves.

"Meg, let me lock your purse in the trunk with my wallet," he said. "If we go for a swim, there will be no one to watch it, and there are plenty of scumbags who come to the beach for the sole purpose of waiting for someone to leave a purse or wallet on their blanket."

"Scumbags?" She smiled and handed her purse to him. "Haven't heard that word in a while!"

He chuckled. "That's because you don't live in a big city where they breed!" He set her purse on top of his pants and then slammed the trunk shut and locked it.

Calder grabbed their blanket, towels and a tube of sunscreen out of the back seat, and they headed out onto the beach. He was barefoot and the sand was so hot on the soles of his feet, he had to suppress the urge to walk like a flamingo, lifting his legs high with every step.

They found a spot in an area that wasn't too crowded and spread out their blanket. Meg kicked off her sandals, then removed her sundress, pulling it off over her head. She folded it and set it down on a corner of the blanket.

Calder openly eyed her body and the lime-green bikini that covered very little of it. He wasn't surprised her bikini was _green_...nor was he surprised that her body was just as he had imagined it would be – slim waist, flat stomach, full breasts and long legs that tapered into trim ankles.

"Rub some sunscreen on my back?" she asked, handing him the tube and kneeling with her back to him on the blanket.

Calder fumbled with the cap on the tube. He couldn't remember feeling so awkward since back in his high school days, when he'd tried to unhook Rachael Morgan's bra.

Meg's skin felt hot and smooth beneath his fingertips as he spread the sunscreen over her shoulders and down her back to just above her buttocks.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. Calder's hands felt strong, yet surprisingly gentle as they massaged her. Too soon, in her opinion, he stopped.

"Thank you," she said. She took the tube from him. "Now, it's my turn. Let me do your back."

He smiled and removed his T-shirt. Meg took a moment to study his muscular chest and six-pack abs before she moved behind him and started to apply the sunscreen.

"You must work out," she said.

"I haven't since I've been here. But the building where I live back in New York has a private gym, so I use it as often as I can. I've found that when I have writer's block, running on a treadmill for forty-five minutes or lifting weights sometimes jump starts my brain. But before I came to New Hampshire, I must have run two hundred miles on the treadmill and I still had writer's block. If it hadn't been for you, I'd probably still be running on it, trying to think of something to write about! You may not realize it, Meg, but you're going to save my writing career."

"Sounds like a big responsibility," she said. "I hope you won't end up regretting relying on me."

"I'm already positive I won't. I've written more since I met you than I have all year."

Meg finished rubbing his back and shoulders and moved to sit next to him, her legs stretched out in front of her. She smoothed the sunscreen over her legs, arms, face, chest and stomach, then handed the tube to Calder so he could use it on himself. She stared out at the water and took a deep breath.

"Don't you just love the smell of the ocean?" she asked.

He had been so distracted watching Meg's hands as she'd rubbed them all over her body while applying the sunscreen, he grabbed the tube with such force, a big blob of sunscreen shot out onto his thigh.

"Yeah, the ocean smells okay," he said, frantically rubbing his leg. There was so much sunscreen on it, he was pretty sure it wouldn't burn even if he were stranded in the middle of the Sahara for a week. "But if you go over by the salt flats, they really stink. Kind of like a cross between a bad fart and a rotten egg!"

She laughed and shook her head. "What I enjoy about being with you, Calder, is you make me laugh. It's something I'd nearly forgotten how to do."

"I'm glad," he said. He clasped her hand and squeezed it. "You have a beautiful smile. And I'm really hoping to see it often. Very often."

She turned to look directly at him and her eyes locked with his. At that moment, Calder felt it was the perfect time to lean over and kiss her. Before he could talk himself out of it, he lowered his head toward hers. He was so close to her lips, he could feel her breath, when she suddenly gasped and pulled away.

"I-I'm so sorry," he said, sitting upright. "I didn't mean to..."

But Meg wasn't looking at him. From what he could tell, she wasn't listening to him, either.

She was staring at something over his shoulder. Her eyes were wide and unblinking. She began to chew at her bottom lip.

Calder followed her gaze and saw a little blond boy who looked no more than three, sitting in the sand and digging with a red plastic shovel. His parents or guardians, a young couple, were seated on a blanket about two feet away from him.

"Meg?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"

She continued to stare at the boy.

Calder again turned to look at the object of her attention, hoping he'd see what was so intriguing about him. From what he could tell, the kid seemed fine. Cute, smiling and content with his digging. Nothing special, he thought.

Suddenly, the realization struck him. _She's staring at the boy because he's going to die! She's seeing it happening! I'll bet he's going to drown right here at the beach!_

"Meg!" he said, grasping her by the shoulders. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Is that little boy you're looking at going to...die?"

She finally blinked and looked up at him. "You _know_ I can't answer that, Calder."

Calder's mind raced as he tried to think of some way to get around the rules of her powers so she could confirm what he was thinking.

He took a deep breath. "Okay. I'm not going to ask you anything about the boy, because I know your 'powers that be' won't allow you to answer me. But I'm going to ask you a question about Joanne's death, which you _are_ allowed to discuss. If the answer is what I'm thinking, and the boy is going to die the same way Joanne did, then answer the question. If he's not, then remain silent."

She looked puzzled, and understandably so, Calder thought, but he proceeded without any further explanation. He looked directly at her, tightened his grasp on her shoulders and said, clearly and slowly, "How did Joanne Upton die?"

Meg's eyebrows creased together. Why, she wondered, was he asking her a question he already knew the answer to? It took her only a few seconds to figure it out. He wanted to know if the boy was going to drown. He wanted her to say the word.

"Joanne _drowned_ ," she whispered.

"Just as I thought," Calder said, shaking his head. "You're seeing that little boy drowning! I _have_ to go over there and warn his parents!" He released his grasp on her and rose to his feet.

Meg stood and clasped his arm. "No! It won't do any good! You _know_ it won't!"

"I have to _try_ , Meg. I can't just sit here and watch! I could never look at myself in the mirror again if I didn't try to prevent it from happening."

"Please, Calder, don't get involved in this...don't involve _me_ in this! There is nothing you can do about it! _Nothing!"_

"I promise I won't mention you or your vision," he said. "I'll tell them _I'm_ the one who had it. I don't care if they think I'm some weirdo who forgot to take his medication, just as long as I get the message across to them. Even if they don't believe me, the thought still will be planted in their heads. It's the least I can do."

"You'll just upset them...needlessly. Please, I'm begging you...stay here." Her hand tightened on his arm.

He broke away from her grasp. "I'm really sorry, Meg, but I _have_ to do this."

Meg felt the tears stinging her eyes as she stood and watched him walk over to the young couple's blanket. Silently, she cursed God for giving her a power she didn't want – a power that ruined any chance of her having even one day of fun. She knew her carefree day with Calder was ruined. There would be no more laughing, no more teasing, no more attempts to kiss her. Calder was going to be crushed when he couldn't save the boy. She knew their ride home would be vastly different from their ride to the beach, because this one would be filled with sadness, regret and frustration. She sat down and hugged her knees, resting her head on top of them. She didn't want to see anything – didn't want to experience any more visions. She wanted to just blot out everything.

Calder's stomach began to knot as he approached the yellow plaid blanket on which the boy's parents sat watching their son playing in the sand. For a moment, he feared his nerves might cause him to lose the ice cream he'd just eaten. He had no idea what he was going to say to the couple or how he would convince them to take him seriously. That was a common mistake of his, he thought. Too often he impulsively did things without taking the time to think them through first, and then afterwards he'd kick himself when he considered all of the "should haves" and "could haves."

"I-I'm really sorry to interrupt," Calder said, now standing in front of the young couple, "but I'm...psychic...and sometimes I have these visions that pop up out of nowhere. I felt I _had_ to let you know that I've just had a disturbing vision about your son."

The man and woman looked up at him, their expressions blank.

"I saw the boy...drowning," he said, nodding in the direction of the child. "I know you're probably thinking I'm crazy, but please, for the sake of your son, you _have_ to believe me. I swear I'm completely serious."

The man frowned at him and slowly stood. He was about three inches shorter than Calder, fair-haired and strongly built. "So, you're completely serious, are you?" he asked.

"More than I've ever been," Calder said.

"Tell me," the man said, his chin rising, "do I look like some kind of an idiot to you?"

"No, not at all," Calder said. He noticed the guy's right hand clenching into a fist.

"Good!" the man said. "Because only an idiot would be dumb enough to believe your so-called _vision!_ Anyone with half a brain knows there's no such thing as real psychics! It's all just a bunch of phony bullshit! What're you going to tell me next? That the Tooth Fairy is your sister?"

Calder sighed. "I don't blame you one bit for thinking that way. But I swear on my father's grave this isn't fake. Please, whether you believe me or not, just do me a favor – do your son a favor – and keep the boy as far away from the water as possible!"

"No, you do _me_ a favor and get the hell away from us!" the young man snapped. "Can't you see you're upsetting my wife? Is that how you get your kicks? By roaming around the beach and trying to scare people? You're really a sick bastard, you know that?"

Calder opened his mouth to respond, but the boy's mother stood and cut him off.

"Thank you for warning us," she said, her tone patronizing. "I do appreciate it. And you can be sure we won't let Brandon out of our sight for a single second."

"Thank you. That makes me feel better," Calder said, his relief evident. "I couldn't have lived with myself if I hadn't come over here to at least try to warn you about my...vision."

Not wanting to cause any more stress or make the husband any angrier, Calder turned and walked back toward Meg. His legs felt as if they were made of rubber and his palms were so sweaty, they practically were dripping, but he was proud of himself for accomplishing what he'd set out to do. He had warned them. And maybe, through some miracle, they somehow would be able to save their child. Calder's dad always used to say that all rules were made to be broken. So perhaps Meg's rule about no death being preventable could be broken, too.

And, he thought, listening to the still-remaining shreds of doubt in his mind, there was the possibility Meg was wrong and the boy really was in no danger at all.

"I'm sorry," he said to Meg as he plunked down next to her on the blanket. "I didn't mean to rush off like that and leave you sitting here alone. But I had to warn them. I lied and told them I was psychic. I know the father didn't believe me – in fact, he told me I was full of bull – but I think I at least got through to his wife. And I _do_ feel better now for at least trying."

Meg rested her hand on his arm. "I do understand why you felt the need to try," she said. "I guess you wouldn't be human if you hadn't."

But you only wasted your time! No one can prevent it!

Calder glanced over at the boy. He still was digging in the sand. His parents were sharing a good laugh about something. Calder suspected, his hopes sinking, it probably was his prediction.

"You look shaky," Meg said to him. "Do you want me to get you a bottle of water or something?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Do you want to leave and head home?" She prayed he would say yes.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to just sit here and unwind for a while," he said.

Meg looked away from him and out at the water. _Yes, I DO mind! The boy is going to drown in exactly five minutes, and you're going to see it happen if we don't leave right now. I don't want you to have to go through that! I know you won't be able to handle it!_

She couldn't express any of her thoughts to him, however – she couldn't tell him a thing about the drowning or when it was going to occur. She was forced to remain silent, dreading what she knew was about to happen.

"Look!" Calder said to Meg. "The father is picking up the boy and putting him on his shoulders!"

"Yes, I see that." Her voice was calm.

Calder's eyes were riveted on the man as he walked down to the water and waded into it up to his waist. His son still was above the water, perched on his shoulders.

"What the hell is he doing?" Calder snapped. "He shouldn't have his kid anywhere _near_ the water! I told him that!"

"I guess we can assume he and his wife didn't believe your warning," Meg said.

He shook his head. "How could they possibly think I was joking? Couldn't they tell by my expression – the look of panic on my face – that I was serious?"

The memory of Joanne Upton making fun of her prediction popped into Meg's mind. "Welcome to _my_ world."

Calder saw it then – a huge wave approaching a few hundred feet behind the group of swimmers and waders. It seemed to grow in height and strength as it rapidly moved toward the shoreline. He stood, his eyes fixed on the approaching monster.

Before Calder could move even one step toward the water, the wave came crashing down. He saw it knock over the father, who disappeared beneath the churning water. When the man stood up again, the little boy wasn't on his shoulders.

Without a word to Meg, Calder raced down to the water and dove in. The saltiness of it stung his eyes as he frantically searched the bottom. The current was so strong, he had to struggle against it as it relentlessly tugged at him, pulling him out into deeper water. He came up for air and looked all around him. There already was a lifeguard in the water, also searching, but there was no sign of the boy anywhere. Calder ducked back under, resuming his desperate search. The bottom was cloudy, hampering his vision, so he felt around with both hands, praying he would touch flesh instead of rocks and sand.

Please, let me find him! Don't let an innocent child die! Don't let Meg be right this time!

Calder continued diving and resurfacing for another ten minutes, until his lungs and head began to ache. Defeated, he finally waded out of the water and sat down on the sand. Two more lifeguards, carrying rescue cans, ran past him and into the water. The father, who looked completely exhausted from his own futile search, stood at the water's edge and shouted at them, "Hurry! You _have_ to find him!"

Behind him, Calder also could hear a woman screaming. It was a high-pitched wail that pierced him to the very core. Without turning to look, he knew it was the boy's mother. He also knew, without a doubt, the boy was dead. A child that size couldn't possibly have fought that current. By now, Calder thought, his tiny body probably was halfway out to sea.

He felt hot tears streaming down his cheeks. He wasn't certain if they were the effects of the salt water or if they were tears of loss, of failure. He wiped his face with the back of his sand-covered hand. The grittiness felt rough against his skin.

"I should have listened to you!" a voice next to him cried.

Calder looked up into the face of the boy's father. The young man's anguish clearly was evident in his eyes, his expression.

"I should have listened to you!" the man repeated. "I _should_ have!"

Calder turned away from him. He could think of nothing to say to the man, no words to comfort him. Meg was right, he concluded. Even if the boy's father _had_ listened to him and left the beach with the kid sealed inside a protective plastic bubble, the drowning still somehow would have happened. He truly believed that now.

Calder stood and began to walk off. He paused and turned to look one last time at the water, where the search continued. Police arrived, along with divers in scuba gear.

None of it would help, he thought. _None of it._

The warmth of terrycloth suddenly surrounded his shoulders.

"Thought you might need your towel," he heard Meg's voice say from behind him. "Especially if that water is as cold as you told me it was."

Funny, Calder thought. He hadn't even noticed the water temperature. He'd been too hell-bent on finding the boy.

Meg adjusted the towel around his shoulders and then moved to stand in front of him. "I really think we should leave now," she said. Her voice was soft, soothing.

Calder nodded. He knew there was no reason to stick around and wait for the inevitable. The last thing he wanted to see was a child's body being pulled out of the water – that is, if they ever recovered it.

With his head lowered, Calder walked back up to their blanket. He removed the towel from his shoulders and dried his hair with it. He then tossed the towel onto the blanket and slipped into his T-shirt. Meg knelt and rolled up the blanket and both towels.

"Ready?" he asked her in a monotone as she rose to her feet.

"Calder," she said, taking his hand in hers and looking up into his eyes. "I'm _so_ sorry about all of this. Our day was going so well, so perfectly...and I feel as if I ruined it all. I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't. But I can't help the way I am. This is the reason why most people don't want to be around me."

He looked past her and out at the water. "I'm really sorry, Meg," he said, sighing, "...but I don't think I want to be around you any more, either."
CHAPTER SIX

"Are you going to stay in bed all day?" Calder's mother's voice came from the other side of his bedroom door. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mom," he called back. "Just tired."

"Well...okay. I'll leave you to rest, then. Just wanted to let you know I'm heading over to K-Mart, so I'll be gone for a while."

"Fine, Mom. Drive carefully."

But nothing was fine, Calder thought. He hadn't slept a wink all night. He'd relived every moment of his day at the beach with Meg so many times, he now was suffering from a pounding, stress-induced headache.

The ride home from the beach had been long and silent. He'd felt Meg's eyes on him several times, but he'd kept his gaze fixed on the road. Everything had changed for him when the little boy disappeared in the water. Up until that point, he'd considered Meg to be someone fascinating and mysterious, even fun. But now, just the idea of seeing her again filled him with dread because it was impossible for him to associate her with anything other than death and misery. And although he was ashamed to admit it, he was beginning to understand why her ex-boyfriend had called her a freak.

He knew he probably was grasping at straws in an effort to make Meg seem more...normal, but during his night of insomnia, he had concluded there still existed the remote possibility the tragedy had been nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence. The thought had crossed his mind that if he hadn't rushed over to tell the boy's parents about his "vision," the father might not have taken the boy into the water. Calder suspected the man had done it solely out of spite, to prove him wrong. Also, he recalled that Meg never actually had _told_ him the boy was going to drown, because it was against the rules – so he'd put the words into her mouth himself. Had it all, he wondered, been just some tragic fluke that had nothing at all to do with Meg?

"I'm so screwed up!" he said out loud and groaned. He rolled onto his back in bed and flung his right arm across his eyes.

His thoughts once again turned to Meg, and he immediately felt a pang of guilt for the way he had treated her. He still could see the look of hurt in her eyes when he'd told her he didn't want to be around her any more, and it haunted him. He'd never considered himself to be a cruel or cold-hearted person, yet that was exactly how he'd acted at the beach. Before the incident with the boy, he'd thoroughly been enjoying Meg's company. They'd laughed together, shared ice cream, rubbed sunscreen on each other and even nearly had kissed. And he'd bought her a necklace. Then he'd done a complete turnaround and treated her as if she suddenly repulsed him. He wasn't proud of that.

He doubted Meg ever would speak to him again, even if he got down on his knees and begged her to forgive him. But the question he couldn't answer with any certainty at that moment was, did he really _want_ her to speak to him?

He shook his head. Book or no book, he'd had his fill of death and dying.

He was fairly certain he'd figured out what disturbed him the most about Meg. In the past, when he'd interviewed or encountered other "gifted" people, he'd always felt in control because he usually could see right through them for the phonies they were. But with Meg, he'd never felt in control because he couldn't figure her out. And not being in control made him uncomfortable. _She_ made him uncomfortable.

He sat up and swung his feet onto the floor, then propped his elbows on his knees and rested his forehead in his palms.

"So, what are your plans for today, Calder?" he muttered. "Work on your book? No. Visit Meg? Hell, no. Forget all about both her and the book and go back home to New York with your tail between your legs and admit defeat? Maybe."

He stood, threw on his jeans, a T-shirt and his favorite slippers, which actually were moccasins, and headed toward the den to check his email. He flipped open the cover of his laptop and logged on. Since he'd been in New Hampshire, he'd changed his home page to the local TV news station's information page. That way, he had easy access to the current temperature and weather forecast, and also was able to check the local headlines.

"ROCHESTER BOY'S BODY RECOVERED AT HAMPTON BEACH."

The headline leapt out at him.

Calder pulled his chair closer to the desk and read the rest of the article.

Hampton police reported this morning that at approximately 6 p.m. yesterday afternoon, following a three-hour search, the body of two-and-a-half-year-old Brandon Couture of Rochester was recovered from the water at Hampton Beach in an area not far from the public bandstand. Brandon's father, Damien Couture, told police he had carried his son on his shoulders out into the water and was only waist deep when a wave struck, knocking them over. He stated that when he stood up again, he couldn't find his son. Lifeguards at the scene said they suspected a rip current had contributed to the boy's drowning.

"We've been having quite a few problems with riptides or rip currents here lately," Ross Winters, senior lifeguard, stated. "I don't think people realize just how dangerous and unpredictable they can be, even in shallow water."

Curiously, both of the child's parents told police that approximately ten minutes prior to Brandon's disappearance in the water, a stranger, a man they described as being in his late twenties or early thirties, had approached them and informed them he was a psychic who'd had a vision of their son drowning. That same man, according to Brandon's father, immediately dove into the water after he saw the boy go under, and helped in the search for him.

"We honestly thought the guy was just some nut case," Damien said, sobbing. "If only I had listened to him...our son might still be alive right now."

Calder slammed the lid on his laptop and shook his head. He was relieved the boy's body had been found because it meant closure for his parents. But the thought of a young life being cut so short caused his temples to throb. He walked out of the den and into the bathroom to search for a bottle of aspirin.

Two mugs of coffee, two aspirin and two slices of toast slathered with strawberry jam later, Calder sat at the kitchen table and gazed out the window. The sky was gray and gloomy looking, which, he thought, matched his mood.

"So much for the weather forecast of clear and sunny all week," he mumbled.

Molly sat staring at him, not only because he was talking to himself, but also because he was at the table. And the table meant food – people food – to her. Calder had given her the crusts from his toast, but he figured she still was hoping for something more palatable, like a side of beef.

By the time he finished his third mug of coffee, Calder just about had convinced himself to pack his things and return to New York. He was eager to put his experiences in New Hampshire far behind him and never look back. He knew he'd made a mess of everything, and running away was the coward's way out, but he couldn't think of one good reason to stick around. He knew he'd destroyed any chance whatsoever of Meg continuing to help him with his book, so there was no point in prolonging his stay.

He picked up his mug and dish and walked over to put them into the sink. He heard the sound of a motorcycle roaring up the street and shook his head. The guy obviously wasn't obeying the park's strict 15 m.p.h. speed limit, he thought.

He froze. _A motorcycle!_ He'd been so preoccupied thinking about the little boy drowning, he'd completely forgotten about Marie Turcotte! According to Meg's prediction, tonight was the night she was supposed to die in a motorcycle accident.

A small spark of hope ignited within him. There was no way, he thought, Meg's ridiculous prediction about Marie was going to come true. And when it didn't, she never again would be able to say, "I'm _never_ wrong!" or "The deaths in my visions can't be prevented." And that would make her, in his eyes, seem much less...freakish. He wanted her to return to being the slightly eccentric, beautiful woman he'd grown so fond of. He actually could picture himself in a serious relationship with _that_ woman...not The Predictor. So if Meg did prove to be wrong about Marie, he vowed he would do everything within his power to try to gain her forgiveness and win her heart. But if she, by some miracle, did turn out to be right, then he was going to head straight back to New York and not look back.

The next chapter in his life, as well as in his book, he realized, would be determined by whether or not Marie Turcotte lived past midnight that night.

He sensed it was going to be the longest day of his life.

* * * * *

Meg sat at her kitchen table and took a sip of hibiscus tea from an earthenware mug. Directly in front of her was a prescription bottle containing twenty-four pale blue pills.

She set down her mug, picked up the bottle and ran her thumb over the label. The pills, strong painkillers, might be her way out, she thought. They represented her escape from her life of hell...her life based on seemingly nothing other than death. They represented eternal peace. All she had to do was gather the courage to take all of them at once, and she wouldn't have to deal with ever being hurt – or causing hurt – again.

But only if it's my time to die. If not, then why even bother trying?

The problem was, despite the nearly intolerable heartache and depression she currently was feeling, she knew she still didn't have the courage to take the pills and find out if they ultimately were the way in which she was destined to die.

"Something else I'm a failure at." She choked back a sob. She set down the bottle on the table and then shoved it aside, out of her direct view.

In the past twenty-four hours, she had shed more tears than she'd shed since her mother's death back in 1996. Every time she thought about Calder and the fun she'd shared with him at the beach, and then how her vision about the little boy had ruined it all, she hated herself...hated what she was. Why, she wondered, had she gasped and stared at that boy? Visions of death were so commonplace to her, why had this one so easily revealed to Calder what she was thinking? Why hadn't she been able to conceal her thoughts? If she had, she was certain their day wouldn't have ended the way it had, with Calder acting as if she were the daughter of Satan himself. Granted, the child still would have drowned, and undoubtedly Calder still would have been upset about the tragedy, but he wouldn't have associated _her_ with any of it. She felt he even might have turned to her for comfort instead of looking at her with fear and revulsion in his eyes.

Also disturbing her was the fact that if she hadn't gasped at the precise moment she had, she and Calder would have kissed.

She recalled an incident from back in her high-school days when the captain of the football team was talking to one of his buddies about a brainy, plain-looking girl who had a crush on him and he'd said, "I wouldn't even kiss her with someone else's lips!" Meg now had the feeling Calder might be thinking the same thing about her.

She reached up to touch the necklace he'd bought for her, which she still was wearing. Her conscience kept nagging at her to return it to him. But her heart kept telling her to keep it, not only because of its sentimental value, but also because she felt she deserved the gift, especially after the way Calder had treated her. Every time she touched the dainty silver star or saw its reflection in the mirror, she recalled how happy she'd felt when he'd put it around her neck. Even through all of the tears she'd shed since then, she still was able to smile at the memory. It wasn't the most elaborate or expensive gift she'd ever received from a man, but it definitely was – or at least it had been at the time – the most meaningful.

She was certain, however, the necklace meant nothing to Calder any longer, and he probably was regretting he'd wasted his money on her. So she vowed to do the right thing and return it to him.

Eventually.

* * * * *

It was nearly six o'clock the next morning when Calder opened his eyes. His recent lack of sleep had caused him to doze off on his mother's sofa at about ten o'clock the night before. She had left him there, not wanting to disturb him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept nearly eight hours straight. Back in New York, he considered it a luxury when he was able to sleep for more than five.

He reached for the remote control and clicked on the TV, then turned it to the local station for the morning news, which was just beginning. The top story was about a robbery at a convenience store.

He smiled. Not that he was pleased a store had been robbed, but because there was no mention of a fatal motorcycle accident. His eyes remained riveted on the TV screen as the newscast continued. The next story was about a dog that had been missing for two years and finally had been reunited with its family.

Calder released a long breath. Dared he hope Marie Turcotte still was peacefully sleeping at this hour and soon would be waking up to enjoy her usual bowl of oatmeal or a scrambled egg and a dose of Metamucil?

The red-haired news anchor, an attractive woman with a heart-shaped face, then said, "We now have further details on the story we first reported to you during the five o'clock morning report. Allenstown police have just confirmed the identity of an elderly woman who was killed just before midnight last night in what they describe as a freak accident. Marie Turcotte, 66, of River Road, apparently was asleep on her sofa when a motorcycle driven by twenty-year-old Eli Parent of Concord went out of control, hit an embankment, went airborne and crashed through the picture window in her living room. The motorcycle came to rest on top of Turcotte, who was declared dead at the scene. Parent, who was thrown off the motorcycle when it struck the window, was taken to Concord Hospital for the treatment of serious, but non-life-threatening injuries, including lacerations. Police have determined that both speed and alcohol were contributing factors in the crash. We now take you live to our correspondent, Mike Cortland, who is at the scene."

The cameras switched over to a ranch house, the exterior of which was illuminated with police spotlights. There was a large, ragged hole lined with jagged glass on the front of the house where the window obviously once had been. Yellow police tape outlined the property and two police investigators could be seen in the background. The news correspondent was standing with an elderly man who looked as if he hadn't combed his hair or shaved.

"I'm here with one of Marie Turcotte's neighbors, George Boisvert. Can you tell us anything about this tragic accident?"

"It sounded just like a bomb going off!" the man said. "Knocked me right out of bed! I looked out of my window and couldn't see much, so I ran outside. I heard a male voice shouting for help and what sounded like a motorcycle running inside the house! So I got closer and noticed the front of the house was all smashed up. That's when I ran back home and called 911!"

Calder couldn't bear any more. He clicked off the TV and lay back on the sofa. His mind reeled as he struggled to accept the fact that Meg's ridiculous prediction had come true. Granted, she had said Marie would be _on_ the motorcycle, not the motorcycle would be on her, but he knew he was just nitpicking.

"Damn!" he shouted, shaking his head. "I don't believe this!"

He now knew, without any doubt whatsoever, Meg truly was The Predictor. Even though his common sense kept telling him it was impossible, he no longer could deny that her powers were genuine. He wished Meg had been some cackling old hag instead of such an attractive, sensitive woman, then there wouldn't have been any problems. He simply would have gathered the information for his book without developing any sort of an emotional attachment to her. It would have been just another job to him, nothing more...nothing complicated.

The time definitely had come, he decided, to return to New York.

A few seconds later, his mother's bedroom door creaked open and she and Molly came padding down the hallway. His mother was wearing a boxy yellow robe that snapped up the front. Her hair was wrapped around several large, pink foam hair-curlers.

"You woke me," she said, yawning. "You never made it to bed last night?"

"No, I slept out here. Sorry I woke you. I guess I got carried away yelling at the news on TV. I'm just feeling kind of stressed out this morning."

"I've noticed you've been acting 'kind of stressed out' ever since you went to the beach with Margaret. Anything you want to talk about?"

"No. It's nothing. I'll get over it."

"Want some coffee?" She headed out to the kitchen.

"Yeah, I could use some."

A few minutes later, he and his mother sat sipping coffee in silence in the living room. Calder was so preoccupied with trying to gather the courage to tell his mother he was going to be leaving, he absently took a large gulp of the hot coffee, as if it were iced tea, and felt the heat of it burn all the way down his throat to his stomach. He finally decided to just blurt out what was on his mind.

"I'll be heading back to New York today," he said.

His mother stared at him, her eyes wide. "So soon? Why?"

"I have everything I came here for. So I see no reason to hang around any longer."

Her chin rose. "Isn't being with your mother a good enough reason?"

"Of course it is, Mom. And I really enjoy being with you. It's just that..."

"Just what?"

"There was a problem on my date with Meg and now we're not even speaking. I just don't feel comfortable sticking around here now."

Her brows rose. "Your date was that much of a disaster?"

He shook his head. "No, not completely. Parts of it were great."

"So great, you're running back to New York?"

He sighed. "Everything was fine until Meg set eyes on this little boy and had a vision he was going to drown. He's the boy who's been in the news."

His mother sucked in her breath. "Really?"

"Meg didn't come right out and _tell_ me or anyone about the vision," he said, "because, as you know, she couldn't. But I could tell just by the way she was looking at him that he was going to die. I tried to warn his parents, but they thought I was just some weirdo."

_"You_ were the so-called psychic the parents were talking about?"

"I'm afraid so." He paused before adding, "When the boy went missing in the water, I couldn't handle it, Mom. I got upset with Meg and told her I couldn't stand to be around her any more. I pretty much accused her of being a freak."

"Calder! I raised you better than that!"

He studied the ribbon of steam rising from his mug. "I know. I wasn't even thinking at the time. I just blurted it out, hurt her feelings and ruined everything. She's actually a kind, beautiful woman." He looked up. "But in all honesty, she scares the hell out of me."

He thought it might be wise not to mention the motorcycle accident Meg also had predicted.

"So what now?" his mother asked. "What about your book? Don't you need to do more research for it? You can't just take off and leave right in the middle of it, can you?"

"I'm sure I have more than enough information to fill my 60,000 minimum-word requirement," he said. "And I really think that given the current situation, I'll feel more comfortable writing it back in New York. I don't need any more proof to help me decide whether or not Meg really is psychic. I'm now totally convinced she _is_."

His mother cast him a smug smile. "I told you she was!"

When Calder didn't respond, she said, "So you're just going to leave things the way they are? You're going to disappear without even saying goodbye to Margaret or apologizing to her? You said you hurt her feelings. Is that really the way you want her to remember you, after she so generously agreed to allow you, a complete stranger, into her life, solely for _your_ book?"

Again, he didn't answer.

"You'll be earning money for telling _her_ story," his mother continued, "but what will _she_ gain from it? Nothing but some guy who just tossed her aside without even so much as a thank you? I am ashamed of you right now, Calder, I really am."

"I bought her a $59 necklace at the beach," he said, immediately realizing how dumb he sounded. He braced himself for his mother's comment, which he knew wasn't going to be a favorable one.

"Oh, how generous of you!" she snapped and frowned at him, just as he'd anticipated. "You stand to earn thousands from telling her story and you think some cheap necklace is fair payment for it?"

He didn't want to listen to one more word his mother had to say, mainly because he knew she was right. She made him sound like the world's biggest heel...and the worst part was he couldn't think of even one word to defend himself.

He stood. "I'm going to go pack now."

She shrugged. "Suit yourself. But for whatever my opinion's worth, I think you're making a big mistake."

As he walked toward his room, his mother called after him, "And I think you should be man enough to at least call Margaret and apologize to her before you leave! I taught you to always be a gentleman! Do _not_ disappoint me."

Calder closed the bedroom door behind him, then began to roll his clothes into balls and fling them into his suitcase. He had no intention of apologizing to Meg. He was certain if he did try to contact her, she'd just reject him anyway. And even if she didn't, he had no idea what he'd say to her. The truth? That she scares him? That her powers are a real turn-off? Would that make her feel any better?

No, Meg will be much better off if I just leave here as soon as possible and disappear from her life. I've already done enough damage. I never should have come to New Hampshire. Meeting her has done nothing but mess up my mind...and probably hers.

The handle on his door lifted and the door slowly creaked open. Molly came running in and jumped up on him, her front paws on his chest.

Calder laughed and scratched her under the chin. "Did Mom send you in here to try to convince me to stay? Sorry, but it's not going to work!"

He flopped down on the bed and Molly joined him, snuggling next to him and licking his neck.

"Sometimes, Molly," he said, "I think you're the only female who can put up with me."

His phone, which was on the nightstand by the bed, rang. He groaned. He knew Richard was the only one who would call him so early in the morning. More than likely he wanted to check on his progress on the book. He reached for the phone.

"Yeah?" Calder answered the call.

"Calder?" Meg's soft voice responded.

He sat up. "Meg? I'm sorry – I thought you were my agent."

"I was wondering if you could drop by sometime today? I really need to talk to you."

Calder was encouraged by the fact she didn't sound angry or upset and had greeted him by name instead of something like, "Hey, you jackass!"

"Well," he said, "I'm packing at the moment and will be leaving for New York within an hour or so. Is it okay if I come over right now?"

"Um...sure. See you shortly, then."

Meg hung up the phone and then sat glaring at it. She could not believe what she'd just heard. Calder was going to leave without even saying goodbye to her?

Calder York, you're a jerk! I'm sorry I was gullible enough to believe you were a decent guy!

She now regretted calling him. Earlier, she had thought about going over to his mother's to return his necklace, but then had decided she and Calder needed to talk – preferably in private – which was why she'd called to invite him over. It upset her, however, more than she was willing to admit, to know if she hadn't called, she wouldn't have found out he was returning to New York until he already was long gone.

Now, she felt she had every right to keep the necklace. The problem was, she no longer wanted it. It was becoming more apparent to her that the Calder she had known and grown so fond of had died at the same moment the little boy at the beach had.

She picked up the teakettle that sat on her stove and filled it with water, then returned it to the burner to boil. Herbal tea always calmed her, and she had the feeling she'd be needing about a gallon of it after she saw Calder again.

When she heard the knock on her door a few minutes later, she took a deep breath, smoothed her hair and stood tall, her shoulders back. Her first instinct was to rush to the door, but she waited a few seconds and then slowly creaked it open.

Calder, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, and his head lowered, was standing on her top step.

"Hi, come on in," she said in a tone she hoped sounded calmer than she felt. She found herself battling a variety of emotions – pain, anger, excitement, sadness...even desire – the moment she set eyes on him.

He followed her into the kitchen and sat in his usual chair.

"Tea?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Thanks, but I just had some of my mother's coffee. I think it eroded some of the enamel off my teeth."

In spite of herself, she smiled. She filled a mug with hot water and dropped a blackberry-sage tea bag into it. She then carried the mug to the table and sat facing him.

"Thank you for coming over," she said. "I wanted to give this to you." She picked up a small white box from the table and handed it to him.

Calder took the box and opened it, then looked up at her and shook his head. He closed the lid and handed the box back to her. "Please, keep it. I want you to have it."

"Why?"

"The necklace was a gift. It's yours to do with as you please."

"I please to give it back to you," she said.

"No."

Meg looked down into her mug. The water had turned a rich purplish color. She took a sip, then set the mug back down and looked directly at him. "Calder, what happened between us? I'm confused."

He stared at her. _Why do her eyes have to be so damned hypnotic? I can't look away!_

"Has anyone contacted you about Marie Turcotte yet?" he asked, instead of answering her question.

She shook her head. "No, not yet."

"Well, on the morning news they said Marie was killed last night when some drunk on a motorcycle came crashing through her picture-window. I guess she'd dozed off on the sofa, and the motorcycle ended up in her lap."

"So that's how it happened..." she said quietly, her voice calm. "I was wondering how it would come about, because the prediction was so...strange. But I'm not at all surprised she's dead."

"See?" he said, his voice rising. " _That's_ the problem! Death doesn't faze you! You treat it as if it were something as mundane as going to the supermarket to buy bananas! That's what I can't handle about you, Meg!"

"Well, if you had to live with death every minute of every day of your life, it wouldn't faze _you_ , either!" she shot back, her eyes narrowing. "It _is_ like going to the supermarket, Calder, because everyone I see has an expiration date, just like the food in aisle three! If I had to personally mourn and carry on about everyone I've made a prediction for or have seen die in my visions, I'd be spending my entire life crying! Do you honestly think I _enjoy_ this?"

Her outburst surprised him. Even during the previous times he'd upset her, she'd never shouted at him.

Calder released a long sigh. "I'm sorry, Meg. You just have to understand I've never met anyone like you before, and it's both overwhelming and confusing. One moment, I see you as a desirable woman who seems almost shy and vulnerable, and the next, I see you as a woman who is powerful and frightening...a woman who holds people's lives in the palm of her hand. "

"Then what you're saying is that as long as you thought there still was hope I was a phony, you were attracted to me? But now that you realize I'm for real, I repulse you?"

"No, you could never repulse me. In fact, I'm very much attracted to you. I'm just having trouble dealing with your powers...and the negative effect they're having on my feelings for you. I honestly don't _want_ to feel that way, but I can't help it."

"Unfortunately, my powers are a permanent part of me," she said tightly. "I can't just snap my fingers and get rid of them. I'm sorry they disturb _you_ so much."

He reached out and covered her hand with his. "No, I'm the one who's sorry. I know I hurt you, and that's the last thing I wanted to do. You don't deserve the way I've been treating you since our date. I just panicked and couldn't handle everything that was happening that afternoon at the beach. I knew right then I didn't have the strength or the courage to deal with any more deaths. That's why I've stayed away from you...why I didn't call to tell you I was leaving. It's not because I don't care about you, because I do. It's The Predictor, as they call you, I don't care for."

"And you think I _do_?" Her eyebrows rose. "I would give anything to be permanently rid of that part of myself!"

He remained silent, not knowing what else to say to her.

"So," she said, "does this mean you finally have enough material now for your book? You can return to New York to finish it?"

"I think so. The difficult part will be trying to write it objectively. You know, just sticking to the facts."

Her eyes caught his and held them. "I read one of your books online last night, Calder. It reminded me of a textbook or a newspaper article, filled with information but very little emotion or personal insight. Perhaps you should try writing exactly what you feel for a change. Your readers actually might enjoy getting a glimpse of the _real_ you. You said you're feeling overwhelmed and confused? Express that to them – allow them inside your head."

"I don't think they'd want to know what's going on in my head," he said. "It's nothing but mass confusion. Hell, even _I_ don't know what I'm thinking most of the time."

He pushed his chair back and stood. As far as he was concerned, their conversation was over. "I really have to get going," he said. "I have a long drive ahead and want to do my traveling after the morning rush and before the evening one. I'll make better time that way."

Meg rose and looked up at him. "I know you're in a hurry to leave, but...there's something I feel I should tell you first."

Calder stared at her, wondering what she wanted to say. He prayed it wouldn't be some dramatic, emotional farewell speech. He wasn't very good at handling things like that, especially if tears were involved.

Meg hesitated, then said, "I don't think it's a good idea for you to leave just yet."

His forehead creased. "Why not?"

"...Because your mother is going to be needing you."

He plunked back down in the chair. A million thoughts, all of them bad, raced through his mind. "Please...explain," he said, not certain he really wanted to hear it.

Meg also sat. "You know Pat, who lives across the street from Joanne's?"

"Of course. Very nice woman. She and my mother have become good friends."

"Well, Pat came to me last night and, just like your mother, said she had been doing a lot of thinking since Joanne's death...and then she asked me for a prediction. She told me she'd been having heart palpitations ever since the fire at Joanne's, and assumed it was stress, but wanted to make certain it was nothing more serious."

She paused, then said, "Pat is going to die at 4:23 this afternoon from a massive stroke."

Calder was silent for several seconds as he allowed her words to sink in.

"Are you sure?" he finally asked. The moment he uttered the words, he knew the answer. _Of course_ , she was sure. After all, she never was wrong.

"Unfortunately," Meg said, "I think the stress of Joanne's death is what is going to cause Pat's. She mentioned she has high blood pressure. If her stress is causing it to rise dramatically, that might explain the impending stroke."

Calder lowered his head and shook it. "Hell, my mother will be devastated."

"I asked Pat if I could tell you about it...for your book, and she agreed. But she wants no one else to know, especially not your mother."

He looked up at her. "And what will happen if I _do_ tell my mother and warn her about Pat in advance?"

"According to my grandmother and mother, you'll be stricken deaf."

He chuckled. "They were joking, right?"

She shrugged. "Are you willing to find out?"

A few days ago, he'd have accepted her challenge without thinking twice about it because he would have been convinced it was impossible, even laughable. But now, considering all he'd witnessed since meeting Meg, he wasn't about to take any chances.

"I'll take your word for it," he said.

"When Pat left here last night," Meg said, "she told me she was heading straight to the nearest emergency room in hopes of stopping the stroke before it occurs. She figured she could get a CT scan, blood tests, medication, or do whatever it might take to ward it off. But I think both you and I know how futile it is. That's why I thought you should stay here and be with your mother when she receives the news."

He nodded. "Definitely. I mean, Joanne's death really upset my mom, and she barely knew the woman, so I can just imagine what her reaction will be when Pat dies, especially so soon after Joanne. I wouldn't want her to be alone at a time like that."

His blue eyes searched Meg's. "Thank you for telling me," he said. "I'm sure I didn't make it easy for you, considering I've spent the last twenty minutes telling you how much your predictions freak me out. But I'd have felt terrible if I'd have gone back to New York and then found out my mother needed me."

"That's why I thought you should know," she said. "Believe me, I didn't want to bring up the subject of yet another death under the circumstances, but I felt I had no choice. I really like your mother and I know she'll need you to help her get through this. I'm just glad I managed to catch you before you left." Her lips tightened. "Had I known you were planning to leave town this morning – had someone had the _courtesy_ to tell me in advance – I'd have called you last night right after Pat left here instead of waiting until this morning."

Calder cleared his throat. " I would have told you I was leaving, but to be honest, especially considering all that's happened between us lately, I didn't think you'd care one way or the other."

"Well, I guess you were wrong."
CHAPTER SEVEN

"I re-packed your clothes for you," Calder's mother told him when he returned from Meg's. "The way you packed them, you'd have had to hire an elephant to sit on your suitcase just to get it to close!"

"Well, I thank you, Mom, but I'm afraid I'm just going to be unpacking it. I've changed my mind about leaving today. I'm going to stick around for a little while longer, if you'll have me."

She smiled. "Really?" Her eyebrows arched. "Does this mean your meeting with Margaret went well?"

"You might say that," he lied. "We had a long talk and were able to resolve most of our issues." He looked at his mother and frowned. "And yes, I apologized to her."

Her smile broadened. "I'm proud of you, son."

"So I've decided I want to see how things go between us before I make any hasty decisions about heading back to New York. I don't want to risk missing out on what could turn out to be a promising relationship. We even talked about going out to dinner tomorrow night."

He knew the only thing he'd be doing the next night would be consoling his mother, but he wasn't about to tell her that, not unless he wanted to risk having to spend the rest of his life reading lips.

"Sounds good!" she said. "I really like her, Calder. Sure, maybe her visions are a lot for you to handle, but I think if the two of you care enough about each other, you can come up with some kind of compromise. I mean, maybe the solution is something as simple as she could just keep her visions to herself and not ask people for permission to tell you about them. I mean, if you don't know about them, then you can't get upset about them. And then she'll seem more like just a regular person to you, you know?"

His mother, he thought, made everything sound so uncomplicated. But he had to admit she did have a point. Under normal circumstances, Meg wasn't able to tell him about her visions, not without permission from the people involved. And the only reason why she had been asking people for their consent was to help him with his book. But once Pat passed away, he figured there no longer would be any reason for Meg to share her visions with him because he would have more than enough proof of her powers for his manuscript. And then maybe he would be able to think of her as "just Meg" once again instead of The Predictor.

Seeing Meg earlier had made Calder realize just how much he'd missed her and what an idiot he'd been to so quickly turn his back on her the way he had. But was it even remotely possible, he wondered, considering all of their differences, for the two of them to actually develop any sort of romantic relationship, the way his mother believed they could?

"So, Mom," Calder said, forcing a cheerful tone. "I'm yours for the day. What would you like to do? I'm completely at your disposal."

"Really? I can have you for the whole day?"

"Yep!"

She sat down in her recliner and appeared to be deep in thought for several moments. "Okay," she finally said, standing, "I want to go to the mall, then to lunch at this new deli that just opened in Concord. And after that I want to go see a matinee of that new Julia Roberts movie, _Runaway Bride."_ She looked up at him and smiled a satisfied smile. "It's been a long time since I've been to the movies with a handsome man by my side!"

"Sounds like fun!" Calder said, all the while thinking that if given the choice between suffering through a 'chick flick' or rolling naked in a field of poison ivy, he'd choose the latter. Still, it was a sacrifice he was willing to make if it meant his mother would be busy enjoying herself all day...and he could delay her from having to deal with the inevitable bad news about Pat for as long as possible. He barely knew Pat, yet he already felt a deep sense of sadness, knowing this was going to be the last day of her life. He couldn't even begin to imagine how his mother was going to react...or how he was going to be able to make her feel better.

* * * * *

By the time Calder and his mother returned home from their marathon outing, it was after six o'clock. As they drove past Pat's, Calder tried to discreetly look to see if anything unusual was happening there. After all, according to Meg's prediction, Pat should have been dead from a massive stroke for nearly two hours by then. Pat's car was parked in the driveway and everything looked calm. He thought about what Meg had said about Pat going directly to the hospital after the prediction in an attempt to ward off the stroke. It made him wonder if Pat had returned home after her hospital visit because the doctors hadn't been able to find anything wrong with her...and now she was lying dead inside the mobile home. He knew all too well that just because a doctor says someone is in good health, it doesn't mean he or she can't walk out of his office and drop dead on the sidewalk right in front of the building. He'd heard plenty of stories about things like that happening.

He pulled the car into his mother's driveway and grabbed all of the bags she'd accumulated during their three hours at the mall. He followed his mother up the walkway.

"I'm sure we'll find an accident on the carpet somewhere," she said as she unlocked the front door. "So watch where you step! Poor Molly has been in the house all day. I didn't think we were going to be gone this long."

"Well, you're the one who wanted to stop at the drive-thru for burgers after the movie," Calder said.

"How was I supposed to know it was going to take so long?" She opened the door to a furiously wagging Doberman. "I mean, what'd they do, have to go butcher the cow first? I thought it was called _fast_ food because that's what it's supposed to be!"

She took a quick inventory of all of the floors and carpeting, then praised the dog and let her out into the fenced-in back yard.

"I can't believe Molly held it for that long," she said. "I sure wish I had a bladder like that!"

Now that they were home, and only five mobile homes away from Pat's, Calder began to feel tense. Any second, he expected the phone to ring or someone to knock on the door. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so jumpy. He sat down on the sofa and reached for the remote control, which was lying on the arm of it. When he did, he noticed his hand was trembling.

Thank you, Meg! Why do you keep putting me through this? I haven't even gotten over the stress of the beach yet, and now you've hit me with this! I'm supposed to be strong for my mother? Well, who the hell is going to be strong for me?

"Honey, is everything okay?" he heard his mother's voice asking. He hadn't realized she had been staring at him. "You seem on edge."

"I'm fine, Mom. I guess I just can't get that little boy at the beach out of mind. I keep thinking about what else I could have done to try to save him."

"I know how you feel," she said, taking a seat in her favorite chair. "I still keep kicking myself for not going over to Joanne's the night she died. Maybe I could have done something to prevent the tragedy."

"Knowing you, if I hadn't stopped you from going over there, you probably would have offered to spend the night at Joanne's to make sure she'd be okay, and then you'd have ended up being murdered right along with her."

"That's another reason why I'm pleased you're staying," she said. "I mean, with Joanne's killer still on the loose, I'd really prefer not to be here alone right now."

"At least you have Molly to protect you."

She laughed. "Molly? The squirrels out in the yard bully her! She gives a bad name to her breed! But seriously, even if I had three dogs, I still don't think I'd feel safe. All of the women in the neighborhood, even the ones who don't live alone, are on edge."

"Does Pat live alone?" he asked, mostly to find out if someone might be coming home from work to discover her body in the mobile home.

"Yes, she lives alone. She's been through two divorces and says she's better off alone. So now she just has her cat, Daisy."

His mother's eyes suddenly grew wide and she jumped up. "Ohmigod! Daisy!"

Calder stared at her. "What's the matter?"

"The day you and Margaret went to the beach, Pat came over here," she said, her voice trailing off as she rushed out to the kitchen. She returned holding a brass key-ring with a red plastic flower and two keys on it. "She told me that today, she would be going on one of the bus tours the senior activity-center in town organizes every month. This one's an overnighter to Boston – touring, dinner, and a stage show, then back tomorrow. She was going to cancel her trip because she was still so upset about Joanne, but then she decided it might do her some good to get away from it all for a couple days. So she asked me to take in her mail and feed Daisy while she was gone. She gave me her spare set of keys – one for the front door and one for the back. I was so busy today, I forgot all about it! The poor cat must be starving!"

She headed toward the front door. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"NO!" Calder was on his feet.

She stopped and turned to look at him.

"Let me do that for you," he said, grabbing the keys from her hand. "You've had a busy day. Just sit down and relax and I'll go feed the cat. You shouldn't be roaming around the neighborhood alone anyway. It's not safe."

"Why, thank you, son," she said, smiling. "That's very thoughtful of you!"

"It's the least I can do after all you've done for me this week, putting up with me and all of my problems."

"Well, then, I think I'll go make myself a cup of tea and put my feet up!"

"You do that," he said, nodding. "I'll be right back, okay?"

"Oh, Pat said there's a stack of cans of cat food on the kitchen counter, and Daisy's bowl is in the corner near the kitchen table. Give her half a can, and put the rest of it in the fridge, so it will stay fresh."

"No problem," he said as he opened the front door.

The minute Calder was outside, he leaned against the side of the mobile home and closed his eyes. His knees felt so weak, he didn't think they would be able to carry him over to Pat's.

He knew Pat hadn't gone on a bus trip to Boston – not after finding out she would be suffering a fatal stroke in the middle of the trip. No, she would prefer to stay home, in familiar, comfortable surroundings, to wait...especially if her visit to the emergency room had failed to offer her any immediate solutions. He was certain he was going to find Pat's body lying on the floor somewhere in her place, and the thought terrified him. As much as he didn't want to make the discovery, he figured it would be better if _he_ made it rather than his mother. Still, the only place he'd ever been anywhere near a corpse was at a funeral, so actually _finding_ a body was something entirely new to him.

"I'm probably going to need years of therapy after this," he muttered.

Feeling a growing sense of dread, he started walking toward Pat's. With each step, his skin felt clammier and his heartbeat grew louder. He could smell people's dinners cooking as he passed their mobile homes. Most, from what he could tell, were heavy on the garlic and onions. His stomach, still full from the greasy drive-thru burger he'd eaten with his mother, began to grumble in protest.

He reached Pat's mailbox at the end of her driveway and removed a couple letters and a catalog from it. He then climbed the three wooden steps up to her small front porch and stood staring at the door. From the corner of his eye, he could see a woman walking her cocker spaniel up the street. He didn't turn to look at her. He was certain if she saw the expression on his face, she'd be convinced he thought Pat's door was contaminated with some highly contagious bacteria.

He reached out to touch the doorknob, then jerked his hand away.

I can't! I can't do this! I don't want to see a dead woman! I don't want to see anything that's dead – not even a houseplant. I'm leaving!

He turned and walked back down the first step, then stopped and groaned. He knew he had to go into Pat's house. The sooner her body was found, the less traumatic it would be for her next of kin. He was pretty sure they wouldn't want to have to identify a decomposed body. And then, there was poor Daisy, the cat, to consider. She still had to be fed, especially if her owner was lying dead on the floor.

Calder once again approached the door, then fumbled with the key and slid it into the lock. He slowly turned the knob and creaked open the door. He poked his head inside, but the rest of his body didn't follow. There was a light switch to the left. He reached in and flipped it on. From what he could see of the living room, there was no one, living or dead, in it. He sucked in his breath and stepped inside, then closed the door behind him. The last thing he needed was for Daisy to go bolting outside and end up under the wheels of a car – a car that wasn't obeying the park's 15 m.p.h. speed limit, like just about every vehicle that entered.

Nothing appeared out of the ordinary in Pat's living room. The furniture looked old and worn, but clean. The carpeting, a 1970s-era brown shag, also was in good condition. The only things lying on the carpet were some cat toys – a stuffed bird, a rubber mouse and a small plastic ball – no bodies.

Calder cautiously made his way out to the kitchen, one step at a time, his eyes darting about. The kitchen was small, with two windows facing the street. They provided a direct view of the burned remains of Joanne's mobile home. He tossed the mail onto the kitchen table and walked over to the counter next to the refrigerator. There, he grabbed one of the cans of cat food from the stack and used the manual can opener lying next to it to open it. He spotted the cat's blue ceramic dish on the floor and then, because he didn't want to bother searching for a knife or spoon, plopped the entire contents of the can into the dish.

"Here, kitty, kitty!" he called in a high-pitched voice. "Here, Daisy. Chow time!"

A small gray-and-black tiger cat came strolling down the hallway. She walked over to Calder and rubbed against his shins.

"Go eat," he told her, walking over to her dish and pointing down at it.

The cat didn't follow him.

Calder glanced up the hallway and knew what he had to do next. He was pretty certain that if Pat had been feeling a little sick or woozy, she'd have gone to lie down for a while. That meant it was likely he would find her body stretched out on her bed.

"Here goes nothing, Daisy," he said with a nervous sigh. "I sure wish you could talk and tell me what's waiting for me down in that bedroom."

The cat walked over to her dish and started to eat.

Calder slowly moved up the hallway that led to the bedroom. It seemed claustrophobically narrow to him, as if the walls were moving closer together with his every step. The hallway was lined with paintings, at least a dozen of them, which only increased his feelings of being closed in. To his right was the bathroom, and straight ahead, the bedroom. He briefly poked his head into the bathroom to make certain Pat wasn't lying on the floor in there. The floor, a gold-colored linoleum, was bare, except for the cat's litter box near the bathtub. The tub had a showerhead on the wall and a gold-flowered shower curtain on a rod that ran the length of the tub. The curtain was pulled wide open, and he could see that the tub was empty – no bodies lying in it. He was relieved the curtain hadn't been closed because he was pretty sure it would have taken him at least fifteen minutes to gather the courage to pull it open.

When he reached the bedroom door, which was partially open, he paused. He knew it was the room where Pat's body _had_ to be. There were no other rooms in the mobile home, and her car was parked in the driveway, so that meant she had to be here...somewhere.

He inhaled, sucking air in through his nose and then slowly releasing it through his mouth, in an attempt to calm himself. He pushed the door open and stepped inside the bedroom. The bed, an old four-poster, was neatly made with a colorful patchwork quilt covering it. He reached for the switch on the wall and flipped on the overhead light. He then checked every inch of the room. There was no sign of Pat.

"I don't get it," he said, shaking his head. "According to Meg, Pat should have been long dead by now. But where the hell is she?"

From underneath the bed, two eyes narrowed and watched his every move.

Calder didn't want to leave the room until he was certain he had checked everything – the closet, behind the stuffed chair, behind the draperies. The only place left was underneath the bed.

Beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead as he slowly knelt down to peer under the four-poster.

When he stuck his head under it, something reached out and swatted his face. Calder jumped up, clutching his chest. He couldn't catch his breath.

"Meeoowrrrr," Daisy greeted him as she strolled out from under the bed.

"Damned cat! You nearly gave me a heart attack! I thought you were still out in the kitchen!" He plunked down in the chair and leaned his head back. Daisy jumped onto his lap.

Ten minutes later, Calder finally stopped shaking long enough to stand.

He decided that before he headed back to his mother's, he'd check Pat's yard and storage shed in case she might have gone out there. Daisy followed him back out to the kitchen, where he gave her some water and a few friendly scratches under the chin. He then turned off the light and left the house, locking the door behind him.

There still was enough light outside to allow him to see everything in the yard and the inside of the shed through its side window. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.

Sighing, he walked back to his mother's.

"So?" his mother greeted him. "Is everything okay over there? How's Daisy?"

"Everything is fine. I was just wondering, though. If Pat is supposed to be in Boston on a bus tour today, why is her car still in the driveway?"

"Oh, her friend, Rena, who also signed up for the trip, has to pass right by here on her way to the church – that's where the tour bus picks them up, and they leave their cars in the parking lot there. So she offered to pick up Pat on the way."

"Oh," Calder said, confused. Was it possible, he wondered, that Pat actually had gone to Boston after all, despite knowing she was about to die? It didn't make any sense to him.

"You look flushed," his mother said. "Want some iced tea?"

"Sure."

He stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes as he tried to figure out why Pat would go on the trip, knowing she probably would end up dropping dead at some tourist attraction like the skywalk of the Prudential Center or in the middle of Fanueil Hall. He knew if he were in her shoes, he'd want to be close to home when tragedy struck. But maybe, he thought, her car was in her driveway not because she'd gone on the trip, but because she'd asked someone to drive her to the hospital last night, and she still was there...probably in the morgue by now, considering the hour. The anxiety of not knowing nearly was driving him crazy. Even worse, he had to conceal his concerns from his mother, which was difficult, considering she had a sixth sense about his moods. Hell, she even could tell when he was constipated.

"Here's your tea," he heard her say.

He sat up and grabbed the frosty glass.

"I keep some of my glasses in the freezer during the hot summer months," she said. "Keeps them nice and cold that way."

He took a long sip of the cold liquid that smelled strongly of lemon. And as he did, he continued to wonder where the hell Pat was.

* * * * *

"No, Richard, I'm not working on the book at the moment." Calder was lying in bed and talking on the phone the next morning.

"Why not?" his agent asked. "The last time we talked, you were all psyched about it and said you were writing up a storm."

"There have been a few...distractions. But don't worry, I'll still get the book finished in plenty of time."

"For your sake, I hope so!" Richard said. "You've already had over eight months to write it, Calder! And don't forget you also received a $50,000 advance from the publisher. If you don't produce a book, and a damned good one, you'll have to give back that money. So I need to have a completed manuscript on my desk soon...like yesterday! And please, spare me any more excuses!"

"I'm not making excuses," Calder said, even though he was about to give him yet another one. "It's just that my mother's good friend, Pat, is...dying. So I can't concentrate on writing at the moment."

"Sorry to hear that," Richard said, although his tone lacked emotion. "Just try to get back to work as soon as possible, okay?"

Before Calder could respond, Richard hung up.

Calder slammed down the phone on the bedside table. He sat up and rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at the clock. Half the morning already was gone. Although no one had contacted his mother about Pat yet, he knew it was just a matter of time, and then he would have to deal with trying to calm an inconsolable woman. Although he was dreading it, he also was eager to get it over with. He was pretty sure if he had to wait much longer for the news about Pat, he'd probably develop an ulcer.

There was a light tapping on his bedroom door. His mother's voice came from the other side. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah, Mom."

"I just wanted to let you know I'm going over to Pat's for a few minutes."

This time Calder didn't see any reason to stop her. After all, he knew she wouldn't find any bodies on the floor over there – not unless Daisy the cat had passed away overnight.

"Fine, Mom. I'll probably still be here in bed when you get back."

"Pat said to thank you for feeding Daisy! I'm bringing her keys back to her now."

"Okay, Mom."

His head snapped up and his mouth dropped open as her words sank in. He jumped out of bed and ran out into the hallway.

"Mom!" he called out to her.

She paused, her hand on the doorknob of the front door.

"Did you just say _Pat_ said to thank me?" he asked.

"Yes. I spoke to her on the phone about twenty minutes ago when she got back from Boston. She said she had a wonderful time and was glad she'd decided to go after all. I can't wait to hear all of the details!"

He couldn't speak, couldn't move.

"Get dressed, dear," his mother said. She opened the front door. "I don't think a man your age should be running around the house in just his underpants."

He watched the door close behind her, but still he didn't move. His mind was reeling, making him feel lightheaded. Pat was alive? Meg actually had been... _wrong?_

His lips slowly curved into a smile. "Meg was wrong!" He shouted the words, attracting the attention of Molly, who trotted over to him. He knelt down and hugged her. "Meg was wrong!"
CHAPTER EIGHT

"We have to talk." Calder was on Meg's doorstep less than a half-hour later.

"Come on in," she said, holding the door open.

He headed straight into her living room, not caring if she wanted him to sit at the kitchen table, as she usually did. He seated himself in the rocker. Meg sat on the sofa and silently studied him.

"So," she finally said, folding her hands in her lap, "What is it you want to talk to me about?"

"Pat."

She sighed. "I figured as much. Is your mother very upset? How is she coping?"

"My mother is just fine. In fact, she's with Pat at this very moment."

Meg's forehead creased. "Oh...at the undertaker's?"

"No, probably in Pat's kitchen. Pat called her earlier this morning when she returned from her overnight bus trip to Boston, and my mom went right over there, eager to hear all of the details." He awaited Meg's reaction to his news.

"Pat's _alive?"_

"As alive as you and I are!"

"No, it's not possible." She vigorously shook her head. "I'm _never_ wrong."

"Well, I hate to be the one to spoil your perfect record, Meg, but believe me, Pat is still living and breathing."

"But how can that possibly be?"

He shrugged. "I have no clue. Maybe you're starting to lose your powers? Or maybe they're getting weaker as you age, and pretty soon you won't even have them any more? You'd like that, though, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, but..."

"But what? You should be celebrating! You told me you'd give anything to get rid of your...curse."

"But what if I only partially lose my powers? Then when people ask me about their deaths, I'll still have to give them the information – and if I'm wrong, I'll be scaring them and worrying them needlessly! How will I be able to tell in advance if I'm going to be making a correct prediction or a wrong one? I'm going to become like a walking, talking game of Russian roulette!"

"But on the bright side, this proves you're fallible, like a normal person," he said. "It proves you're...human."

She frowned. "And what was I before? A chimpanzee?"

"You were, well, something kind of frightening," he said.

"Some _thing?_ " she repeated. At that moment, she found herself wondering exactly what it was about Calder York she found so appealing. His brutal honesty? His expressive blue eyes? His smile that made the ones in the toothpaste commercials pale in comparison?

Dammit, all of the above.

"So," she said, knowing how his entire life seemed to revolve around his book, "this sudden turn of events must really be confusing you. I mean, now will you write that I do have powers or I don't?"

"I'm not sure," he said, "I guess I'll have to find out whether this failure is just a one-time thing or a preview of things to come."

She seemed genuinely surprised. "You're serious? You're doubting I'm for real now, because of only _one_ mistake...even after all of the correct predictions you've witnessed?"

His smile was faint. "Well, yeah. Things are different now. I mean, you were _wrong_!"

"You don't have to keep rubbing it in," she muttered. "You know, I've never had a single reason to doubt myself before, and now that I suddenly have, I don't know how to deal with it." She looked down at her still-folded hands. "I don't know which is worse – knowing I'm right when I predict people's deaths...or wondering if I'm wrong. I've just always taken it for granted that I'm a hundred-percent right." She looked up at him. "You're absolutely _sure_ Pat is still alive?"

"Well, I haven't actually seen her with my own two eyes, but my mother told me she'd talked to her on the phone and she said she'd had a wonderful time on her bus trip to Boston. So unless my mother was hallucinating, I'd say the odds are pretty high that Pat is still kicking."

Meg's sigh was heavy. "I still can't believe...or understand...any of this. Nothing like this ever happened to my mother or grandmother. Why am I different?"

She seemed so confused and vulnerable at that moment, Calder felt a strong urge to try to somehow brighten her mood. After all, he reasoned, he was the one who'd ruined her morning...and probably her entire week, considering his behavior since their date.

"Tell you what," he said, "let me take your mind off all of this. I had to tell my mother a white lie yesterday because I needed to give her a reason why I was sticking around. So I told her you and I were becoming closer and had talked about going out to dinner tonight. So why don't we make it the truth? Let me take you out tonight, Meg. I promise you it won't end the same way our beach date did."

"Why?" She eyed him suspiciously. "Because now that I've failed, I seem more _human_ to you?"

He chuckled. "I deserved that."

Calder stood and walked over to the sofa. Taking Meg's hands into his, he pulled her to her feet and toward him until her body was touching his. He looked down into her eyes. "Please, give me another chance? Let me make it up to you. I know if I were you, I'd probably tell me to go jump, but I'm really hoping you won't."

Meg's breath caught in her throat as she felt his solid, muscular physique through her lightweight dress. She nearly had forgotten how good it felt to be held by a man. She knew the smart thing to do would be to refuse his invitation and tell him to just leave her alone and get out of her life. But instead, she hesitated only a moment before answering.

"Actually, I think I might enjoy a night out for a change." She instantly hated herself for so easily giving in and probably leaving herself wide open for more heartache. Still, she couldn't help herself.

"Good," Calder said, smiling. "Wear your best dress. And pick any restaurant you'd like. But promise me something?"

She cocked her head at him.

"Promise me that no mention of dying will be made the entire evening, even if you see a vision of me choking to death on a piece of steak?"

She smiled. "I promise. But just for the record, if I _do_ see a vision of you choking, I can't tell you about it anyway...unless you specifically _ask_ me to."

"I don't think I'd be able to – not with a chunk of steak stuck in my throat."

* * * * *

Calder couldn't take his eyes off Meg as he sat facing her across the table at LaBelle Bistro in Manchester that night. She wore her hair long, in soft waves, but pulled back on the sides to show her silver earrings, which sparkled in the candlelight. Her dress was simple: black, short, silky and low-cut. The necklace he'd bought for her was the only other jewelry she wore.

"This restaurant is really nice," she said to him. "Very cozy and...romantic. I've never been here before, but I've read a lot of good reviews about it in that entertainment guide that's free at all the supermarkets, so I thought it might be a nice place to try. It looks like one of those French restaurants you see in movies – the décor, the candlelight, the atmosphere. I just hope the food is as good as the ambiance."

"I'm glad you suggested it," he said. "Things have changed a lot since I lived in Manchester, so I don't know half the places in the city any more. When I was growing up, this was a men's clothing store."

Calder eyed their surroundings. The walls were whitewashed brick decorated with framed paintings and enlarged photographs, several of which were of Parisian sidewalk cafes and street vendors, from what he could tell. The ceiling was all wood, beamed and painted white. About a dozen tables were spaced throughout the room. Each was adorned with a white tablecloth, burgundy napkins and a cut-crystal candleholder with a thick white candle flickering in it. French-provincial-style chairs with gold brocade seats flanked each table. In the background, he could hear just a hint of soft violin music.

He returned his gaze to Meg. "By the way, have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?"

She smiled. "Yes, when you picked me up. You look pretty great yourself in your shirt and tie. I barely recognized you without your usual jeans and T-shirt."

"Well, don't get too used to this. I'm definitely a jeans kind of guy."

They ordered white wine. When their glasses arrived, Calder lifted his and said, "A toast." Meg raised her glass and stared at him.

"Here's to forgetting about past mistakes and moving forward...a fresh start," he said.

She clinked her glass against his. "Amen."

They savored their wine as they waited for their meals. Meg ordered the poached salmon with Hollandaise sauce, while Calder chose the chateaubriand in shallot and wine sauce.

"I can't remember the last time I went out to dinner with a man," Meg said. "I feel like I'm back in high school, having my first date all over again."

"Our day at the beach was our first date," Calder said. "So technically, this is our second."

Meg frowned. "I'd like to think of this as our first instead...with the hope it will turn out much better."

"I promise you it will," Calder said quietly. "I truly am sorry about that day, Meg."

"Didn't you just make a toast about forgetting the past and moving forward?" she asked. "Stop kicking yourself, Calder. I'm over it, I really am."

But she was lying. She knew she'd never get over the pain he'd caused her or how he'd been so quick to cast her aside as if she were some _thing_ to be discarded instead of a human being with feelings. She also could not forget how he nearly had disappeared from her life and returned to New York without even saying goodbye. No, she thought, feeling her jaw tighten, she might be able to forgive him, but she'd never forget.

Calder was relieved when their food was served and looked as if it had jumped directly off the pages of a French-cuisine magazine.

"This salmon is delicious," Meg said, immediately taking a second bite of her meal. "It's moist and flaky. The last time I had salmon at a restaurant, it was so dried out, it was like eating salmon jerky!"

"This meat is good too," he said. "Melts in my mouth."

_"Meat?"_ she giggled. "You're such a connoisseur! You sound as if you're eating the blue-plate special at the local diner!"

"Well, this is probably the same meat they serve at the diner," he said, chuckling. "They just give it a fancy name here and then charge quadruple for it."

"I really want to thank you for inviting me out tonight," Meg said. "You were right – I needed to get out. As you've witnessed, my life can become pretty overwhelming at times. The stress seems to come in spurts."

"You really should try to get out more, Meg. You're too young to stay home all the time like a recluse, the way you do."

"Sometimes it just simplifies things to avoid the rest of the world," she said softly. "If I don't see anyone, then I don't have any visions. It's much less complicated that way." She paused to smile at him. "But I really am enjoying being out with you tonight."

"Well, I think we should do this more often, then," he said.

He meant it, too. So far, the evening had been so relaxed and enjoyable, he found himself wanting to extend his stay in New Hampshire indefinitely. Although he preferred not to ever discuss the subject of death or Meg's predictions again, he knew he inevitably would – because he _had_ to know whether her mistake about Pat was solely a one-time occurrence...or the beginning of the end of Meg's powers. But for the moment, he was content to leave the matter far in the back of his mind. He wanted only to enjoy the evening and get to know Meg better, especially on a more personal level.

After their meal, Calder ordered chocolate mousse for them to share. Meg had insisted she was too full for dessert, but he convinced her to split the mousse with him.

As they waited for their dessert and coffee to be served, Calder's gaze drifted to another patron – a man probably in his early thirties, neatly dressed, with black hair, a bronze complexion and dark eyes. For some reason, he looked familiar. Calder thought he might be Italian or perhaps Hispanic. He also noticed the man was alone, had ordered only a cup of coffee, and kept glancing at his watch.

He also kept glancing at Meg.

"Do you know that guy sitting all by himself, over to your left?" Calder asked Meg.

She glanced over her shoulder and at the table.

"Actually, I do." She returned her attention to Calder. "He's the manager of the supermarket back in town. You know, the one across from the police station?"

"Yeah," Calder said with a nod. "Now that you mention it, I do remember seeing him there when I took Mom shopping the day I got here." He lifted his wine glass, looked down into it and swirled the wine a few times. He then drained the last of it and set the glass back down. "He looks Italian."

"Actually, I'm Greek."

Both Calder and Meg turned to look up at the subject of their discussion, who now was standing at their table.

"I'm Adam," he said. "Do you mind if I sit with you for a minute?"

Calder wanted to say, "Hell, yes, I mind! This is supposed to be a special night. And in case you're unaware, three's a crowd!"

But before he could open his mouth, Meg indicated the chair next to hers and invited Adam to sit. He didn't hesitate to pull out the chair and make himself comfortable.

"I apologize for interrupting your meal," he said. "But I've heard about your...gift, Miss Thorne, from Joe, the manager of your trailer park, and I've been meaning to call you for an appointment or session – however you refer to it. He gave me your address and I even drove by your place a few times and almost stopped, but I didn't have the courage, even when I saw you out in your yard."

Calder's first thought was that someone should put a gag on Joe, the park manager.

Adam took a deep breath and clasped his hands in front of him on the table. "Tonight, when I saw you walk in, I recognized you and thought it must be an omen, a twist of fate." He turned to look at her. "I think you know what I want."

_"Now?"_ Calder snapped. He was tempted to tell the guy that if he wanted someone to predict when he was going to die, _he_ could tell him. It was going to be in about thirty seconds, because he was on the verge of leaping across the table and strangling him for interrupting his date.

"We're trying to enjoy a nice dinner out," Calder said in a voice that sounded a lot calmer than he was feeling. "Can't you respect this poor woman's privacy? Can't it wait?"

"No, it can't," Adam said, shaking his head. "Otherwise, I never would have disturbed you. At least I tried to be respectful and wait until you ordered dessert."

As if on cue, the waiter approached and set down a cut-crystal stemmed bowl with a swirl of chocolate mousse in it, topped with dollop of whipped cream, a fresh mint leaf and a cherry with the stem on it. He also set down two burgundy napkins and placed a spoon on each, followed by two cups of steaming coffee.

"Thank you," Calder said.

"Can I get you anything else?" the waiter asked him. When Calder shook his head, he turned to Adam. "Anything for you, sir?"

"No, thank you," he answered tightly.

Once the waiter left to attend to another table, Adam said to Meg, "They say that many people know when they are about to die because they get a gut feeling beforehand. Well, I've been having that feeling for three days now. I need to know if it's all in my head. I need to be able to either forget about it and relax and get on with my life...or prepare for what's coming."

Meg nodded at him, then turned to Calder. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, Calder, I'm going to step outside with him. I can't take the chance of allowing anyone in here to overhear my prediction. It's against the...rules."

Calder stifled a groan of frustration and gave her a brief nod. "As long as it doesn't take too long."

His eyes followed Meg and Adam as the pair headed out the front door. He stabbed the chocolate mousse with his spoon and then ate a mouthful of it, but he was too irritated to taste it. _Some people sure have a hell of a lot of nerve!_

Meg and Adam returned to the table less than a minute later and sat down.

"Looks like my gut feeling was right," Adam said, sighing. "I guess my years of eating greasy fast food and smoking a pack a day are finally going to catch up with me at 1:05 in the morning."

Calder was surprised Adam chose to speak so openly about the prediction. He looked at his watch. "You're talking about only four hours from now?"

Adam nodded. "Doesn't give me much time to get my things in order, does it? Heck, I don't even have a will."

"She could be wrong," Calder heard himself saying. Meg's head snapped in his direction. "She was wrong just this week with one of her predictions."

"Really?" Adam said, staring at him. "But Joe swore to me that her record is a hundred-percent accurate."

"Well, that's all changed now," Calder said. "So don't just accept the prediction as being carved in stone."

"Is he telling the truth?" Adam looked at Meg.

"I'm afraid so," she said, studying her cup of coffee.

Adam pushed back his chair, then stood and smiled weakly. "Well, Miss Thorne, if you come into the supermarket tomorrow morning and I'm there working, you'll know whether or not you were right." His dark eyes met Calder's. "I'm really sorry to have interrupted your dinner. Enjoy your dessert."

He turned and walked out of the restaurant.

Meg looked up and stared silently at Calder, her eyes searching his face as she attempted to determine his mood.

"I'm so sorry, Calder," she finally said. "I know I promised you that death wouldn't be mentioned at all tonight, but who possibly could have guessed that someone from town would be here in the city, in this particular restaurant tonight? I mean, what are the odds?" When Calder didn't immediately respond, she asked, "Are you upset with me?"

"No," he said honestly. "I realize it wasn't your fault. And I know it might sound selfish of me, but I was kind of hoping I'd be able to check out another one of your predictions sooner, rather than later. Since you were wrong about Pat, it's been driving me nuts, wondering if you've lost your ability to predict. Now, I guess we'll both be able to find out. All we have to do is go to the supermarket in the morning, just as Adam suggested."

_"You_ can go," she said, sighing. "I don't think I want to know. Either way, I'll be upset."

"You'll be upset if he's still alive?"

"Yes," her voice was so soft, it barely reached the distance between them. "Because then I won't know who...or what...I am any more."

* * * * *

Calder stared up at the ceiling in his room at his mother's. He was on his back in bed, his hands behind his head on the pillow. The walls still were shadowed in semi-darkness, but there was just enough early-morning light coming through the blinds to enable him to make out everything in the room.

He sighed. Sleep had escaped him most of the night, which seemed to be a common occurrence since his arrival in New Hampshire. His dinner with Meg had been enjoyable, but when he brought her home and walked her to her doorstep, he'd given her only a brief hug and then said goodnight. She'd invited him in for a drink, but he had refused, saying he was tired.

And then he'd spent the rest of the night trying to figure out why.

A sexy, beautiful woman invited me in for a drink and I refused? What is wrong with me? And did I hurt her feelings yet again by turning down her invitation? Why can't I ever seem to do anything right when I'm with her?

He sensed it was partly due to the fact he still feared The Predictor in her, despite her incorrect prediction about Pat. That was another reason why he hadn't been able to sleep; he couldn't figure out why Meg suddenly had been wrong after being accurate her entire life. Something within her obviously had changed. But what? And why?

Calder sat up, shook his head and groaned. He was beginning to think that trying to solve the puzzle known as Meg was going to be the death of him, especially if he didn't start getting more sleep.

He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. In a little over an hour the local supermarket would be opening for business. He planned to be there. He had to find out whether or not Adam, the pain in the butt from the night before, had survived past his predicted death at 1:05 in the morning.

He climbed out of bed and headed into his mother's bathroom to search for the aspirin. All of the thinking he'd been doing lately had caused his head to ache more in only a few days than it had all year.

The bathroom had a door to the right, leading into his mother's bedroom, and a door at the front, accessible from the hallway. The bathroom was large and featured a garden tub, a separate shower stall facing it, and a walk-in closet with louvered doors that also concealed a washer and dryer. He entered the bathroom through the hallway door just as his mother entered through the bedroom one.

"Dear Lord!" she gasped and jumped, clutching her chest. "Calder! You scared me half to death! What are you doing in here this early? You usually don't take your shower until about ten."

"I'm looking for the aspirin," he said. "I have a headache."

Her eyebrows rose. "Too much wine with dinner last night?"

"No, too much Meg. The woman makes my head hurt."

"Sorry to hear that." She opened the cabinet over the sink and removed a bottle of aspirin, then handed it to him. "I thought the two of you were getting along fine for a change."

"Oh, we were...we are." He opened the bottle, popped two tablets into his hand, then replaced the cap and handed the bottle back to his mother. "We had a really nice meal and great conversation. She just confuses me, that's all. I've been lying awake all night trying to figure her out."

"Maybe it would be better if you didn't try to overthink things and just enjoyed her company?"

"I probably could do that...if I weren't trying to write a book about her. My manuscript is supposed to reflect my thoughts. And my thoughts are pretty messed up right now."

He exited the bathroom, leaving his mother to her privacy. "I'm going to be heading down to the supermarket in town," he called to her as he walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet next to the sink, filled it with tap water and then washed down the aspirin. "I thought I'd pick up some of my favorite snacks. Need anything?"

"Yes," she called back. "I'll write a list for you."

An hour later, Calder was in the supermarket. It was a family-owned business, but not as small as most of the neighborhood grocery stores in the state. This one was about half the size of one of the large chain-store supermarkets, and contained just about everything the people in town might need, which saved them a trip into the city. He thought the prices, however, were no bargain, even when considering New Hampshire had no sales tax.

Calder grabbed a shopping cart and wheeled it over to the deli counter, where he asked for a half-pound of imported ham – the first thing on his mother's list. As he stood waiting for the ham to be sliced, he turned to look behind him, hoping to catch a glimpse of Adam. Other than a clerk stocking a shelf of canned vegetables, he saw only customers.

The deli clerk, an older, gray-haired man, handed the ham to Calder. "Will that be all?"

"Yes, thank you." He took the ham. "Um, do you happen to know if Adam, the manager, is here this morning?"

"Gee, I don't know. I haven't seen him around yet, but he could be out back in the office."

Calder walked off and stopped at the nearby dairy case for butter, also on his mother's list. All the while, his eyes were scanning his surroundings, checking to see if Adam's head suddenly might pop up from behind one of the display racks.

Twenty minutes later, Calder had covered every inch of the store three times. He finally stopped roaming, but only because he was afraid he was beginning to look as if he might be casing the store to rob it. Every time an employee approached him and asked if he needed help finding anything – probably because of the way he kept peering into doorways and behind shelves – he smiled and said, "No thanks, I'm fine." Then, still smiling, he'd grab something from the nearest shelf and toss it into his cart. Now, as he wheeled his cart toward the checkout, he looked down into it and wondered what the heck he was going to do with, among other things, a box of tampons and a container of goldfish food.

A smiling clerk, who appeared to be in her late forties, greeted him at the register. He removed the items from his cart and placed them on the counter.

"You wouldn't happen to know if the manager, Adam, is in today, would you?" he asked her.

"Oh, he's not in yet," she said. "He called and said he was going to be late. But you can talk with Lorraine, the assistant manager if you'd like to speak to someone in charge. I can page her for you."

"No, that's okay," he said. "Do you happen to know _when_ Adam called to say he'd be late?"

It was important, Calder knew, to find out whether Adam had called last night right after he'd left the restaurant, or if he'd made the call that morning.

An attractive young woman with dark hair and glasses walked past the checkout area. "Lorraine!" the clerk called out to her. "Can you come over here a minute?"

She approached. "Yes?"

"This man," the clerk nodded at Calder, "wants to know what time Adam called about being late, and when he'll be in."

Lorraine looked at him, her expression wary.

"Oh, he's a friend of mine," Calder quickly explained. "I just saw him last night in Manchester and he was looking a bit under the weather. He said he hoped he'd be feeling better this morning so he could make it to work. So I was just wondering if he was okay."

"He said he'll probably be in about ten," Lorraine said, "if you want to come back then."

"When did he call?" he asked again, fearing he was pushing his luck. But he _had_ to know.

"I guess it was about seven this morning," she said. "Just before the store opened."

"Okay, thank you," he said, smiling.

Lorraine stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded and walked off. He paid for his groceries and started to put his bags into the shopping cart.

"Sorry," the clerk said. "We don't allow the shopping carts to leave the store."

Calder turned to look at her. "Then how am I supposed to get my groceries out to my car?"

She reached underneath the counter and rang a buzzer. In a flash, a man who looked old enough to be his father appeared, towing a dolly behind him. He grabbed the bags from the counter, stacked them onto the dolly and then turned to Calder. "Lead the way."

He followed Calder out to his car – actually, it was his mother's car, a white Dodge Shadow – and loaded the groceries into the back seat. Calder reached into his wallet and took out a dollar to tip the man.

"No, no," he said, putting up his hands in protest. "We're not allowed to accept tips. Have a nice day."

Calder thought he could get used to shopping at this supermarket, despite the prices.

During the three-mile drive back to his mother's, he could think of nothing but the fact Meg had been wrong again. If Adam had called the store that morning, it was pretty obvious he hadn't died at 1:05 a.m., as she had predicted he would. He figured Adam probably had called to say he'd be late because he hadn't slept a wink after going through the stress of believing he was going to be taking his final breath.

Calder backed the car into his mother's driveway, then got out and opened the back door. He removed three paper bags of groceries and carried them inside. When he returned for the last two bags, he spotted Meg walking up the street.

"Meg!" he called out.

She smiled and walked over to him. "You're up early," she said. "I thought you'd be sleeping in, seeing you were _so_ tired last night." She was referring to his abrupt departure after their dinner date.

"I woke up at the crack of dawn and couldn't get back to sleep, so I figured I might as well get up. Where are you heading?"

"Just taking my daily morning walk," she said. She looked past him and into the car. "Been to the supermarket, I see." She smiled knowingly at him. "So? What's the verdict on Adam?"

"You really want to know?"

"No, but I suppose I should."

"He didn't come into work this morning."

"Really?" Her eyes widened.

"But he called in at about seven a.m. to say he'd be late."

She frowned. "Oh...I see."

Calder knew he didn't have to say it, but he did anyway. "I guess that means you were wrong again."

She leaned back against the car and folded her arms. "I just don't understand it, Calder. I'm beginning to think _you're_ the reason behind this slump of mine."

His mouth fell open. "Me? Why?"

"Because I'd never been wrong until you came into my life. Maybe you're giving off a negative aura or something when you're around me...because you have so many doubts."

"Me? A doubter? Why would you ever think that?" He smiled, then added, his tone teasing, "Maybe you can't concentrate any more because you've fallen so madly in love with me, it's completely messed up your powers."

Her expression told him his words hadn't amused her. "I think it might be difficult to fall madly in love with a guy who shows no romantic interest in me whatsoever." She looked directly at him. "So tell me, because I've really been wondering, why did you end our evening so abruptly last night? Was I mistaken to think it was a date? Were we actually just a couple of buddies sharing a meal together? I mean, you didn't give me even so much as a peck on the cheek when we said goodnight! To be honest, the way you acted didn't do a whole lot for my ego."

He felt the heat rise from his neck up to his face. "No, you weren't mistaken. It definitely was a date. And I honestly don't know why I didn't try to kiss you, Meg. Believe me, it wasn't because I didn't want to."

"I think it was because of Adam," she said, gazing down at her feet. "Everything seemed fine until he interrupted our dinner. And once again, just like at the beach, you were reminded that I'm not _normal_ , even though I could tell you were desperately trying all night to convince yourself that I am."

Calder moved closer to stand directly in front of her. With the crook of his index finger, he lifted her chin until she was looking directly up at him. Without saying a word, he leaned and kissed her. Her lips were soft and receptive. She slipped her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his.

"Calder!" his mother's voice came from the front steps. "Where are the rest of the groceries? You brought in only half of them and then disappeared! And why on earth did you buy tampons? They certainly weren't on my list! I haven't needed those things in over ten years!" When she saw him kissing Meg in the driveway, she quickly added, "Oops! Sorry! I didn't know you had a guest!"

Calder broke away from Meg and took a deep breath. He had wanted that kiss to last a lot longer. He was certain all of the neighbors were peering out of their windows, watching them, because his mother always complained about not being able to set foot outside her door without seeing curtains parting or fingers opening the slats in the blinds. But he didn't care. Heck, he thought, if the neighbors wanted to snoop at Meg and him, he was more than willing to give them a _real_ show.

"Coming, Mom!" he said, reaching into the car for the remaining bags of groceries.

"Tampons?" Meg repeated, her eyebrows arching.

"They, um, must have been put into my cart by mistake," he said. "But knowing my mother, she'll make me take them back to the store for a refund!"

She smiled. "You and your mother are very...unique...people, Calder."

"I can't argue with that," he said, slowly shaking his head. He hesitated a moment before adding, "So, are you free tonight?"

She nodded.

"Want to go see a movie?"

She shook her head.

"Oh, okay." His disappointment was obvious.

She clasped her hand over his arm and looked up at him. "I'd rather stay home and have you come over...just the two of us...alone. Join me for dinner?"

His eyes held hers. "Sounds like a much better plan."

"See you at seven, then?"

"Definitely."

He stood there, holding the bags of groceries in his arms as he watched her walk away. He was momentarily hypnotized by the sway of her shapely backside, clad in rose-colored shorts, as she disappeared around the corner.

He felt one of the grocery bags being snatched out of his arms. "You're going to melt my butter!" his mother said.
CHAPTER NINE

Meg tasted the pasta sauce for about the thirtieth time.

"Needs more of a kick," she said, adding a pinch of red pepper flakes to it. She slowly stirred her creation, all the while hoping Calder would like it. In the oven, the meatballs she'd made to add to the sauce were browning nicely. The salad was tossed and arranged in two individual bowls in the refrigerator, and she'd made an Italian herb-dressing to go with it. The only thing she had left to do was cook the pasta, but she had to wait until after Calder arrived to do that.

She poured a glass of ice water, then sipped it as she leaned against the counter. Finally, she thought, she would have a private evening with Calder. She vowed not to answer the door to anyone after he arrived. She'd also turned off the ringers on all of her phones. There was no way she was about to let anyone interrupt their special evening.

Earlier, she had dragged the kitchen table into the living room, which she felt had more atmosphere. She'd then covered the table with a red-checkered tablecloth and set it with tapered candles, red napkins and her rose-patterned flatware. She hoped Calder would be impressed.

Now, as the moment when he would be arriving drew closer, Meg found herself feeling almost panicky. She couldn't dismiss the thought that even though she had taken every precaution not to, she probably still would end up doing something to spoil their evening together.

But, she reminded herself, she probably was worrying for nothing. After all, Calder finally had kissed her and he'd eagerly accepted her dinner invitation. So things already were looking up

She sighed, recalling his kiss. It had been wonderful but, in her opinion, much too brief. Still, it had lasted long enough to stir something within her that she hadn't felt in a long time...passion.

"Speaking of stirring," she said out loud, "I'd better stir the sauce before it burns." She set down her glass of water and lifted the big wooden spoon from the counter, then gave the sauce a few swishes with it. She turned the burner down to its lowest setting so the sauce would simmer. A minute later, she slid her right hand into an oven mitt, opened the oven door, removed the pan of meatballs and set it on the counter. With everything going so smoothly, she decided to take a moment to freshen up before Calder arrived.

She went into the bathroom, brushed her hair and pulled it back at the base of her neck, then clasped it in an abalone barrette. She reapplied her mauve lip-gloss and stepped back to study her reflection in the mirror. Her mint-green sundress had a low-cut sweetheart neckline and spaghetti straps that tied at her shoulders. She thought it clung to her body in all of the right places. The slate-gray eyeliner and black mascara she'd carefully applied earlier made her eyes seem to pop.

"Yep!" She smiled with satisfaction. "I'm ready!"

Calder arrived ten minutes later. He was wearing a light-blue shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and khakis. In his hand was a bottle of white wine.

"I nearly got arrested walking over here," he said as he stepped inside. "A cop drove past me and stared at the wine bottle. Good thing I was walking straight, or he'd probably have tried to nab me for public drunkenness."

She laughed and gave him a welcoming hug. "Luckily, you look too sharp tonight to be mistaken for a drunk."

"Oh, so you're saying if I'd been wearing my usual clothes, I might have been?"

"No comment."

She led the way into the living room and he followed.

"This looks nice," he said, eyeing the table. "I feel special. I expected to eat in the kitchen."

"You _are_ special," she said. "You're my first dinner guest here. Have a seat." She lit the candles on the table. "I'll get some glasses for the wine."

"Smells good in here!" he called after her. He could detect peppers, onions, garlic and oregano.

Meg returned with two wine glasses and set them down on the table. Calder opened the wine and poured it.

"I made spaghetti and meatballs, salad and rolls," she said.

"Good, I'm starving. I spent all day working on my book and didn't even break for lunch."

"Oh? So you're feeling inspired?"

"Yes, actually."

"Good. I hope you kept your promise and aren't using my real name?"

"I kept my promise. In my book, your name is Rebecca."

"I kind of like that – it's pretty."

"It was either that, or Brunhilda," he said.

She laughed. "Thanks a lot! Isn't that the name of some old cartoon witch?"

"I think you're thinking of Broom-Hilda." He grinned.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I have to go cook the pasta now."

Calder was pleased that his seat at the table was angled so he could see out to the kitchen and watch Meg as she cooked. He enjoyed the way she sampled the sauce and then sprinkled more seasoning into it. He enjoyed the way she tested a strand of pasta to see if it needed to be cooked longer. And most of all, he enjoyed the way her pale-green dress hugged her body as she moved about.

The meal Meg served genuinely impressed Calder. The sauce was thick and spicy, the meatballs were tender, juicy and perfectly seasoned, and the pasta was cooked just the way he liked it – al dente. Whenever he cooked his own pasta, it usually ended up in a big ball in the pot, and was sticky enough to use as an adhesive.

For dessert, Meg served parfaits – layers of fresh fruit, whipped cream and a rich vanilla custard – in tall glasses with long spoons. Calder noticed there were blackberries in the parfaits and figured they were some of the ones they had picked together.

"That was fantastic," he said when he'd finished eating. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. "I think I gained about five pounds. You never mentioned what a great cook you are."

"I manage," she said. "The only person I usually cook for is myself, so I really don't know if I'm good or not. I tend to be my own worst critic."

"Well, if you need someone to test your recipes, I'm available."

"Will you help wash the dishes, too?"

He glanced in the direction of the kitchen. "You don't have a dishwasher?"

"Yeah, two." She held up both hands. "Righty and Lefty."

He laughed. "Okay, you wash and I'll dry?"

"Fine. Allow me to get you your official drying towel."

After the dishes had been washed, dried and put away, Calder moved the table and chairs back into the kitchen. He and Meg then each took another glass of wine into the living room and sat on the sofa.

She snuggled against him and tucked her legs underneath her. He slipped his arm around her and she rested her head against his chest. For the first time, she smelled a hint of men's cologne on him. It was slightly spicy but light, not a heavy scent.

"Mmmm, you smell good," she whispered. "What is it?"

"Aramis," he said. "My favorite."

Actually, it had been Eden's favorite, but he thought it might not be wise to mention that his ex-girlfriend had selected it and bought it for him. Still, he reasoned, what was he supposed to do with it after they broke up? Toss out a bottle of perfectly good cologne?

"I like it. You have good taste," she said. "I think I must smell like 'Eau de Garlic' after chopping it for the sauce!"

He lowered his head to sniff her hair. "Your hair kind of smells like lemons to me."

"My shampoo," she said.

Suddenly, Meg's throat felt dry and her heart began to race. She didn't want to make any more small talk about shampoos and cologne. She wanted Calder to give her some clue he desired her – some sign he thought of her as more than just a subject for his book. She didn't want to be The Predictor in his eyes. She wanted to be a sexy, irresistible woman. Even though she was experiencing a nearly uncontrollable urge to throw her arms around him and kiss him, she vowed not to make the first move. She wanted _him_ to make it – to prove to her that he wanted her.

Calder could feel the heat of Meg's body pressed against his side. His hand massaged her bare shoulder as he took another sip of wine. Her skin felt so soft and silky beneath his fingers, he wanted to touch every inch of it. He gritted his teeth and attempted to quell a sudden raging desire to carry her into the bedroom and make love to her. A part of him felt guilty for even thinking such thoughts, considering he had spent the entire day rewriting his book and painting a new picture of Meg as...well, a fake. He'd even attempted to discredit her earlier predictions, citing the ways in which she might have manipulated events to make her predictions appear real, even to the point of having something to do with Joanne's murder. And he'd attributed the boy's drowning to nothing more than a series of unfortunate coincidences. Did he believe what he'd written? Not a word of it. He knew in his heart Meg's powers were real – or at least they _had_ been until recently – but how could he convince his readers she was the miracle woman she proclaimed to be, when she'd made two wrong predictions? Those errors had complicated everything.

So, instead he'd decided that fabricating her story was easier than trying to figure out what was real and what wasn't. Besides that, he didn't have the luxury of time on his side to wait around for any more of her predictions. His deadline was approaching much too rapidly.

The fact Calder was referring to Meg as Rebecca Brighton in his book made him feel a little less guilty about the changes he'd made to her story. Also, his other three books had been nonfiction. This one, he'd decided, mostly out of desperation, was going to be fiction. That way, he could alter the facts in any way he wanted without risking having the police knocking at his door and grilling him for more information about "Rebecca," the alleged murderer. He was concerned, however, about how Richard and his publisher were going to react when he announced he had switched to writing fiction. He knew the whole thing could backfire and put an abrupt end to his writing career.

He felt he had made a fair effort to write a true story about Meg and to honestly express his feelings. But he'd quickly realized it was impossible for him to describe what was going on his head, not only because he was so confused, but also because so much of it was too painful for him to relive. He prayed Meg wouldn't be too upset with him in the future when she read his book and discovered he had, for the most part, mocked her powers and called her a fraud...and portrayed her as someone other than her true self.

"A penny for your thoughts," Meg's soft voice broke the silence.

Calder sighed and studied the wine in his glass. "I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want to know what I'm thinking right now." His tone was flat, even cold.

When she didn't respond, he looked at her. He could tell by her expression he'd done it again. He'd hurt her feelings.

Calder set down his wine glass on the coffee table, then took hers from her and set it next to his. Without speaking, he lowered his head and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss at first – tentative, cautious. He tasted the wine on her soft lips, and his own lips became more demanding. Meg reached up and slid her arms around his neck, pulling him more tightly to her. His hands slid down her bare arms, massaging her smooth skin as he continued to kiss her, deeply, hungrily.

Meg was surprised by the kiss. One minute Calder had seemed pensive and withdrawn, and the next, passionate and fiery. His fingers felt hot on her skin, as if they were delivering electrical shocks with each touch. She broke away from the kiss only to lie back on the sofa, pulling him on top of her. She clung to him, loving the feel of his solid body nearly crushing hers. His mouth covered hers in a series of kisses that were so intense, she barely could catch her breath.

It was only when she felt his hand slide down to her breast that she came to her senses.

What am I doing? I can't allow this to happen! I can't!

She abruptly ended the kiss and turned her head to the side. She took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm the waves of desire he had incited within her. Calder rose up onto his elbows so he could look down at her.

"I-I'm sorry, Calder," she managed to say, closing her eyes and not turning to look at him. "I'm not ready for this yet. I thought I was, but as much as I want you, I realize it's still too soon for me."

He sat up and then reached down to smooth back a lock of her hair that had escaped from her barrette. "I understand," he said. He released a long, shaky breath. "I may not like it – especially at this moment – but I respect your decision."

"Thank you," she whispered. She sat up, tugged down the bunched-up skirt of her dress, and embraced him. She leaned her head against his chest and could hear his heart hammering. She smiled with satisfaction.

He really does think I'm desirable!

* * * * *

"Mom, you didn't have to wait up for me," Calder said when he returned from Meg's. "I mean, what if I had decided not to come home at all?"

"Then I probably would have gone over to Margaret's to see if you were okay!" She was sitting in her recliner and wearing a robe, flip-flops, and her favorite pink hair-curlers. She paused before adding, "And if I caught you in the act of doing anything X-rated, I'd have dragged you back home by your ear!"

"Um, I hate to break this to you, but I'm not seventeen any more. I'm a grown man."

"You'll always be my baby. And if you ever have your own kids, which, considering the current lack of a prospective wife in your life, seems pretty unlikely, you'll understand what it means to be a parent."

"I'm in no hurry. Men don't have biological time-clocks like women do."

"Speaking of clocks," she said, glancing at the one on the wall, "you're actually home much earlier than I expected. What happened? Did Margaret shoot you down?"

He shook his head and walked over to the fridge, where he removed a can of beer, popped open the top and took a sip. He returned to the living room and sat on the sofa.

"We had a good meal, good conversation and then called it a night," he said.

"No hanky panky?"

He rolled his eyes. "No, Mom."

But only because Meg stopped me!

"So, what's been going on with Margaret lately anyway?" she asked. "Has she made any more predictions?"

"Yeah, and both of them were wrong."

"Are you serious?" Her chin dropped.

"'Fraid so. And she can't understand why. She thinks I may have something to do with her 'aura' or something, because she never was wrong before I came into her life."

"I'll bet it's _love_!" his mother said. "She's falling in love with you and it's affecting her mind and her powers!"

Calder laughed. "I actually joked with her about that earlier today, but she failed to see the humor in it. She's _not_ falling in love with me, believe me."

"And what makes you so sure?"

He thought about the sudden ending to his anticipated night of romance with Meg. He also thought about taking a cold shower. "Just take my word for it."

His mother's expression turned thoughtful. "Gee, how do I know that her prediction about _me_ , living to be in my nineties, was correct now? What if she was wrong about me, too? I could die tonight!" She laid her left hand on her chest to check her heartbeat.

"Mom, please, don't worry about it. Do me a favor and just enjoy every day, one day at a time, and stop worrying about when you're going to die? This is the reason why _I_ haven't asked Meg for a prediction. It becomes too much of a focus, kind of like a constant black cloud hanging over your head."

"But I really am worried now, Calder. I left Margaret's feeling upbeat and positive. Now I feel...well, scared! Maybe Joanne's murderer will come after me next! Maybe we should drain the water out of the toilets before we go to bed tonight!"

Calder groaned. "If it makes you feel any better, there was a woman's death she predicted _after_ yours, and it happened exactly when and how Meg said it would. So obviously she still had her powers when she predicted yours."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you just saying that to make me feel better?"

"No, I swear I'm telling the truth."

"I'm not sure I believe you."

"It was Marie Turcotte – that woman who had the motorcycle come crashing through her picture window over on River Road. I was right there when Meg made the prediction."

She gaped at him. "She _really_ predicted that?"

"I swear it."

"Do you swear on your father's grave?"

"I swear on Dad's grave."

He watched a look of relief slowly cross his mother's face.

"That makes me feel a little better," she said. "Not that Marie Turcotte is dead, but that Meg predicted it. I was a little panicky there for a minute."

"Gee, really?" He smiled at her. He stood, holding his can of beer. "If you'll excuse me now, I'm going to go take a cold shower and then I'm going to write a little more on my book before going to bed. See you in the morning."

"A _cold_ shower, eh?" She winked at him. "Then I was right about Margaret shooting you down!"

There were times, Calder thought, when he wished he didn't have a romance writer for a mother. She knew too darned much about dating, relationships and especially about sex. He'd read a couple of her books and nearly had needed a cold shower after those, too.

"No, it's just hot out, and I need to cool off," he said.

"Hot out? Hot _pants_ is more like it!" she said to his back.

* * * * *

Meg reached for the phone on the bookcase-style headboard of her bed the next morning. Its ringing had awakened her from a much-too-brief sleep, and she found herself wishing she had forgotten to turn the ringer back on after Calder left the night before.

She had slept fitfully, tossing and turning, remembering the feel of Calder's lips, his touch. One moment she hated herself for stopping him and the next, she was convinced it had been the only fair thing to do, especially for his sake.

"Hello?" She stifled a yawn.

"So when do I get my money?" the male voice responded.

She sat up, her eyes wide. "I haven't had the chance to get to the bank yet. But don't worry, I'll pay you."

"When?"

"By the end of the week."

"Look, I did everything you asked me to. I thought I did a damned good job of it, too."

"Yes, you did – even better than I'd anticipated."

"Then I want my money today, in cash. What time can I come over?"

"You can't come here! Someone might see you."

"By _someone_ , you mean _him_ , don't you?"

Meg detected jealousy in his voice. "Well, yes. You _know_ he was my reason for doing this."

"And did your plan succeed?"

She sighed. "I honestly don't know. Calder is a very complicated man. He's difficult to read."

"Well, _Calder_ is going to find out that you hired me if you don't pay me today."

"Okay. I'll go to the bank this morning. Then I'll meet you somewhere away from here – somewhere that's not directly in the public eye."

"How about that old cemetery on Route 28, the one that's right up the road from your place? If anyone sees us, we'll just look like we've come to mourn together at one of the graves."

"Fine. How about noon?"

"See you then."

Meg hung up the phone, then lay back on her pillow. The pillowcase was sky-blue satin, just like the sheets she'd put on the bed the day before, in anticipation of sleeping with Calder. She'd also cleaned every inch of her bedroom, picking up the clothes that were draped over the blue velvet chair, and dusting even the tops of the curtains.

"Well, at least the bedroom is clean now," she said out loud and sighed. "So my efforts weren't a total waste. It's too bad I chickened out and Calder never got to see this room."

The moment she said Calder's name, her thoughts returned to the phone call and her promise to meet the caller at noon.

What have I done? How sick and desperate am I to involve myself in something like this? I'm nothing but a living, breathing, lie, and very soon, Calder will find that out and hate me for it! What do I stand to gain from all of this? Nothing! What do I stand to lose? Everything!

* * * * *

Calder spent the day working on his book. Now that he'd changed it to fiction, it was easier to write because he could manipulate the plot to suit his needs. By the time he stopped working, it nearly was time for dinner. Once again, he'd skipped lunch.

"Hey, Mom," he said, emerging from the den and stretching. "Are there still any drive-in movie theaters in Manchester? Remember when I was a kid, how we'd go all the time? I'd wear my pajamas and fall asleep in the back seat before the second movie even started. There were how many drive-ins in the area back then...four?"

"Yes, and one in Concord," she said. She paused from peeling potatoes at the kitchen counter and smiled at him. "Those were some great times. I liked the drive-in on South Willow Street the best. The place was huge! And their refreshment stand had the best food."

She rinsed the potatoes, then began to cut them into chunks and toss them into a pot. "There are only two drive-ins around here now that I'm aware of," she said. "One in Milford and one at Weirs Beach."

Calder glanced at the clock on the stove. "Both are about an hour's drive," he said. "Doesn't give me much time."

"Why? Are you thinking about going to a drive-in tonight? I just started making dinner for us!"

"Well, considering how late it is, I guess tomorrow night would be better," he said. "I was thinking of inviting Meg. She prefers to go to places where there's no chance of someone walking up to her and asking for a prediction, so a drive-in movie would be perfect. She did mention, however, that she doesn't have a TV because she has death visions of every actor she sees and she can't concentrate on the programs. So maybe she wouldn't want to go to a drive-in."

His mother laughed. "If you're inviting a beautiful woman to a drive-in and are worried about whether or not she'll be able to concentrate on the movie, then you're probably too old to be going! I thought the whole point of couples going to drive-ins was _not_ to watch the movie? Otherwise, why not just go to a regular indoor movie theater?"

"I suppose," Calder said. "But a regular movie theater would put Meg in the middle of a bunch of other people, which would be even more uncomfortable for her. Would you believe at the restaurant the other night, some guy came over and sat down with us because he recognized her? And then he wanted a prediction?"

"Well, that's just plain rude."

"At least he waited until we ordered dessert. But still, it kind of ruined what could have been a romantic dinner for two." He went over to the counter to make a closer inspection of what his mother was doing. "Speaking of dinner, what are you making? I'm really hungry. I forgot to eat lunch again."

"Baked chicken, mashed potatoes and fresh corn on the cob," she said. "And you have to stop forgetting to eat lunch! You're going to end up looking as if I've been starving you while you're here!"

"Well, I'll just have to make up for skipping lunch by pigging out on dinner tonight. So make extra mashed potatoes."

"I've already peeled enough potatoes to feed about six people."

"Sounds just about right. I'm going to go call Meg now and see how she's doing. I also want to thank her for the nice dinner last night. She's a great cook."

His mother turned to look at him. "Better than I am?"

"No, never, Mom. You're the best."

Calder, followed by Molly, walked down to his bedroom and sat on the bed. Molly jumped up and curled up next to him, her head resting on his thigh. He scratched her behind the ears, then picked up his phone and called Meg. There was no answer. Her answering machine wasn't on, either, so he couldn't leave a message.

"Well, Molly," he said, hanging up the phone. He rubbed her neck. "Meg must be out. I was beginning to think she never left this park by herself. I guess she finally must have needed groceries or something. I'll try again after dinner, and then if there's still no answer, I'll walk over there to see if she's okay. I also want to invite her to a drive-in tomorrow night. I think it would be fun."

Molly looked at him as if to say, "Who cares? Just shut up and keep rubbing me!"

Calder tried to call Meg again at about 8:30 that night. Still, there was no answer. He was becoming concerned.

"I'm going over to check on Meg," he said to his mother as he breezed past her and opened the front door. "She's not answering her phone, and I want to make sure she's okay."

"It's kind of late to be out roaming around in the dark. They might think you're that guy who killed Joanne. Why don't you take the car?"

"I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

The streets in the park were dark, not only because of the thick woods that surrounded the entire perimeter of the place, but because the streetlights were located only at the beginning and end of each street. The areas in between were unlit, other than an occasional porch light.

Calder rounded the corner and spotted what he thought was a big cat on the front lawn at one of the mobile homes. When he got closer, he stopped dead. It was a skunk. He waited, unmoving, holding his breath until the skunk waddled off into the woods.

"I don't know which is worse," he muttered as he continued his walk, "the rats in New York City or the skunks here in New Hampshire." He recalled his mother telling him the summer before that Molly had been sprayed by a skunk. He could understand why.

The air was damp with a fine mist falling, and it was beginning to get foggy. Calder thought it wouldn't have been a good night for the drive-in because he and Meg probably wouldn't have been able to see the screen through the fog. He smiled. _My Mom is right! I really must be getting old if I'm worried about not being able to see the movie at a drive-in!_

He was surprised by the number of mobile homes he passed that had no shades or blinds in the windows, and what appeared to be every interior light turned on. He could see two pajama-clad boys climbing and playing on their bunk beds. And in another home, there was a hugely overweight woman doing the dishes and standing directly in front of the kitchen window, which was above the sink. She had a cigarette between her lips and was wearing only a black bra. He couldn't tell what she was wearing on the bottom half, but he felt pretty sure he was better off not knowing.

As he approached Meg's place, he noticed there were no lights on inside, and her Volkswagen wasn't in the driveway. She apparently was out for the evening. A pang of jealousy stabbed at him as he wondered with whom. He silently scolded himself. It was none of his business what Meg did when she wasn't with him. After all, it wasn't as if she and he were involved in an exclusive or serious relationship. Also, he reasoned, she was an attractive woman who, if she wanted to, probably could get a date for every night of the week. Did he expect her to sit around waiting only for him?

Even though he knew it was pointless, Calder still knocked on her door. As he'd anticipated, there was no answer.

He took the long way home rather than the direct route. He thought if he stretched out his walk long enough, he might spot Meg's Volkswagen heading back into the park. Twice, headlights came toward him, but when the vehicles passed, they turned out to be a pickup truck and a Ford Explorer.

"So," his mother greeted him when he entered the living room. "You weren't gone very long. Is Margaret okay?"

"She wasn't home," he said. "She's probably out on a date with some young stud who's closer to her age."

"Do I detect some jealousy?"

"Yeah, a little, I guess."

"I can't picture Meg with someone young and immature," she said. "She strikes me as someone who's intelligent and much older than her years. She needs a man – like you – not a boy!"

He forced a smile. "To be honest, I don't think she could do much worse than me, considering the way I've acted. I wouldn't blame her one bit if she went out with someone else."

"Don't worry about her. She's probably out shopping at Wal-Mart. I think it's open 24 hours now."

"You're probably right. I'll call her again in the morning."

But he didn't believe for one second that Meg was at Wal-Mart.

CHAPTER TEN

Calder and his mother had just finished eating their breakfast of cheese omelets and bacon the next morning when there was a knock at the door. Before his mother could get up from the table, Calder was at the door, opening it.

"Pat!" his mother greeted their visitor when she stepped inside. "We were just about to have some coffee. Come join us!"

Pat entered the kitchen and seated herself at the table. The petite, gray-haired woman was wearing a brightly flowered sleeveless blouse and turquoise shorts.

She looked pretty healthy for a dead woman, Calder thought.

Molly rushed over to Pat and nuzzled her leg behind the knee.

"Well, hi there, Molly," Pat said, scratching her behind the left ear. "Do you smell Daisy, my cat, on me?"

Calder's mother poured coffee into three ceramic mugs, then placed them on the kitchen table and took a seat.

"I came over because I have _very_ interesting news!" Pat said. She lifted one of the mugs, then paused and took a sip of her coffee. Calder sensed she deliberately was trying to build up the anticipation for whatever news she was about to deliver. Pat set the mug back down. "They arrested Joanne Upton's _son_ for her murder! They caught him trying to pawn some of her things."

Calder's mother gasped. "No! Her own son?"

"Unfortunately, the boy took after his no-good father and was really into drugs. I guess he must have been desperate for money and when Joanne wouldn't give him any...he killed her."

"That's really sad," Calder said.

"Poor, poor, Joanne," his mother added. "Can you imagine what she must have gone through just before she died, knowing it was her own son who was killing her? I mean, she gave _birth_ to him!"

"Well, I'm relieved he's been caught," Calder said. "Maybe now, all of the women in the neighborhood can stop worrying and get a decent night's sleep for a change."

"As it turns out, we all really did have good reason to worry," Pat said. "The police found evidence out back here in the woods that he'd been camping out there for a while, apparently just waiting for the right moment to pay a visit to his mother. When I think of him being out there, it gives me the shivers!"

"Dear Lord!" Sarah said. "That's terrible! You mean, when I was hanging my laundry out on the clothesline, he might have been peering at me through the bushes and getting cheap thrills from my bras and panties?"

Calder stared down into his coffee mug as an overwhelming feeling of guilt overcame him. If he had told the police about the guy he'd seen in the woods, he wondered, would Joanne still be alive? But, he reasoned, the guy had only _looked_ creepy – he hadn't said or done anything outwardly threatening, other than resting his hand on his knife. So for what reason, Calder wondered, would he have reported him to the police prior to Joanne's death? For trespassing? He didn't even know who owned the woods that surrounded the mobile-home park. But if Joanne's son had been trespassing by being out there, well, then so had he, because he'd been out there, too.

"It will be all over the news tonight," Pat said. "But I got the exclusive inside scoop from Joe, the park manager. His brother is a part-time cop here in town, you know."

"That Joe really gets around, doesn't he?' Calder muttered, thinking the guy probably already had blabbed his "exclusive" news to half the residents in the park only five minutes after he'd heard it.

"Yeah, if you want to know anything, just ask Joe!" Pat said. "He's better than a subscription to the local newspaper."

"So, Pat," Calder began, deciding to change the subject, mainly in an attempt to temporarily blot out his feelings of guilt, "my mom tells me you had a good time on your trip to Boston?"

"Oh, it was wonderful!" she said. "I'd seriously considered canceling it because of all the stress I was going through, what with Joanne and the fire, but I would have lost my $100 deposit. So I decided to go and make the best of it. As it turned out, it did me a lot of good to get away. We visited all of the tourist attractions – Boston Common, the Freedom Trail, Fenway Park, Fanueil Hall, and we even saw that bar the TV show, 'Cheers,' was based on! Then we had a nice dinner and went to see a musical at the Wilbur. I was exhausted by the time I finally got to my hotel room."

"Private room?" Calder asked.

"No, I had to share it with Rena. Who would have guessed the woman snores like a buzz saw? I was awake most of the night! Still, it was a nice trip and I had a lot of fun."

Calder wondered how the heck Pat could have had so much fun when she'd thought she was about to die. He wished he could talk to her alone and find out more details, particularly what she had done after hearing Meg's prediction. Had she gone to the hospital as she'd told Meg she intended to, and the doctors had given her some miracle cocktail to ward off the stroke? He really wanted to know.

His opportunity arose only a few minutes later.

"I love coffee," his mother said, rising from her seat. "But it goes right through me! You two will excuse me for a moment?"

Both Calder and Pat nodded. Calder waited until he heard the bathroom door slam before he turned to look at Pat.

"Margaret Thorne told me you came to her house for a prediction the day before you went to Boston," he said, his voice lowered.

She stared at him, her expression clearly confused. "I never asked Margaret for a prediction. Why would she tell you something like that?"

"Pat, you can be honest with me. Meg told me you gave her permission to tell me everything, and she did. You don't have to hide it from me."

"Calder, I swear I'm telling you the truth. The last time I talked to Margaret was when she was walking by one day as I was getting my mail, and she said hello. And that was even before Joanne died. Believe me, I don't _want_ any prediction! I'd much rather remain clueless!"

"But what about your high blood pressure, and your impending stroke?"

Her forehead creased. "High blood pressure? If anything, my blood pressure is too low. I get lightheaded if I stand up too fast. And a stroke?" A brief look of panic crossed her face. "Margaret told you I'm supposed to have a stroke? When?"

"At about 4:00 in the afternoon on the day you went to Boston," he said. "So you're safe, obviously." He was silent for a moment, then asked, "You wouldn't lie to me about this, would you?"

She shook her head. "No, of course not. But now you have me wondering why on earth Margaret _would!_ "

"My thoughts exactly." He heard the toilet flush and whispered, "Promise me you won't mention any of this to my mother?"

"If that's what you want."

His mother returned and she and Pat began talking about recipes for squash pie. Calder tuned them out and thought back to the day Meg had informed him that Pat had asked for a prediction. He recalled that no mention of Pat had been made until just before he'd been ready to leave and head back to New York. That was when Meg suddenly had told him she thought he should stay because his mother would be so devastated by Pat's death, she would need to lean on him.

She lied to keep me here! Also, I'd spent that entire visit telling Meg how much she scared me and how I was having trouble separating her from The Predictor. By making a fake prediction about Pat and looking as if she'd finally been wrong, she probably was hoping I'd change my mind about her!

So, he thought, Meg hadn't been wrong with her prediction about Pat after all. It was all a hoax. But what about Adam, the guy at the restaurant? She'd been wrong about him, too...or _had_ she? Calder now was suspicious their "chance meeting" at the restaurant might have been prearranged to further convince him she was losing her powers and becoming more...normal. After all, Meg was the one who'd chosen the restaurant. It would have been easy for her to set up the "accidental" meeting.

Calder stood. "I have to go see Meg," he said. "If you ladies will excuse me."

"Don't go bothering the poor girl this early by just barging in on her unannounced," his mother said. "Call her first. It's the gentlemanly thing to do."

"I guess I'm not a gentleman, then," he said. "Nice seeing you, Pat." He nodded at her. "I'll see you later."

He didn't walk to Meg's, he ran. By the time he arrived at her doorstep, he was out of breath. He wasn't certain if it was because he was feeling so stressed at that moment or because he was getting out of condition without his daily workouts at the gym.

Meg's car still wasn't in the driveway, but he pounded on her door anyway. There was no answer.

Calder walked back out to the street and just stood there, wondering what to do next. A car slowly came up the hill and pulled into Meg's driveway. The driver got out of the car and looked directly at him.

"Well, hello again," the man said.

Calder instantly recognized him as the guy who'd interrupted his dinner date with Meg. "Adam?" he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Obviously the same thing you are," he said. "Looking for Meg."

"She's not home. I called her late yesterday afternoon and there was no answer, so I came over here last night to check on her and her car was gone." He was beginning to get a very bad feeling in his gut.

Adam walked over to stand beside him and said, "She was supposed to meet me at noon yesterday, but she never showed."

"You two were supposed to meet?" Calder's bad feeling suddenly intensified. "Why? So you could discuss her wrong prediction about you?"

His lips curved slightly. "Uh, no. She owes me $200 and was supposed to meet me to pay me. I drove by here after she didn't show up, but her car wasn't here, and I had to get back to the store because my lunch break was over."

Calder's brows creased together as he studied him.

"When Meg first moved here, we dated a couple times," Adam felt the need to explain. "She came into the store pretty often and I found her attractive, so I started up a conversation with her one day and then asked her out. She accepted, but apparently realized fairly soon – too soon – that we were better off remaining in the friends-only zone."

"So," Calder slowly began, trying to digest Adam's words, "you already knew Meg long before your 'coincidental' meeting at the restaurant the other night?"

Adam nodded, but didn't immediately elaborate. Finally, he said, "I'm not sure I should tell you why she owes me money. She might cast a spell on me and turn me into a mule or something."

Calder thought that even someone with an I.Q. of only 50 could figure it out. He looked directly at Adam. "She paid you to come to the restaurant the other night and do your little performance, didn't she?"

He sighed. "Bingo."

"But...why?"

"So she could be _wrong_ ," he said. "The woman is hung up on you, which you're obviously totally clueless about. She said all you've done lately is tell her how much her powers give you the creeps. She knew if you kept witnessing her _real_ predictions, they all would come true, and you'd be even more turned off by her. So she wanted you to witness a prediction she was certain would be wrong."

Calder groaned. "Now that I think about it, her sudden failing streak began right after our day at the beach...when I told her I didn't want to be around her any more."

Adam nodded. "She told me all about it. You really hurt her, you know. Can you blame her for wanting you to think of her as something other than some freak of nature?"

Calder began to see the events of the night at the restaurant more clearly. "And that's why she left the table and stepped outside to make your prediction," he said, mostly to himself. "If you had asked her a direct question about your death in front of me, she'd then have had to give you the _real_ information, not something fabricated, and it would have come true."

"Exactly. Did you notice how I kept alluding to the fact I wanted to know when I was going to die, but I never actually _asked_ the question? And when we went outside together, I was the one who came up with the details of my own fake death. She said she didn't want to have anything more to do with it at that point."

"I don't know whether to feel flattered or disturbed," Calder said.

"I know I must seem like some selfish bastard to you," Adam said, "but believe me, I would have done it as a favor to Meg, without any payment. It's just that I've fallen on some hard times lately. My ex-wife took me to court to get more child support for our two kids, and it's bleeding me dry. I'd previously told Meg about it, so she approached me with her idea strictly as a job offer. I figured that $200 was pretty good money for only a couple hours of my time, so I said I'd do it. She was supposed to pay me when we stepped outside at the restaurant, but for some reason, she didn't. And since then, she's been stalling."

"And you say she agreed to meet you yesterday with the money?"

"Yeah, at the old cemetery right up the road here. I'm not proud of it, but I kind of bullied her into meeting me by threatening to tell you everything. I was just irritated at the time because she kept brushing me off. I was starting to feel like she'd just used me."

"She doesn't strike me as that type," Calder said. "But I'm starting to get really worried about her. I mean, she never showed up for your meeting, and she hasn't been home since. That's definitely cause for concern. Do you know Joe, the park manager?"

He shook his head. "Never met the man. Meg told me to tell you that I had, though. I mean, how else would I have explained how I'd come to know about her and her powers that night at the restaurant?"

"Well, I'm thinking I should find this Joe guy. Meg told me she rents her mobile home from the park, so he must have a spare key. Maybe I can get him to come check inside, just in case she's in there."

"But what about her car? Wouldn't it be here if she's home?"

"Not if she broke down somewhere and had to get a ride home from the tow-truck guy...or someone else. After all, her car is old, a classic. It could die at any time."

The door of the mobile home across the street creaked open, and a man walked out. He approached the car in his driveway and then unlocked the door on the driver's side.

"Excuse me," Calder called out to him. "Can you tell me where I might find Joe, the park manager?"

The man looked at his watch. "Most mornings, he's usually down in the office. You know where that is?"

Calder nodded. "The little red building down front when you first come into the park?"

"Yep, that's the one." He looked at Calder, then at Adam, then back at Calder. "Why? Are you thinking about renting the place?"

"Renting?" Calder repeated.

"Well, the woman who lived there moved out yesterday afternoon, so I figured that's why you're here."

Calder's stomach instantly knotted. "She moved out? You're sure?"

"Positive. I was surprised, because she hadn't even been here more than a couple of months. A truck pulled up at about two o'clock yesterday afternoon and they loaded her stuff into it. She didn't have very much, so it didn't take long. All of the furniture and appliances come with the place. So if you do decide to rent it, at least you won't have to bring much with you when you move in." He glanced at his watch again. "Sorry. I really have to run."

He then got into his car and drove off.

Calder and Adam stood unmoving for several seconds.

"She's gone," Calder finally said. "I don't believe it."

"I don't, either. You think I scared her off by asking for my money?"

"No." Calder slowly shook his head. "I think her reasons might have been a lot more complicated than that."

"Maybe she left a forwarding address with the park manager when she returned her keys," Adam said.

Calder sighed. "Can't hurt to go ask him. I guess I'll take a walk down to the office."

Adam nodded in the direction of his car. "Hop in, I'll give you a lift."

Just as they pulled up in front of the office, the door opened and a tall, heavyset man with dark hair and a full beard stepped out. He turned and locked the office door.

Both Calder and Adam got out of the car and approached him. The man stood there and eyed them. "Can I help you men with something?"

Calder moved closer to him and extended his hand. "Hi, I'm Calder York. I'm here visiting my mom, Sarah, who lives on lot seven. Are you Joe?"

"Yeah, pleased to meet you," he said, smiling and grasping Calder's hand for a solid handshake. "Your mother is a terrific woman. Always pays her lot rent on time, is quiet, and never complains about anything. I wish all of the tenants were like her. It sure would make my job a lot easier."

Calder turned to Adam. "And this is Adam. He's the manager of the supermarket here in town."

"Thought you looked familiar," Joe said, shaking Adam's hand. "So, what can I do for you?"

"Well," Calder said, "a friend of ours, Margaret Thorne, over on lot 82, moved out yesterday, and we were wondering if you have any idea where she might have gone."

Joe's eyebrows shot up. "Margaret Thorne? Are you sure she moved out? It's the first I've heard of it!"

"The guy who lives across the street from her said a truck was at her place yesterday afternoon and they loaded her things into it," Adam said. "She hasn't been around since, and her car's not in the driveway."

"The park rules clearly state that no tenant can move out without at least a 30-day notice!" Joe said. "And she didn't return the keys to her place. That's in the rules, too." He shook his head and absently scratched his beard. "I guess I'd better head over there and check things out. Who knows what she might have taken with her? I just bought that refrigerator six months ago! It had better still be in there!"

"Is it okay if we tag along with you?" Calder asked.

"Sure. Just let me go back into the office and get my set of keys to her place."

That was another thing Calder's mom had complained to him about – the keys. The park rules stated that all residents had to leave a spare house-key with the park manager in case of an emergency. Calder's mother thought the rule should apply only to the homes being rented out by the park, not the homes the residents owned outright, such as hers. After all, she reasoned, she was renting only the lot, not the home, so the park's personnel had no reason to have access to her place...unless, she'd told Calder, one of them wanted to sneak in and have his way with her as she slept.

Three minutes later, Calder, Adam and Joe were inside Meg's mobile home.

As Calder wandered through it, he felt a deep pang of sadness. Gone was the dreamcatcher in the window, the pottery on the counter. Gone was the unusual rug that looked like llama fur. Gone was the throw pillow Meg had fidgeted with so much, she'd tied the fringe into knots.

"All of her clothes are gone! The closet's empty!" Joe called from down in her bedroom. "But she didn't disconnect her phone service. I guess she left in too much of a hurry."

"There are two keys lying out here on the kitchen counter," Adam said. "I guess she left them there for you."

Joe walked out to the kitchen, picked up the keys and pocketed them. "Well, everything seems to be in order here," he said. "Looks clean and neat, and she doesn't owe me any rent money. Plus that, she'll forfeit her security deposit, which is to the park's benefit. So, I guess the next thing to do is to put this place up for rent again, as soon as possible."

The three of them moved toward the front door.

"She sure was a fascinating lady," Joe said as he opened the door. "Not hard on the eyes, either. I enjoyed telling people about her. She was kind of like having a celebrity living here. I know she wasn't here for very long, but I'm going to miss having her around."

Calder turned to take one last look at the kitchen where he and Meg had shared tea and conversation.

"I'm going to miss her, too."

* * * * *

"I never thought I'd hear myself say this, Calder, but I think it's time you went back to New York."

He was lying on his left side in bed, his right arm over his head.

"Why, Mom, are you finally sick of me?" he asked.

She sat on the edge of the bed and put her hand on his knee. "No, but I don't think you're going to get anything done as long as you stay here. You have to snap out of this, son. You have to get on with your life. You're suddenly acting as if you've given up on everything."

"I know," he said, sighing. He rolled over onto his back so he could look at her. "I just can't seem to motivate myself to do anything. I know they always say you don't know what you've got until you lose it, and that's how I've felt ever since Meg walked out of my life. I don't think I realized the impact she'd made on me until she was gone. She was special, Mom, she really was – and I don't mean just because of her powers. There was just something about her that affected me in ways no other woman has."

"Not even Eden, the so-called love of your life?"

He shook his head. "Not even Eden."

"But don't you realize that staying here, Calder, where there are so many memories, isn't helping things? You haven't written anything, you haven't even gone outside in over a week. All you do is eat and sleep. You haven't even shaved! And when's the last time you showered? You're not exactly ozone friendly! You look...and smell...like some homeless person."

"Give me one good reason to care," he muttered.

"Well, you could lose your contract and have to give back the $50,000 advance if you don't finish your book."

"I don't care about that."

"Then how will you support yourself?"

"I'll go sling burgers somewhere."

His mother sighed. "You _know_ that's not what you want. Ever since you were in grade school, all you've ever talked about is being a writer. Don't give up on that dream. You'll kick yourself for it in the future, mark my words."

"Maybe. But right now, I just don't give a damn."

"Don't you think you at least owe it to Margaret to write her story? She was kind enough to let you into her life and allow you to witness just about every aspect of it, even when she was at her most vulnerable. Didn't you tell me she usually avoided granting interviews? You should have felt honored that she didn't reject _you_ , too, but instead, all you seemed to do was make her feel...subhuman! Yet, she continued to put up with you and even tried to help you. And this is how you repay her? By just giving up and throwing in the towel?"

When Calder remained silent, she continued, "I hate to confess this to you, but while you've been spending all of your time here in your room, doing nothing but feeling sorry for yourself, I took the liberty of spending some time in the den...reading what you've written so far on your book."

He sat up. "You had no right! That's private!"

"I'll tell you what it is. It's a load of crap! Do you really want to turn in something like that to your agent? It's so far from the true story, you could have stayed in New York and still have written it without ever coming here! Why on earth would you choose to destroy Margaret's story that way?"

Calder lowered his head. "Because it's easier for me to write garbage than it is for me to write the truth."

"I know you don't care what I think at this point, but I'm going to speak my mind anyway. I truly believe you should write your book exactly the way everything occurred – your first meeting with Margaret, your feelings for her and about her, your doubts and fears – everything. Write it honestly and from your heart. Make it a combination love story and a story about someone with amazing powers. Make your readers see and feel exactly what _you_ were feeling every step of the way throughout all of it! If it comes from your heart, they will relate...I promise you that. Just write the _truth,_ Calder! You owe it to Margaret...and to yourself. Please, don't cheapen or make a mockery of everything that happened between the two of you. You're better than that."

He wanted his mother to just leave him alone so he could go back to sleep – the peaceful oblivion of sleep where he could escape his endless thoughts about Meg and stop trying to figure out her reasons for leaving so abruptly, without even a word. At least a dozen times, he'd gone over everything that had happened prior to her departure, and his first thought had been she'd wanted to get even with him – to disappear the way he'd nearly disappeared on her, when he'd planned to return to New York without even saying goodbye. But he knew in his heart Meg wasn't the vindictive type.

Still, he couldn't come up with any concrete reason for her to have run off on him the way she had. The dinner date at her house, in his opinion, had been nearly perfect. And when she'd put a stop to their passionate interlude on the sofa, he'd been completely understanding. She'd even kissed him goodnight at the door when he left that night and told him it had been a wonderful evening. He'd thought everything between the two of them was just fine. So what had happened after that? Had someone come to her door and threatened her in some way? Or had she disappeared because she didn't want to pay Adam the $200? None of it made any sense to him.

The worst part, Calder thought, was he might never find out the reason why.

Although he tried to tune out what his mother was saying, he found himself actually listening to her words and allowing them to sink in. His conscience began to nag at him, telling him he really did owe it to Meg to write her story truthfully, without altering any of the facts or fictionalizing them to try to make himself look and feel less like the selfish, egotistical jerk he knew he'd been. Meg had done so much to try to help him with his book, he knew she'd be crushed if she could read the 'load of crap,' as his mother had called it, he'd written so far. She also probably would be disgusted to discover the way he'd been acting since she left. Even he had to admit he wasn't proud of the robot-like, uncaring, unmotivated, self-pitying slob he'd become. And he didn't smell so great, either.

Calder sat up straight and ran his hand over his face, feeling his week-long growth of beard. He released a long sigh and turned to look at his mother. "I'm going to go shower and shave," he said. "And then I'm going to head back to New York and write my book – an entirely new version...the _real_ story."

She smiled. "That's my boy."

_"Man,_ Mother. I'm a man."
CHAPTER ELEVEN

"I'm heading to L.A.," Richard, Calder's agent, said as he stuffed a stack of paperwork into his briefcase. "When I get back, you'll know who won the bidding war for the film rights to your book...and I'll be handing you a nice fat check!"

Calder was sitting in Richard's office, a spacious new one, thanks to the 15-percent fee Richard had commanded from the sale of Calder's book, _Heed the Predictor._

Calder had left New Hampshire and returned to New York, where he'd completed an entirely new book in less than a month, spending twelve hours a day working on it. Once he'd started writing, there seemed to be no stopping him. All of the memories of Meg – all of the emotions, the doubts, the confusion, the heartache – had come pouring out. In his book, he'd exposed himself right down to his bare bones, leaving himself wide open for criticism.

But Richard had loved the end result. The publisher had loved it even more. And best of all, the public had loved, and still was loving, it. The book had spent four months at the top of the _New York Times_ bestseller list, and now, a little over two years since that first day he'd so nervously knocked on Meg's door and asked her if she might grant him an interview, the book was going to be turned into a feature film.

Calder recently had returned from a book tour, which included appearances on several TV and radio talk shows. The same two questions always seemed to pop up when he was being interviewed: "Is your book really a true story or is it a fictionalized version of the truth?" and, "Can you reveal the real identity of The Predictor?"

In response, Calder always answered yes, that every word was true, and no, he wouldn't reveal the woman's identity because he respected her privacy and her need to live as normal a life as possible. Often, he also was asked if he'd ever heard from the woman in his book again.

His answer was no.

Calder had spent months hoping Meg would call him or, at the very least, his mother would call and tell him Meg had dropped by, asking about him. And at every book signing in every small town across the country, he'd hoped to see Meg's face in the crowd. But he never saw her again.

And not a day passed when he didn't still think about her or wonder where she was...and with whom.

He'd dated a few other women, but they'd only made him realize he didn't really want a relationship that his heart just wasn't in. Meanwhile, his mother continued to nag him about settling down and giving her a grandchild before she grew too old and arthritic to be able to enjoy one.

"Don't forget to be here in my office at eight tomorrow morning," Richard reminded him as he brushed past him. "You have that interview for _Authors'_ _Monthly_ magazine at 8:30. I'm heading off to the airport now. Oh, and after the interview, call me and let me know how it went, okay? In the meantime, Charlotte can help you with anything you might need around here."

Charlotte was Richard's combination secretary, receptionist, assistant and surrogate mother. She'd been in the publishing industry in some capacity for over thirty years. Richard relied on her for just about everything, including telling him which necktie matched which shirt. Without her, he probably would wear a checkered shirt, plaid tie and striped suit to an important business meeting. Charlotte always teased him that he must have been a circus clown in his former life.

Calder sat at Richard's massive mahogany desk and leaned back in the leather chair. The office was decorated in earth tones – sand-colored walls, a mahogany chair rail and eco-friendly bamboo flooring. Framed photos of trees, rivers and mountains dotted the walls. It was a relaxing atmosphere, he thought. He eyed the stack of mail Richard had left for him on the corner of the desk and was amazed that in this age of emailing, so many people still took the time to sit down and write letters. He knew that all of the letters would be about his book. Some would tell him they were impressed with his honesty and openness, while others would accuse him of becoming too attached to The Predictor, and that was the reason why he hadn't been able to expose her as the charlatan she surely _had_ to be. And then there were those who suspected he'd made up the entire story – that it was pure fiction from beginning to end. After all, he'd never offered any proof whatsoever that the "Rebecca" woman in his book really existed.

He was reading the sixth letter in the stack when there was a knock on the office door.

"Come in," he said, without looking up. He figured it was Charlotte, probably wanting to go over his schedule for the next month.

The door opened and then closed. "Hello, Calder."

He glanced up and for a moment, thought his heart had stopped beating. "Meg?"

He couldn't move, couldn't stand to greet her. He just sat there, forgetting to breathe as he stared at her. She'd cut her hair to shoulder length and lightened it from her original chestnut color to a strawberry blond. She was wearing a black skirt, a pale pink long-sleeved blouse, black heels...and his necklace. She gazed unblinkingly at him with those neon green, hypnotic eyes of hers, which hadn't changed at all. In her right hand was a copy of his book.

She walked up to his desk and set the book on it. "Your mom told me where I could find you. I was hoping you could sign your book for me."

His knees finally stopped shaking long enough to enable him to stand and walk around to the front of the desk. Without pausing to think about it, he reached out and hugged her, pulling her tightly against him.

"I've missed you _so_ much," he breathed.

She returned his embrace. "I've missed you, too."

He reluctantly released her and moved to pull a leather armchair over next to his desk chair. "Please, have a seat. We have a lot to talk about...to catch up on."

They both sat down, facing each other.

"You look as beautiful as ever," he said to her.

"And you look even more handsome." She smiled as her eyes scanned her surroundings. "Especially sitting here in this classy office...and without your traditional jeans and T-shirt!"

"I guess you might say I've had some mild success since you last saw me." He reached over and picked up the book Meg had set on his desk. "So, you've read this? I'm almost afraid to ask what you thought of it."

She lowered her eyes. "I loved it, Calder. It explained so much about you and what you were thinking and feeling back then. I-I never knew you cared so much about me. I sure wish you'd have told me." She looked up at him. "I also was embarrassed to read that right after I left, you not only found out I'd lied about Pat, but you also met up with Adam and discussed my little...arrangement with him that night at the restaurant."

"Actually, I thought it was kind of touching how you went through so much trouble for me." He set the book back down. "So, just out of curiosity, Meg, and I hope you'll be completely honest with me, have you ever _really_ been wrong with any of your predictions?"

She shook her head. "No, never...sorry."

"Don't be." He reached out and placed his hand over hers, which was in her lap. "You're _you_ – and that's what makes you so special. Don't ever change a thing...or try to make someone believe you have." He smiled slightly. "Even if the person is a big idiot who makes you feel as if you're some kind of a freak."

She returned his smile. "You definitely did have a knack for that."

He took a deep breath and looked directly into her eyes. "So, where have you been these past two years?"

"Just about everywhere. Two months here, two months there. Always on the move. The moment someone finds out about my powers now, they say, 'You're not the woman in that book, are you?' So it's a little more difficult for me to remain anonymous."

"I feel bad about that," he said. "I called you Rebecca in my book, but I guess it's not too hard for some people to put two and two together once they find out about your...talent."

"I suppose that's because there aren't a whole lot of people like me around." Her smile was faint. "But it's not all your fault, Calder. According to your mother, since your book has become such a hit, good old Joe has been bragging to everyone that I, 'The Predictor,' used to be a tenant in his mobile-home park. I guess he's also contacted a few of the tabloids and supposedly will be getting a hefty sum for divulging personal information about me. You figure, he still has my application, former addresses and a photo of me, all of which he'd required before I could move into the park. Pretty soon the whole world will know who I am and what I look like."

Calder sighed. "That definitely sounds like Joe. Why am I not surprised he's trying to exploit you?"

"He's the reason why I had to leave New Hampshire. He seemed to be getting some sort of thrill from talking about me to anyone who would listen. In a small town like that, news traveled much too fast. I felt trapped, overwhelmed."

"Then Joe was the reason why you so suddenly moved out of the park?" Calder asked. "I didn't even have the chance to say goodbye to you. I can't tell you how much that hurt."

He saw the color creep into her cheeks.

"Joe was only partly the reason why I left," she said. "To be honest Calder, I was starting to fall hard for you, but knew that once you found out I'd lied about Pat's prediction and I'd set up that restaurant scene with Adam, you'd never want to have anything to do with me again. I realized that by trying to be more of what I was certain you wanted, all I was doing was driving an inevitable wedge between us. I also believed you'd be much better off without me."

Calder shook his head and tightened his grasp on her hand. "Better off _without_ you? You have no idea what I went through after I learned you'd moved out. I felt as if my whole world had fallen apart. I didn't want to do anything or go anywhere. I actually started to look and act like some grubby old hermit. It got so bad, my mother begged me to leave and go back New York!"

She giggled. "Now that's _really_ bad!"

"But my mom also was the one who convinced me that I owed it to you to still write the book – to write it honestly and from the heart. She told me to remember every emotion I'd felt with you and then express those feelings to my readers."

"I'm glad you took your mother's advice. I mean, look how well it's all worked out for you. I couldn't be more proud of you, Calder. My biggest fear was you might give up writing entirely."

"Actually, I pretty much did for a while."

"I was fortunate to have seen you a few times during this past year – on TV talk shows and in magazine articles." She smiled and looked down at his hand on hers. "Yes, I actually bought a TV when I read you were going to be making some appearances. And every time I saw those blue eyes of yours looking back at me, along with that amazing smile, I still felt butterflies in my stomach."

"I wish I'd have been able to see you, even just once," he said. "I've spent all this time wondering what happened to you...wondering if you might have found your 'happily ever after' with someone else."

She looked up at him and shook her head. "No, there's no one, and certainly no 'happily ever after' for me. How about you? Anyone special in your life?"

"A few dates, but nothing special. My heart just wasn't in it."

Silence hung between them for several seconds.

"Is it true your book might be made into a movie?" Meg asked.

"Yes...in fact, that's where Richard is heading at this very moment. There seems to be a bidding war for the film rights to it. Your story, Meg...our story...is going to be on the big screen."

"Gee, I wonder what incredibly sexy actors they'll get to play our parts?" she said, grinning.

He laughed. "Maybe we're better off not knowing." His expression then sobered. "Personally, I don't think they could find a better actress than _you_ to play the part. You really had me convinced you'd lost your powers. I mean, you seemed so genuinely distraught when I told you you'd been wrong about Pat."

She shrugged. "I acted out of desperation. I really wanted to make you see me in a whole different light – as someone...desirable."

Before he could respond, she added, "It's going to be difficult watching that part of my life on the big screen and reliving it all...especially that day at the beach. But to be honest, I wouldn't miss seeing it for the world."

"I'm glad you feel that way," he said. "Maybe we can attend the premiere together. I can introduce you as my long-lost cousin or someone, to protect your identity. But you'd probably have to wear dark glasses, or maybe some of those colored contact lenses like they advertise on TV, to hide those sexy neon-green eyes of yours."

She didn't respond.

"So, what brings you here to New York?" Calder asked, purposely changing the subject. He was hoping she would say she'd made the trip solely to see him because she'd missed him so much. "And how did you sneak past Charlotte, Richard's receptionist, without her announcing you to me?"

Meg smiled at him. "I told Charlotte I was the woman in your book and I wanted to surprise you. Speaking of my eyes, she said she immediately recognized them from your description in your book. She was a little dubious about my hair color, though. But we talked for a few more minutes and then she let me come in."

He noticed she hadn't answered his question about her reason for being in New York, so he broached the subject in a different way.

"Are you living here in the city now?" He hoped his tone sounded more casual than he felt. The thought of being able to see her on a regular basis again and picking up where they'd left off, excited him even more than the day he'd first learned his book had made it to the top of the bestseller list.

"No, I'm only passing through," she said. "I'm actually on my way down to Pennsylvania. I just rented a place near the Poconos. It's such beautiful country there, and the area is very private – at least from what I've seen on the real-estate agency's website. I rented the house without seeing it in person, so I'm hoping the place won't be some rundown dump when I get there! I'm also hoping I'll be able to enjoy some peace...at least for a while. I asked your mom if I could put her down as one of my references, and she said it was fine – and she wouldn't mention anything about my powers."

"Sounds as if you and my mom have been secretly in contact for a while," he said.

"I made her promise not to tell you. I wanted to surprise you."

"Well, you've certainly managed to do that," he said. He tried to sound cheerful, but was finding it difficult to conceal his disappointment that she wasn't going to be staying in New York. "So how long will you be here before heading down to Pennsylvania?"

"I'm leaving in the morning."

He frowned and removed his hand from hers. "That's not nearly enough time for us to catch up." His eyes caught hers and held them. "Can I at least see you tonight?"

Meg searched his face. His eyes were pleading for a positive response from her. She wanted to be with him more than she was certain he even could begin to imagine, yet what, she wondered, would be the point of stirring up something she'd made the decision to end two years ago? Still, a small, nagging voice in her head was telling her to live just for the moment.

Think with your heart for a change, Meg. Don't concern yourself about the past or the future. Now is all that counts. You know you want to be with him. Think only of that, nothing else, because that's all that should matter at this moment.

"That would be nice," she heard herself saying. "We can have dinner in my hotel room – just the two of us, no outsiders to deal with – except for room service."

Calder felt a combination of exhilaration, because he finally was going to be alone with her again...and sadness, because it was for only one night.

After Meg jotted down the name of her hotel and the room number and left, Calder sat staring at the door. Maybe, he thought, he could make this night so special, she'd change her plans about moving to Pennsylvania and decide to move in with him instead. There was no reason for her to leave if she really cared as much about him as she claimed. And what better place for her to become lost in the crowd than in a big city like New York? Her mistake in the past, Calder felt, was she'd always moved to small towns, where newcomers stood out. In New York, she probably wouldn't be noticed even if she walked naked down the street.

* * * * *

Meg's hotel room was in one of the city's older buildings. When Calder entered the room, his first thought was how modest it was. There was a double-sized bed with a flowered bedspread on it, flanked by two end tables. The only other furnishings were a dresser with a TV sitting on it, an upholstered chair, a desk, and a round, maple table with two chairs. During his travels to promote his book, Calder had become accustomed to staying in suites that had everything from fully stocked bars and king-sized adjustable beds to saunas and whirlpool tubs. But at that moment, it wouldn't have mattered to him if Meg's room contained only a cot, a hot plate and a portable toilet. He'd still have been thrilled to be there.

"It's really wonderful seeing you again," Meg said, smiling at him. "To be honest, ever since our meeting earlier, I haven't been able to think of anything else."

"Neither have I," Calder said. He handed her a single long-stemmed red rose and a bottle of champagne.

"Thank you!" She sniffed the rose and then moved to put the bottle into the ice bucket on the table, which sat in the corner of the room. She set down the rose next to the bucket.

"Room service should be here in a few minutes," she said. "Have a seat."

Calder took a seat in the blue upholstered chair. Meg sat on the edge of the bed, facing him. She wore her hair pulled up in a rhinestone clip. Her dress, pale blue and silky, had a low-cut V-neckline, displaying what Calder felt was an eye-catching amount of cleavage. He noticed she still was wearing his necklace.

"As always, you look stunning," he said.

She smiled. "I always make an extra effort for you. That night I made the pasta dinner for us at my place, I must have combed my hair a dozen times. It's a wonder I had any left on my head by the time you arrived."

"And there I was, always looking like a bag person." He chuckled. His eyes then locked with hers. "I can't tell you how many times I've thought about that night."

"I have, too – with regret for the way it ended. After all, it was the last time I saw you...and it could have ended so much differently, so much better."

"You'll probably laugh at this," he said, "but before I found out you'd moved out, I went over to invite you to a drive-in movie."

Her expression grew serious. "Really? You wanted to take me to a drive-in? I would have loved that."

"I'll gladly give you a rain check, then."

She sighed and glanced around the room. "I still can't believe we're here together right now, after all this time."

Her eyes settled on Calder. If possible, she thought he'd become even more handsome since she'd last seen him. His thick, dark hair, bright blue eyes and muscular physique nearly took her breath away. And although his attire was simple – a crisp white shirt and dark trousers – she thought it made him look even more irresistible.

God, does he have any clue at all just how much I want him...or how much I'm struggling to hide the fact that I do?

"Why didn't you contact me sooner, Meg?" Calder suddenly asked. "My phone number hasn't changed."

"I had my reasons," she said softly. "But that's all in the past now. Let's just enjoy tonight. Can you open the champagne for me?"

Calder got up and opened the bottle, then poured champagne into the two water glasses Meg brought out from the bathroom.

"A toast," he said, holding his glass up to hers. "To us and whatever our future may hold."

She hesitated for a moment, then smiled and said, "To us."

Room service delivered two cheeseburgers, a large order of fries and two chocolate milkshakes to the room. Calder couldn't help but laugh.

"What? No pheasant under glass or filet mignon?" he asked Meg as they sat down at the table.

"Nope! I was in the mood for comfort food tonight. And I was pretty sure you wouldn't mind joining me in my craving."

"Not at all," he said, taking a bite of his burger. It was thick and juicy with a generous slice of aged cheddar on it. "It's delicious."

"Don't drip grease on your only good shirt," she teased.

"Hey, come on, now! I had to buy a whole new wardrobe for my book tour! I'm quite the well-dressed man now!"

She grinned. "Who still prefers the bag-person look, I'm sure."

After they finished eating, Meg turned on the TV to an all-music station. A love song from about five years before, _I'll Make Love to You_ by Boyz II Men, was playing.

"Care to dance?" She held out her arms.

Calder slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head against his chest as they slowly moved to the music. He closed his eyes and inhaled the lemon scent of her hair. Her hands, soft and smooth, rubbed the back of his neck. Calder was surprised at how natural it felt to be holding Meg again, and how effortless it seemed for them to pick up right where they'd left off. He felt as if they'd never been apart.

We belong together, there's no doubt in my mind. And now that she's back, I'm not about to let her slip away from me again. I know she feels the same way I do, or she never would have come to my office today. The way she looks at me tells me she wants to be with me just as much as I want to be with her. She can't go to Pennsylvania!

Calder stopped dancing and pulled slightly away from Meg, then leaned to kiss her. She responded with a passion that seemed almost desperate to him. Her lips were hungry, nearly devouring his. She pressed her body so tightly to his, he felt as if her heart were beating in his own chest.

A few seconds later, he broke away from the kiss just far enough to look at her face. "Meg," he whispered, his voice husky, his hands still around her waist. "Please, stay here in New York. Move in with me. Don't leave me...I can't handle the thought of losing you again."

She stared up at him, her expression revealing nothing. She didn't speak.

"You'll be much more invisible in public here in a big city than you'd ever be in some small town where everybody knows each other," he added in a rush of words, trying to convince her. "And most of all, we'll be together again. That's all that matters to me. You _know_ we belong together, Meg. I can tell you do. So please, don't try to fight it."

"I-I can't stay, Calder. I have to leave in the morning."

His eyes searched hers. "I don't understand. You don't _have_ to do anything you don't want to do."

She didn't respond. Calder pulled her closer to him and said softly, "Tell me honestly...do you love me?"

"I do." Her answer came immediately.

"And I love you." His own admission surprised him, especially due to the ease in which his words had come spilling out.

Her eyes filled with tears. "You don't know how long I've dreamed of hearing you say those words." She moved to kiss him again, but his hands slid up to grasp her by the upper arms and he held her away from him.

"If we love each other, then there's no reason for us to be apart," he said. "Am I wrong to want to spend every possible minute with you?"

"No," she whispered. "It's what I want, too. But this isn't the right time."

"And when _will_ it be, Meg? Are you going to disappear from my life for another two years and then pop up again?"

"No."

"But you still intend to leave in the morning?"

She looked at the floor. "Yes."

"Is that all you can give me? One-word answers?"

She still didn't look up at him.

"Meg, answer me!" he pleaded. "When _can_ we be together?"

She finally allowed her eyes to meet his. "I wish I could answer that, Calder, but I can't. All I know is that for now, I'm not going to change my plans to go to Pennsylvania." When she saw his stricken expression, she added, "You act as if I will be on the other side of the planet. It's only about 120 miles from here."

"That's 120 miles too far to suit me," he said. "I want to fall asleep next to you every night and wake up next to you every morning. I was hoping it was what you wanted, too."

"I do...but."

"But what?"

She shook her head. "I can't, Calder, I just can't."

His heart sank and a combination of pain and anger flooded through him. Meg had just admitted she loved him, yet she was going to walk out of his life again? She wasn't making any sense. Why, he wondered, was she denying what they both knew would bring them the happiness they both deserved? He wanted to beg her to stay, to convince her that her place was with him. But, he realized, feeling a growing sense of defeat, no matter what he said or did, the decision still ultimately had to be hers. And for reasons he didn't understand, she seemed determined to go to Pennsylvania.

"I hope you'll have a nice trip, then," he said flatly. He let go of her and moved several steps back. "I guess I'd better get going. Thank you for dinner."

"Calder, no!" she cried, moving to grab his wrist. "Don't end things this way!" She looked directly up at his face and swallowed hard before adding, "Please...stay the night with me?"

He didn't return her gaze. He knew his resolve would crumble if he looked into those darned eyes of hers. He wanted to make love to her more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life, but he was feeling so let down and confused at that moment, all he could think about was leaving before he allowed her to hurt him again.

"I have to be at the office at eight in the morning," he mumbled, removing his arm from her grasp. "I have an important magazine interview at 8:30, so I need to get some sleep."

Although every step was torture, he walked toward the door and opened it. All the while, he prayed he would hear her call out to him, "Stop! I love you – I'll stay here in New York with you! I can't bear to be apart from you again!"

But there was only silence.

Calder turned to look at her before he stepped out into the hallway. "Goodbye, Meg. It was good to see you again."

The moment the door closed behind him, Meg burst into tears.

* * * * *

Calder adjusted his necktie for the tenth time the next morning as he paced from one side of Richard's office to the other. The tie felt like a tourniquet strangling him, but he wanted to look presentable for the magazine interview.

_Presentable?_ He had to laugh. He knew he looked terrible. He'd lain awake all night, thinking about Meg, confused as hell. He'd finally dozed off about an hour before his alarm went off. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles and his lips felt so dry, he feared if he smiled, they'd crack into pieces. Not that he was concerned about smiling much, he thought. He hadn't felt this miserable or depressed since the last time Meg had left him, back in New Hampshire.

He glanced at his watch. It was 8:01. There still was time to try to relax and pull himself together before the magazine people arrived. He sat down at the desk and tried to concentrate on his mail, which he'd stopped reading the day before when Meg had interrupted him. He tore open one of the envelopes and pulled out the letter.

The door to his office burst open. He jumped up, dropping the letter.

It was Meg. She was sobbing and her entire body was trembling. Her hair, sticking up in lopsided angles, looked as if she hadn't combed it since the night before. Her eye makeup, because she'd been crying, had painted black stripes down her cheeks. She was wearing a baggy green sweatshirt over what looked like gray flannel pajama-bottoms.

Instinctively, he rushed over to her and pulled her into his arms. "Meg, what's wrong? What happened? Are you okay?"

She jerked away from him and stood glaring at him.

"Ask me!" she said.

His brows creased together. "Ask you what?"

_"Ask me!"_ she demanded.

"To stay here in New York and move in with me?" He felt his hopes rising. "You already know it's what I want – more than anything."

_"No!"_ She shook her head vigorously. "Ask me when you're going to die!"

He remained silent, his eyes wide.

" _Ask_ me!"

"I-I can't!" he said, backing away from her. "I...can't."

"That's because you're a chicken shit!" she shouted. She used the heel of her hand to forcefully wipe the tears from her eyes. "Grow a damned backbone and _ask_ me!"

She noticed his hands and jaw clenching. _Good_ , she thought, she was making him angry. She hoped he would get angry enough to blurt out, "Okay! Tell me when I'm going to die!"

Meg honestly hadn't intended to see Calder again. She had planned to go to Pennsylvania and not look back. But sleep had eluded her all night as she'd tossed and turned, thinking about him and his impending death. That was when she realized she couldn't leave without telling him when he was going to die. She prayed that some unprecedented miracle would allow him to save himself...allow him to live so they could grow old and gray together. He was the only man who'd ever truly loved her – even after knowing her for the person she really was. She couldn't lose him. She just _couldn't._

Granted, the common-sense portion of her brain was telling her it was impossible to prevent his death, but the portion that loved him was shouting at her to, at the very least, convince him to _try._ _God_ , she prayed, _please make him try!_ But how could Calder try, she wondered, feeling her panic increasing, if he refused to ask her _the_ question?

When he still didn't respond, Meg ran up to him and in an act of desperation, began to pound her fists on his chest.

"Ask me!" she shouted through her sobs. "Ask me! Show me you're a man and not just some freakin' mama's boy!"

Calder grasped her wrists and held them so she couldn't hit him again. "Calm down, Meg!" he snapped. "I've told you before, I _don't_ want to know! And why the hell should it matter to you whether I ask you or not? You've driven it into my head that death can't be prevented anyway, so what's the point?"

"Because I want _you_ to be the exception!" She choked out the words. "I want _you_ to be the first one to break the damned rules and save yourself!"

He released her wrists. "Please, just drop it, okay? I can't deal with any of this right now. This conversation is over." He walked over to the window.

She followed him. Taking a deep breath, she said through gritted teeth, "If you've ever loved me, Calder...if you've ever cared about me at all, you'll ask me."

He turned and stared at her for several long moments as indecision tore at him. She was so distraught, he was afraid she was about to suffer a complete breakdown. He sincerely wanted to do anything he could to calm her. Still, he couldn't gather the courage to ask her about his death. He assumed, considering the way she was talking and acting, his death was going to happen soon. But how soon? Minutes? Days? Was he going to keel over just as the magazine people walked in? And what did she intend to do if he didn't ask her? Continue to stand there shouting at him until he finally gave in? Would he be forced to call security and have her physically removed from the building?

I don't need all of this drama, especially not right now! Her timing couldn't possibly be worse! All I want is for her to leave!

"Can we talk about this later?" Calder asked her. "This isn't a good time. I promise you, I'll devote the rest of my day to you, if that's what you want. I just need you to leave right now, okay?"

The look she gave him was one of disbelief. "You're acting as if we're having a lovers' spat that can be smoothed over with a bouquet of flowers later on! Calder, we're talking about your _life_! Look at me! Do I look as though I simply can put this off until _later_? Well, let me tell you this...I'm not about to leave here until you DO ask me the question, and that's a promise! I don't care if you're expecting magazine people or Queen Elizabeth herself to walk through that door! I'm not going to budge!"

He could tell she wasn't bluffing. She wasn't going to let it go. And she certainly wasn't going to postpone the discussion until a more convenient time. Meanwhile, the minutes until his interview rapidly were ticking away.

Calder ran his hand over his face and sighed. "Okay, Meg, you win. Tell me when I'm going to die."

Meg wanted to immediately blurt out the information, but she knew she had to follow the rules. She took a deep, shuddering breath and asked him, "Are you certain?"

He stared at her for what seemed like an endlessly long moment, his jaw clenching and unclenching. "No...I've changed my mind," he said. "I don't want to hear it."

Her mouth fell open and she glared at him. She couldn't remember when she'd felt so angry, so frustrated. Calder had no clue how difficult it had been for her, falling for him while knowing he would be dead in only two short years – knowing that a future with him was impossible. That was why she had chosen to leave him back in New Hampshire. She had wanted to save herself from loving someone who would cause her irreparable pain when she lost him. She selfishly had wanted to protect herself from future heartache, so she had walked away. She now regretted coming to New York and seeing him once again...especially on this day, the day he was going to die.

"Well, I asked you when I'm going to die," he said flatly. "So now you can leave."

"But you changed your mind and didn't let me tell you!" Meg shouted, unable to conceal her anger. "That doesn't count! You're not being fair!"

At that moment, she hated the man as much as she loved him.

Calder studied her and frowned "You didn't by any chance finish off the rest of the champagne after I left last night, did you?"

"God, no!" Her expression clearly told him his question had offended her.

Charlotte appeared in the doorway. "I just got here, Mr. York," she said, eyeing the disheveled Meg warily. "Is everything all right?"

"Miss Thorne was just leaving," he said, his mouth forming a tight line. "Would you mind showing her the way out? I'm expecting the people from _Authors' Monthly_ any minute now, and I really don't think she should be here when they arrive."

It pained him to say the words, but he couldn't risk having the magazine reporter and photographer walk in and see Meg in her present condition. He was positive she wouldn't want to be photographed as the "woman in the book," especially while looking so...psychotic.

"This way, Miss Thorne," Charlotte said, holding the door for her.

Meg, her head lowered, followed her, then paused to turn and look at Calder. She wanted to scream at him to try to save himself, to go lock himself in a bank vault across town somewhere, but deep in her heart she knew how pointless it was. All of her predictions came true.

She _never_ was wrong.

"I'll always love you, Calder," she whispered as tears rolled down her cheeks.

She stepped out into the hallway. Charlotte followed and closed Calder's door behind her.

"I'm sorry," Meg said, turning to look at the thin woman. "I didn't mean to come barging in here and making such a scene. I guess my emotions took over and I just lost control."

"It's okay, dear," Charlotte said, smiling slightly. "I'm sure that whatever problems you and Mr. York are having at the moment, you'll be able to work through them. As they say, if something is meant to be, it _will_ be, no matter what. So if you and he are meant to be together, it will happen."

Meg nodded and forced a smile, then slowly walked away.

You're so right, Charlotte. Whatever is meant to be, will be. Take you, for example. You also are going to die today, in about 20 minutes...right along with Calder.

* * * * *

The office was silent once again, to Calder's relief. His mind reeled as he tried to calm himself. He feared Meg was beginning to lose her sanity, her grip on reality – that her years of stress from having to deal with her powers finally had caught up with her. He felt sorry for her, sorry for what she had become.

He also was fighting a strong urge to run after her and not allow her to leave the building. Once again they were parting with too much left unsaid and unresolved, just like two years ago.

Dammit! Why does the interview have to be now? I can't even think straight, and it's too late to cancel! Damn you, Meg! You've screwed up my whole morning now with your insane ranting! You never should have come here to New York! I'd have been better off remembering you the way you were two years ago. Why did you have to reopen all of the old wounds?

He ran trembling fingers through his hair and fumbled with his necktie. Then he took several deep breaths in a futile attempt to relax. He walked over to the window and looked out. The day was clear and he could see for miles. That was one of the reasons why he'd suggested to Richard that he rent this office space in the World Trade Center.

The view was amazing.

\- END -

NOW AVAILABLE!

THE SEQUEL...

### CONCEAL THE PREDICTOR

Margaret "Meg" Thorne hasn't had a moment's peace since her former boyfriend wrote a book about her ability to predict people's deaths. When the book is made into a blockbuster film, she no longer can bear the relentless media attention, so she changes her name and appearance and moves to a small New England town where she finds the anonymity she craves...where no one is aware of her powers. But just when she finally considers her life to be nearly perfect – a quaint cottage, a job she enjoys and a new man in her life – everything begins to fall apart...in frightening ways.

About the Author

Sally Breslin was born and raised in New Hampshire, where she still resides, so she is a true New Englander through and through. She knew at a young age her passion was writing. During summer vacations from school, she would sit on the front steps of her tenement building and write books. Each day, groups of neighborhood children would gather and she would read the next chapter to them. She also started keeping a journal when she was 12, and has continued to do so every day since. She says her journals are like having her own time machine because, for example, she can look up what she ate for breakfast or watched on TV back in October of 1968!

Her work first was published in the 1960s when she wrote for her high school's newspaper and also became a stringer for a New York-based magazine Datebook, which provided her with the opportunity to interview many of the famous entertainers of that era. For over 20 years, she worked as a newspaper correspondent and photographer for the Hooksett Banner, owned by the New Hampshire Union Leader. From 1984 –2013 she also interpreted dreams in her weekly newspaper column, What do your Dreams Mean?, which later was renamed, Dreams...with Sally Breslin. This led to a regular spot on WJYY radio as "The Dream Lady," as well as guest spots on radio shows across the country. Her book, The Common-Sense Approach to Dream Interpretation, has been praised for its easy-to-comprehend explanations.

From 1994 to 2016, Sally wrote a weekly humor column, My Life, for several New England newspapers. In 1996, she was named the New Hampshire Press Association's columnist of the year. She also has taught humor-writing classes for Concord Community Education. She currently is a syndicated humor columnist for the Senior Wire News Service, and writes a monthly column, Sally's World, for the Senior Beacon newspaper. Her short stories and articles have been published in dozens of magazines and she is a regular contributor to the Chicken Soup for the Soul series of books. A story about her birth, which she wrote for the book Belly Laughs and Babies, won a national humor-writing contest.

Her first novel, There's a Tick in my Underwear!, which is based on her 1962 journal, is a coming-of-age story about camping and young love, and so far has earned a 5-star rating on mostly all of the major booksellers' websites.

Sally, who was widowed in 2012 after 41 years of marriage to her husband, Joe, enjoys sci-fi movies, concerts, buying and selling on eBay, and taking daily two-mile walks with her dogs.

Check out Sally's weekly blog and an archive of her humor columns at www.sallythedreamlady.com. Or you can contact her with questions or comments at sillysally@att.net.

