known he was a doctor—not what kind. Honestly, with the unfriendly vibes I’d received from my whole soothsaying group, I really hadn’t gone out of my way to get to know any of them.
“Well, did you ever read that book about the cat that could predict death?” Her voice sounded echoey, as if she was cupping her phone with her hand so people couldn’t overhear what she was saying.
“No...” I glanced at Ebbie. She was curled up on my office chair, sound asleep. I’d stopped at a pet boutique on Charles Street and picked up a kitty litter box, some food, and other supplies I might need to keep Ebbie happy for a while.
Em had let me keep the water bottle, so I was still using its top as a water dish.
So far, if Ebbie had any sort of cosmic message for me, she was keeping it to herself. Though, I had to admit, I spent a few extra minutes checking out the nice clerk at the pet shop as a possible match for Jeremy. I had to assume that Ebbie’s presence in my life was going to lead me to hi s soul mate—one way or another.
Unfortunately, the woman was married. Matrimony tended to put a damper on dating.
Unless you were my father.
Well, at least how he used to be before this current reunion with my mother.
I should also admit, I’d spent a good half hour holding up colored fabric swatches—one of my father’s tools for matching clients—to Ebbie, in hopes she’d paw one, giving me a clue as to who would be Jeremy’s best match.
She’d only blinked lazily at me and yawned.
“Well,” Preston said, “there was this cat that lived in a nursing home, and it could sense when people were going to die. It would cuddle with them, then poof ! A couple of hours later they’re goners.”
I shoved another file in the box. There were already six boxes stacked near the door, ready to be taken to storage. The movers would be here later this afternoon. “Where are you going with this, Preston ?”
“Dr. Paul is that cat!”
Amazingly, I understood her reference, but I couldn’t help having a little fun with her. “He cuddles with his patients? That is creepy.”
“Lucy Valentine, so help me. You don’t know what I’ve been through this morning. Dr. Paul has already predicted two deaths, and those patients are now in the morgue. The morgue! He says he gets a vibe from them and knows when their death is near. There’s nothing overtly medical about it. The patients can appear perfectly status quo, but he gets this glazed look in his eyes, and an hour or two later, there are nurses running everywhere…crash carts…chaos! He’s creeping me out. Creeping! Me! Out!” She dropped her voice even more. “I think he might be a serial killer. One of those angels of death doctors. Can’t you see it?”
“No.” I really couldn’t. Squeaky-clean Dr. Paul? No way. “Did he tell them they were going to die?”
It was a big psychic no-no to predict death. There weren’t many beneficial outcomes to such a reading, and would most likely only cause pain—something most psychics strove to avoid. The only exception to this rule was when the outcome could be changed in some way, a preventative measure—as in a potential murder. Even then, dealing with death was tricky.
Thankfully, I didn’t have death visions (and hoped I never would), so my conscience was (somewhat) free and clear. I would probably always carry guilt that I couldn’t help more people with my limited abilities...
But I was working on that.
The pink bear jutted from my tote bag, and I couldn’t help the bubble of hope that was growing inside me. Maybe I could find Bethany .
“Oh,” Preston said, “he was all kind and compassionate about it. Asked the patients what their favorite food was and then ordered it. Called their families and said a visit might be a good idea...”
“And you think those things are the hallmarks of a serial killer?”
“Obviously, he’s a smart serial killer. Trying to throw us off his track.”
I reached for
“Well, did you ever read that book about the cat that could predict death?” Her voice sounded echoey, as if she was cupping her phone with her hand so people couldn’t overhear what she was saying.
“No...” I glanced at Ebbie. She was curled up on my office chair, sound asleep. I’d stopped at a pet boutique on Charles Street and picked up a kitty litter box, some food, and other supplies I might need to keep Ebbie happy for a while.
Em had let me keep the water bottle, so I was still using its top as a water dish.
So far, if Ebbie had any sort of cosmic message for me, she was keeping it to herself. Though, I had to admit, I spent a few extra minutes checking out the nice clerk at the pet shop as a possible match for Jeremy. I had to assume that Ebbie’s presence in my life was going to lead me to hi s soul mate—one way or another.
Unfortunately, the woman was married. Matrimony tended to put a damper on dating.
Unless you were my father.
Well, at least how he used to be before this current reunion with my mother.
I should also admit, I’d spent a good half hour holding up colored fabric swatches—one of my father’s tools for matching clients—to Ebbie, in hopes she’d paw one, giving me a clue as to who would be Jeremy’s best match.
She’d only blinked lazily at me and yawned.
“Well,” Preston said, “there was this cat that lived in a nursing home, and it could sense when people were going to die. It would cuddle with them, then poof ! A couple of hours later they’re goners.”
I shoved another file in the box. There were already six boxes stacked near the door, ready to be taken to storage. The movers would be here later this afternoon. “Where are you going with this, Preston ?”
“Dr. Paul is that cat!”
Amazingly, I understood her reference, but I couldn’t help having a little fun with her. “He cuddles with his patients? That is creepy.”
“Lucy Valentine, so help me. You don’t know what I’ve been through this morning. Dr. Paul has already predicted two deaths, and those patients are now in the morgue. The morgue! He says he gets a vibe from them and knows when their death is near. There’s nothing overtly medical about it. The patients can appear perfectly status quo, but he gets this glazed look in his eyes, and an hour or two later, there are nurses running everywhere…crash carts…chaos! He’s creeping me out. Creeping! Me! Out!” She dropped her voice even more. “I think he might be a serial killer. One of those angels of death doctors. Can’t you see it?”
“No.” I really couldn’t. Squeaky-clean Dr. Paul? No way. “Did he tell them they were going to die?”
It was a big psychic no-no to predict death. There weren’t many beneficial outcomes to such a reading, and would most likely only cause pain—something most psychics strove to avoid. The only exception to this rule was when the outcome could be changed in some way, a preventative measure—as in a potential murder. Even then, dealing with death was tricky.
Thankfully, I didn’t have death visions (and hoped I never would), so my conscience was (somewhat) free and clear. I would probably always carry guilt that I couldn’t help more people with my limited abilities...
But I was working on that.
The pink bear jutted from my tote bag, and I couldn’t help the bubble of hope that was growing inside me. Maybe I could find Bethany .
“Oh,” Preston said, “he was all kind and compassionate about it. Asked the patients what their favorite food was and then ordered it. Called their families and said a visit might be a good idea...”
“And you think those things are the hallmarks of a serial killer?”
“Obviously, he’s a smart serial killer. Trying to throw us off his track.”
I reached for
Similar Books
