She was frowning slightly, her gaze fixed on his face with what seemed an unconscious intensity. “Or—to actually happen. How do I know that if I hadn’t warned David, if I hadn’t been so insistent that he avoid railroad crossings, he might not have been killed since he wouldn’t have gone to California to get away from me? How do I know that my—my prediction didn’t cause that nurse to go into premature labor out of stress and worry? How do I know that any of it would have happened if I hadn’t…interfered?”

Coolly, Tucker said, “You don’t. If, as you believe, our fates are set, our destinies planned for us at birth, then every step you’ve taken, every action you thought was yours by choice was all just part of the pattern you had to follow.”

“I…don’t much like the sound of that.”

“Then consider another possibility,” he advised. “Maybe you aren’t going to die next month after all. Maybe you can master your own fate. If you want to, that is.”

Since they were both finished eating, he got up and began clearing up in the kitchen. It wasn’t until then that he realized the big black cat had remained on the stool beside his during the meal and conversation without once calling attention to himself. It struck Tucker as odd and curiously uncatlike, though he couldn’t have said why; he didn’t know a great deal about cats.

Even as that thought occurred to him, Pendragon quite suddenly lifted a hind leg high in the air and began washing himself in a definitely catlike manner, and Tucker almost laughed aloud. His imagination was working overtime, as usual. Not that it was surprising; whether Sarah Gallagher was a genuine psychic or not, she was obviously in trouble, threatened by person or persons unknown, and his awareness of that had heightened all of Tucker’s senses. Which explained why he got that creepy-crawly sensation near his spine each time he’d caught a glimpse of the watcher in the black leather jacket.

And why he was very conscious of Sarah sitting at the breakfast bar in silence, her gaze occasionally following him but more often turned inward.

He wished his awareness weren’t quite so heightened where she was concerned. He was too aware of her physically, too conscious of her quiet breathing, her faint movements—even the oddly compelling scent that was her perfume overlaid by the acrid odor of smoke that clung to her hair.

Keep your mind on the subject at hand, Mackenzie.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” she said finally as Tucker turned on the dishwasher and poured fresh coffee for them both.

Tucker felt a surge of triumph, but it was short-lived. He didn’t know where to start either. But he was unwilling to allow her to slip back into her earlier numb resignation. “We can find a place to start.”

“We?” She looked at him steadily.

“I never could resist a mystery.” He kept his tone light. “Or a challenge. And, as you said—I want to believe. Maybe the mistake I made in the past was in not getting to know the…psychics…I met. Maybe it’s not so much a question of faith as it is a question of trust. I have to trust you before I can believe in you, and trust demands knowledge.”

“Quid pro quo? You’ll help me try to change my fate in exchange for the opportunity to convince yourself I’m a genuine psychic?”

“It sounds workable to me.”

“Tucker, that man watching outside is dangerous. I don’t know if he burned down my house. I don’t know if he came here to kill me. But I know that he’s very, very dangerous.”

“I can take care of myself. And I can help you, Sarah.”

She shook her head, her eyes going momentarily un-focused in that inward-turned gaze. “No. You don’t understand. Sometimes, when I know he’s out there, I can sense things about him. There’s something…wrong with him. Something that isn’t normal.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes cleared. “It’s like when I try to see who wants to kill me. All I see are shadows. Shadows all around me.”

He couldn’t deny the reality of that man who was probably still outside somewhere, probably still watching, but Tucker wasn’t about to lose the ground he felt he had gained in the last couple of hours. “He’s just another piece of the puzzle, Sarah, that’s all. We can solve it.”

“How?”

At the moment, it was an unanswerable question, so Tucker merely shrugged and said, “By putting the pieces together. But not tonight. You’ve had a long and tough day, and I’m a little tired myself. I know it’s early, but why don’t we turn in?”

Her expression was unreadable. “There’s only one bedroom.”

“That couch looks comfortable. I’ll be fine out here, Sarah.”

Without further comment, she left the breakfast bar and went to get a blanket and pillow from the storage closet across from the bedroom. She piled them on one end of the couch. “There are clean towels in the bathroom, and some men’s toiletries in the linen cabinet; Margo has an occasional male guest stay up here, and she believes in being prepared. Help yourself to whatever you need.”

“Thanks.”

She didn’t seem eager to leave. “Pendragon should be put out before you settle down to sleep; otherwise he’ll wake you up at dawn.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He didn’t move away from his position near the bar. “Good night, Sarah.”

“Good night.” She turned abruptly toward the bedroom, pausing only when she reached the hallway. She stood there for a moment, as if in indecision, then looked back over her shoulder at him. Quietly, her expression quizzical, she said, “I’m sorry. She never wanted to be found, you know. That’s why you couldn’t.” Then she went on into her bedroom and closed the door softly behind her.

Tucker wasn’t sure he was breathing. He forced himself to draw air into his lungs, and it made him briefly dizzy. Or something did. He stood there staring after her, conscious of his heart thudding heavily inside his chest and cold sweat popping out of every pore.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

The witching hour, Brodie thought, studying the deserted street in front of his parked car. At three A.M. on this Thursday morning, the day after Sarah Gallagher’s house had burned to the ground, the only lights were streetlights; in this part of Richmond, at least, all was quiet.

He caught the flicker of light in the rearview mirror and tensed just a bit, his hand sliding inside his jacket and closing over the reassuringly solid grip of the .45 ready in its holster. Even when the light flickered half a dozen more times in a definite signal, he didn’t entirely relax, though his foot tapped the brake lightly in the expected response.

It wasn’t until the passenger door of his car opened and a man slid in that Brodie relaxed and left his gun holstered. The dome light had not come on (since he had earlier removed the bulbs), but a faint whiff of a very expensive and even more exclusive men’s cologne confirmed the identity of his companion for Brodie.

“You didn’t have to come yourself,” he said, surprised.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

Brodie made a rude but soft sound of disbelief. “Yesterday, you were in Canada, at a board meeting still going on today. You’re elusive as hell, Josh, but I’m very good at what I do.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.” Josh Long, world-renowned financier, philanthropist, and a dozen other things that made him very famous indeed, reached into his casual jacket and pulled out a large manila envelope. “This is a verbatim copy of the police report concerning Sarah Gallagher’s house fire, including all notes made at the scene by the investigating officer. Also a copy of the fire marshal’s report.”

“What, you didn’t get a fingerprint and ID of the culprit as well?” Brodie asked dryly.

“You’ll have to forgive me—there was so little time.”