The young counterman, whose name according to the pin on his shirt pocket was Mike, was obviously excited by the fact that he had actually been questioned by deputies. He eagerly shared the experience with her as he poured the coffee she had ordered.

"On account of Becky working here and all," he explained. "And they wanted to know if we'd noticed anybody following or watching her, or if she'd told us somebody had."

"And had she?" Cassie asked, more because he so clearly wanted to talk about it than because she did.

"Not a word to any of us." Mike polished the counter in front of Cassie industriously. "Not that I talked to her much since her job was back in the office, but Mrs. Selby says Becky never told her either. And none of us ever noticed her being watched or followed, nothing like that." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "And now there's Mrs. Jameson and Miss Kirkwood too. It's just horrible, isn't it?"

"Yes," Cassie said. "Horrible." Before he could prolong the conversation, she retreated to a booth with the day's newspaper and her coffee.

The newspaper articles were fairly restrained given the unusual violence of the crimes. The latest murders had made the front page, and the story was the headline, but the tone of the piece was low-key and just reported the facts as they were known. Two women murdered, presumably within hours of each other and less than a mile apart. Assailant unknown. The Sheriff's Department was investigating, and if anyone had anything to report, they could call the department, number provided.

Inside the newspaper, on the editorial page, a far more worried voice wondered if there should be a curfew, more deputies patrolling, and more "openness" from the sheriff. The intimation was that he was keeping to himself details of the crimes, and that those details, if known, might enable the good citizens of Ryan's Bluff to better protect themselves. Perhaps they should not have elected someone with a bare dozen years of police experience, no matter who his father had been…

"Ouch," Cassie murmured, wondering if Sheriff Dun-bar's methodical police work was going to prove a political liability to him in the near future.

She knew from her own research that Dunbar had gained his police experience in Atlanta, rising to detective shortly before he had returned home to Ryan's Bluff when his father had announced his retirement as sheriff.

An unkind soul might indeed have said that Matt Dunbar had won the election on his name alone, but that would have been untrue. He was qualified for his job, that was certain. And he had fairly good political instincts, though word had it he had run afoul of the town council at least once since taking office.

In any case, there was probably no one better qualified for the job of sheriff in the county, certainly not better qualified to investigate a series of murders, so the stinging editorial held a note of spite rather than reason.

Or a note of panic.

A few pages later there were articles about both Ivy Jameson and Jill Kirkwood, human-interest pieces about the lives of the two women. Ivy's history and good works were stiffly presented with an air of pious resolution, while Jill's life story was told with warmth and genuine regret.

Two women, one widely despised and the other highly regarded. And one young girl who had, by all accounts, never harmed a soul. All horribly murdered in the same small town within days of one another.

Cassie thought the newspaper had done a fine job in getting so much information in print in a Monday edition when the two latest murders had taken place the day before, but she didn't doubt that upcoming editions would sound much less detached. The days ahead promised to be rough.

She laid the paper aside and sipped her coffee thoughtfully, vaguely aware of the people moving about in the drugstore – she didn't dare call it a pharmacy, since no one else did – shopping or just visiting with each other. This was a central gathering spot for downtown, a fact Cassie had discovered early on.

But there were few people in the soda fountain side of the store, so Cassie instantly sensed when someone paused beside her booth. She looked up to see a stunning redhead, too model-gorgeous to belong in this small town.

In a rather roundabout way Cassie recognized her.

"Miss Neill? My name is Abby. Abby Montgomery. I knew your aunt. May I talk to you?"

Green panties. Cassie pushed the knowledge away, reflecting, not for the first time, that psychic abilities could provide certain facts that were nothing but embarrassing.

She gestured toward the other side of the booth. "Please, have a seat. And I'm Cassie."

"Thanks." Abby sat down with her own coffee. She was smiling, but though her gaze was direct, her green eyes were enigmatic.

Without even trying, Cassie knew that here was another mind she would find it impossible to tap into, and that certainty made her feel much more sociable than was usual for her.

It was nice not to have to worry overmuch about keeping her own guard up.

"So you knew Aunt Alex."

"Yes. We met by chance a few months before she died. At least – I thought it was by chance."

"It wasn't?"

Abby hesitated, then let out a little laugh. "Looking back, I think she wanted to meet me. She had something she wanted to tell me."

"Oh?"

"Yes. My destiny."

"I see." Cassie didn't ask what the prediction had been. Instead, she said, "I was told Aunt Alex had the gift of prophecy."

"You were told?"

Cassie had little doubt that Matt Dunbar had discussed her abilities with his lover; he was a very open man in virtually every way, and his nature would be to confide in the woman he loved. So she was certain that Abby knew she was – or claimed to be – psychic. She suspected that this meeting was in the nature of a test. Or a confirmation.

Cassie said, "I was only a little girl when my mother and Aunt Alex quarreled, and I never saw or heard from her again. Until I got word of her death and learned I'd inherited her property here. So all I really know about her are the few things I overheard as a child."

"Then you don't know if she was always right?"

Abby's voice was as calm as Cassie's had been, but there was something in the tension of her posture and the white-knuckled grip on her coffee cup that betrayed strong emotion.

Careful now, Cassie said, "No psychic is always a hundred percent right. The things we see are often subjective, sometimes symbolic images that we filter through our own knowledge and experiences. If anything, we're translators, attempting to decipher a language we only partly understand."

Abby smiled wryly. "So the answer is no."

"No, I don't know if Aunt Alex was always right – but I doubt very much if she was."

"She said… she told me there was a difference between a prediction and a prophecy. Is that right?"

"Precognition isn't really my bailiwick, but my mother always said they were different. That a prediction is a fluid thing, a vision of an event that might sometimes be influenced by people and their choices, so that the outcome couldn't be clearly seen. A prophecy, she said, is far more concrete. It's a true vision of the future, impossible to alter unless someone with certain knowledge interfered."

"Certain knowledge?"

Cassie nodded. "Suppose a psychic had a prophetic vision of a newspaper headline that stated a hundred people died in a hotel fire. She knows she won't be believed if she tries to warn them, so she does the only thing she can. Goes to the hotel and sets off a fire alarm before the actual fire is discovered. The people get out. But the hotel burns just the same. The headline she saw will never exist. But the event that generated it will happen."

Abby was listening so intently that she was actually leaning forward over the table. "Then a prophecy can be changed, but only partly."