Chapter One

PATRICK JOGGED PAST his house and turned to head back to the inn. He wrinkled his nose. Smoke. Not charcoal or a cigarette but a stronger smell. He looked up. A dark cloud rose ahead of him. Please, not the inn. He shouldn't have gone jogging and left it empty. But everyone was off meditating, and he'd checked to make sure Lisle hadn't left any candles burning in her room.

He sprinted past the church. Now he could see that the smoke wasn't coming from the inn but billowing out of a window in the building across the street. Not the bookstore side, but the meeting room. Right where Lisle, George and Wallingford always meditated. Lisle's candles! He dashed toward the building. Rafe had told her to be careful in the old, wooden buildings. He yelled everyone's names as he pounded up the steps.

He paused just outside the door. He didn't hear anything. Not even the smoke alarms. Probably because no one had checked the batteries. He yelled everyone's names again, but they didn't answer. Maybe they were unconscious. He opened the door and peered into the smoke-filled hallway. The doors to the bookstore and the meeting room were both closed. He took a deep breath, and rushed in.

The bookstore was locked. Either Myra had closed early or she was meditating, too. He reached the second door. Feel to see if it's hot. He remembered that from somewhere. He pressed his palm against the wood. It wasn't hot.

Thick smoke crowded the room and veiled shadowy shapes on the floor. He groped his way toward the first—a cardboard box. His eyes were stinging when he reached the next. Another box. He checked a third, coughing as he stumbled across the floor. Boxes not people… He ran for the door, and hit a wall. He gasped and smoke burned his lungs. Stretching out his arms, he felt along the wall. No door.

It's okay. The door is here. Just keep moving. He coughed. Low. He was supposed to stay low. That was a rule. That and call 911. And don't run into a burning building like an idiot. He dropped to his knees. Breathing hurt, and something was screaming in his ears.

LYNNE SCREECHED TO a stop in the middle of the road and stared at the sign. It welcomed her to Cassadaga and told her that authorized psychics were located on the right side of the street. She looked down at the directions her aunt had emailed. Yes, they clearly stated that she was to turn right when she reached the inn. She looked at the sign again. When Anthea had suggested she spend the summer in Florida, Lynn had imagined beaches and theme parks. Not the "True Cassadaga Unified Psychic Society."

She wasn't likely to reach the inn. A dark cloud of smoke filled the sky ahead of her and fire trucks blocked the road. She pulled forward. Firefighters were hosing down a wooden building on the right side of the street. Smoke hung heavily in the air, but the damage didn't look as bad as she might have expected given the age of the building. A little psychic intervention? Did the authorized psychics call nine-one-one in advance? Her smile at the imagined conversation faded when she saw the body on the ground.

She closed her eyes. This is not a repeat of the accident scene with Mark. She wouldn't know the person on the ground. Still, she climbed out of the car and edged closer.

The body, a young, blond male, was struggling to push off the oxygen mask the paramedics held over his mouth. He's alive. Lynn let herself breathe again.

"Y'all got off pretty lucky."

Lynn looked up. A firefighter stripped off his oxygen tank and handed it to another firefighter. He surveyed the group standing around on the grass. Lynn stepped back and tried to look like an innocent bystander. The firefighter's gaze moved over her. He addressed his comments to the main cluster of watchers.

"Mostly smoke damage. We'll have to investigate before we give a complete report, but it looks like someone might have left a coffee pot on. You'll need to repair a couple of walls."

"How much is that going to cost us?" a woman with long blond hair demanded.

"Can't rightly say, ma'am. Your insurance should cover it."

She frowned at the firefighter, then looked back to her group. "If Patrick started this fire, I think the inn's insurance should pay for it."

When the young male on the ground made a protesting sound and started coughing, Lynn suspected he was the accused Patrick. The paramedics pushed the oxygen mask back down and gave him official sounding orders to breathe. He did, while glaring at the group.

An older man with graying hair stepped forward, working his way between Patrick and his accuser. "I don't see how we can blame this on Patrick. He doesn't drink coffee."

"If he didn't start it, what was he doing in there?" asked the woman.

Copyright © 2005 Marie Dees