a half-full bag of dog chow was tucked beneath three shelves of canned peaches, apricots, and pears that her grandmother had preserved. At the thought of the old woman, Olivia felt a pang of sadness.
It was just damned hard to lose someone who loved you so unconditionally.
After measuring a cup of dry food into Hairy's dish, she added parrot seed to Chia's cage and stroked the parrot's smooth green feathers.
"Isn't she beautiful?" Grannie had asked when she'd first brought the bird home. "They're messy as all get-out, I know it, but Wanda owed me some money and offered me Chia. I couldn't resist." Grannie's eyes had twinkled and Chia had been a member of the family ever since.
"Grannie was right, you know. You are beautiful," Olivia told the bird, who stretched her brilliant wings and picked up some of the seeds in her dish.
Olivia turned on the radio and stuffed two slices of bread into the toaster. As the dog made short work of his breakfast, she fired up the stove and whisked the eggs together. Patsy Cline sang about love lost.
Great. Just what I need to hear.
What an upper, she thought as the eggs began to bubble and she grated the wedge of cheese. The final notes of the song began to fade, and
"Ramblin' Rob," the deejay, cut in to give some story about the old country classic recorded shortly before the star's death. His deep, baritone voice slid easily out of the speakers and he spoke as if he knew all of his listeners personally. Which Olivia liked.
In the few short months she'd been back in Louisiana, Olivia had come to recognize some of the local newscasters and deejays. The radio station she listened to more often than not was WSLJ, the same station where Samantha Leeds aka "Dr. Sam" dispensed her nightly advice to her callers, the same station she'd "heard" last night during the vision.
The damned vision.
She felt that same icy presence rush through her soul each time she thought about that horrifying murder. So don't.
Don't think about it. But even as she was mentally reprimanding herself, a jagged memory of the victim begging for forgiveness skittered through Olivia's brain. Distracted, she slid her knuckles along the side of the grater. "Ouch.
Damn." Blood oozed up from her skin and quickly she sucked on her fingers, then turned on the faucet and let cold water run over her hand.
"I'm an idiot," she muttered at Hairy "Truly an idiot."
The truth of the matter was Olivia was troubled because she couldn't put the nightmare behind her. She'd hoped talking to the police would help. But Bentz's blatant doubts had stopped her cold. She'd thought, from reading the article in the paper, that he might be different, more receptive, but he'd been nearly as bad as Brinkman. "Jerk," she muttered.
Maybe Bentz's doubts are well founded. Maybe it was all just a dream, a really horrible, bad dream.
"Yeah, and maybe I'm the Queen of England," she growled as she wrapped a paper towel around her fingers and managed to sprinkle a handful of mozzarella onto the eggs.
The toast popped.
Olivia slid the slices onto a plate and was reaching for the tub of margarine when she heard the newscast. "... a three-alarm fire last night took the life of one woman who has yet to be identified. The blaze broke out near three this morning near Bayou St. John ... "
Olivia sank against the counter and listened to the short bit of information. The press had only the basics. A fire. A woman dead.
Suspected arson. Nothing about homicide.
Nothing about a murderer escaping into the night.
But Rick Bentz knew.
And he'd be calling.
She didn't have to be a psychic to know that much.
Chapter Seven.
The real estate management firm wasn't much help. Bentz stopped by after grabbing his own car at the station only to learn that Oscar Cantrell, the owner of Benchmark Realty, was out. But the secretary, Marlene, a spacey brunette in red plastic-rimmed glasses, assured Bentz that the house where the fire had taken place had been vacant since
It was just damned hard to lose someone who loved you so unconditionally.
After measuring a cup of dry food into Hairy's dish, she added parrot seed to Chia's cage and stroked the parrot's smooth green feathers.
"Isn't she beautiful?" Grannie had asked when she'd first brought the bird home. "They're messy as all get-out, I know it, but Wanda owed me some money and offered me Chia. I couldn't resist." Grannie's eyes had twinkled and Chia had been a member of the family ever since.
"Grannie was right, you know. You are beautiful," Olivia told the bird, who stretched her brilliant wings and picked up some of the seeds in her dish.
Olivia turned on the radio and stuffed two slices of bread into the toaster. As the dog made short work of his breakfast, she fired up the stove and whisked the eggs together. Patsy Cline sang about love lost.
Great. Just what I need to hear.
What an upper, she thought as the eggs began to bubble and she grated the wedge of cheese. The final notes of the song began to fade, and
"Ramblin' Rob," the deejay, cut in to give some story about the old country classic recorded shortly before the star's death. His deep, baritone voice slid easily out of the speakers and he spoke as if he knew all of his listeners personally. Which Olivia liked.
In the few short months she'd been back in Louisiana, Olivia had come to recognize some of the local newscasters and deejays. The radio station she listened to more often than not was WSLJ, the same station where Samantha Leeds aka "Dr. Sam" dispensed her nightly advice to her callers, the same station she'd "heard" last night during the vision.
The damned vision.
She felt that same icy presence rush through her soul each time she thought about that horrifying murder. So don't.
Don't think about it. But even as she was mentally reprimanding herself, a jagged memory of the victim begging for forgiveness skittered through Olivia's brain. Distracted, she slid her knuckles along the side of the grater. "Ouch.
Damn." Blood oozed up from her skin and quickly she sucked on her fingers, then turned on the faucet and let cold water run over her hand.
"I'm an idiot," she muttered at Hairy "Truly an idiot."
The truth of the matter was Olivia was troubled because she couldn't put the nightmare behind her. She'd hoped talking to the police would help. But Bentz's blatant doubts had stopped her cold. She'd thought, from reading the article in the paper, that he might be different, more receptive, but he'd been nearly as bad as Brinkman. "Jerk," she muttered.
Maybe Bentz's doubts are well founded. Maybe it was all just a dream, a really horrible, bad dream.
"Yeah, and maybe I'm the Queen of England," she growled as she wrapped a paper towel around her fingers and managed to sprinkle a handful of mozzarella onto the eggs.
The toast popped.
Olivia slid the slices onto a plate and was reaching for the tub of margarine when she heard the newscast. "... a three-alarm fire last night took the life of one woman who has yet to be identified. The blaze broke out near three this morning near Bayou St. John ... "
Olivia sank against the counter and listened to the short bit of information. The press had only the basics. A fire. A woman dead.
Suspected arson. Nothing about homicide.
Nothing about a murderer escaping into the night.
But Rick Bentz knew.
And he'd be calling.
She didn't have to be a psychic to know that much.
Chapter Seven.
The real estate management firm wasn't much help. Bentz stopped by after grabbing his own car at the station only to learn that Oscar Cantrell, the owner of Benchmark Realty, was out. But the secretary, Marlene, a spacey brunette in red plastic-rimmed glasses, assured Bentz that the house where the fire had taken place had been vacant since
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