She could tell that he had been affected by Zolanda’s final act but his interest was of a detached, clinical nature. He was curious, she realized, but, unlike her, he was not disturbed.
Her nerves, on the other hand, had been badly rattled. She would not sleep well tonight, if she slept at all. The mere prediction of bloody death, even if only for dramatic effect, shocked her senses. It hurled her thoughts straight back to the night of her escape. Memories of the laboratory window exploding beneath the weight of Ormsby’s body and visions of the killer emerging from the hallway that led to her room would haunt her until dawn.
She suppressed a small sigh. It wouldn’t be the first time she had tossed and turned and finally given up on sleep. She had not had a single night of truly sound sleep in months, not since the terrible day when the police had come to her door to inform her that her parents had been killed in an explosion in their lab.
True, the authorities were not searching for a homicidal escapee from an insane asylum, but she was very sure that someone was looking for her.
There were excellent reasons for keeping the news of her escape a secret, of course. As long as she was assumed to be under lock and key at Rushbrook, Conrad Massey could continue to drain her inheritance and Dr. Gill could continue to hope that the FBI would not become aware of his experiments with Daydream. But it also meant that a killer was on the loose and quite likely searching for her.
She was well aware of her own reasons for having been unnerved by Zolanda’s prediction, but Jake’s odd silence made her wary. Instead of dismissing the final act as the melodramatic finale of a fraudulent psychic, he had gone very quiet after the curtain came down.
She thought about what Raina had said that afternoon when she had telephoned with the news that Jake Truett was evidently exactly who he claimed to be—a successful businessman and a widower who had sold his import-export business in the wake of his wife’s tragic death. Under the circumstances it was probably not surprising that he would find such a dire prediction unsettling, even if it had been delivered by a charlatan. Nevertheless, his abrupt lapse into near silence struck her as strange.
He opened the driver’s side door, got behind the wheel, and turned the key in the ignition. The powerful engine purred to life. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.
She was very aware of the shadowed intimacy of the front seat of the speedster, but as far as she could tell, Jake was oblivious. He was lost in his own thoughts. Whatever those thoughts were, she had a feeling they were dark. She waited, tense and uncertain, for him to make another comment about Zolanda’s prediction. When she could not abide the silence any longer, she tried to restart the conversation.
“This is Burning Cove, after all,” she said. “I’m told there is very little serious crime here.”
That comment had the effect of hauling Jake up out of some deep place—temporarily, at least.
“A friend informed me that a while back an aspiring actress died in the spa pool at the Burning Cove Hotel under suspicious circumstances,” he said.
“I did hear something about that. Still, Florence assured me that was a very unusual situation. Murder is hardly a common crime in this town. This isn’t New York or Los Angeles or San Francisco, where a fake psychic could play the odds and assume that somewhere in the city someone might die by violence in any given twenty-four-hour period. As it stands now, everyone will be opening up their copies of the Burning Cove Herald first thing in the morning looking for a report of a murder.”
“She predicted a bloody death,” Jake said. “She did not predict murder.”
Adelaide glanced at him in surprise. “You’re right. I hadn’t considered the exact wording of the prediction. But when you think of a bloody death, murder is the first thing that comes to mind, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Why would Zolanda risk her reputation by making a prediction that probably won’t come true?”
“I don’t think Madam Zolanda’s reputation will suffer if the prediction fails,” Jake said. “That’s the interesting thing about the psychic business—it’s virtually impossible to kill off a good act. Nobody remembers the predictions that didn’t happen. People believe what they want to believe and forget the rest.”
“So Zolanda made that horrible prediction just to inspire dark thrills in the audience?”
Jake shot her a quick, searching look and then returned his attention to Cliff Road, a narrow, two-lane strip of pavement that followed the bluffs above the ocean.
“Zolanda’s grand finale really upset you, didn’t it?” he said, his voice very neutral.
It upset you, too, she thought, but she did not say the words aloud.
She took a deep breath and composed herself. “I admit I was rather startled.” She paused, searching for a brighter conversational topic. “You were right about the psychic act. It’s just a form of stage magic. A combination of clever tricks and a good story.”
“The difference is that when you watch a magician perform, you know it’s all clever tricks and a good story,” Jake said. He eased the car smoothly into another gear. “The magician invites you to be amazed, and if he’s good, you are astonished by his skill. But a psychic wants you to actually believe in the paranormal. Those who fall for the act can be persuaded to do things that they might not otherwise do—things that prove to be harmful or dangerous.”
She studied his hard, unyielding profile. Understanding whispered through her.
“Can I assume you know someone who was taken in by a psychic or a fortune-teller?” she asked quietly.
He hesitated and then nodded once. “Yes.”
“I see. If your opinion of psychics is so low, may I ask why you wanted to accompany me to the performance tonight?”
For the first time since leaving the theater, a shadow of a smile briefly transformed Jake’s stern features.
“Isn’t it obvious why I talked you into giving me that second ticket?” he said.
A flash of understanding sparked through her. She clenched her hand around her evening bag. I should have known he had an ulterior motive, she thought.
“I see,” she said, striving to keep her tone cool.
“What do you see?”
“Madam Zolanda was the psychic who tricked your friend, wasn’t she?”
Jake took his eyes off the road just long enough to give her a quick, narrow-eyed glance.
“How the hell did you figure that out?” he asked.
He was annoyed, she decided, but not with her. He had never intended to give himself away. But he probably wasn’t accustomed to dealing with paranoid mental patients who were always ready to suspect a plot or a conspiracy.
She gripped her bag with both hands and stared straight ahead at the winding road. So much for the possibility of engaging in a fleeting seaside romance with an interesting businessman from out of town.
“It explains a lot,” she said. “You found me and my extra ticket very convenient, didn’t you?”
“You are a very smart lady.” Jake tightened his hands on the wheel. “But for your information, I already had a ticket to Zolanda’s performance tonight. That’s not why I wanted to accompany you this evening.”
“There’s no need for explanations,” she said. “You’ve made yourself clear. You’re in Burning Cove because you followed Madam Zolanda here. That’s why you’ve made a habit of showing up at Refresh every day. You know that there’s a good chance she’ll show up, too. You’re watching her.”
“Stop jumping to conclusions. I admit that Zolanda is why I’m here, but I asked you for that extra ticket because I wanted to spend the evening with you. Zolanda’s performance seemed like the perfect opportunity.” Jake paused. “It was either that or the art museum.”
The museum crack was an attempt to change the subject, she decided. She was not about to fall for it. He had used her, and she’d had enough of being used by men.