The Prophet by Amanda Stevens Read Free Book Online

holds.”
    She leaned in. “I’ll let you in on a secret. Chiromancy has very little to do with psychic ability. It’s both an art and a science. A good palmist is more of a psychologist than a prophet. She bases her predictions on a particular set of factors she gleans from the client and then suggests a likely outcome. But my sister says that no one is interested in the actual methodology. People who visit palmists do so because they’re drawn to the mystique. They want the show, in other words, and Isabel obliges in her own irreverent manner. She calls herself Madam Know-it-all.”
    “She’s a professional palmist?” Madam Know-it-all. Why did that name ring a bell?
    “She has a place right on the edge of the historic district, near Calhoun.”
    Something was starting to niggle. “Is it across the street from the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies, by chance?”
    Clementine’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you’ve been there. Now that is a coincidence.”
    Not coincidence, I thought uneasily. Synchronicity.
    “A friend of mine is the director of the Institute,” I said. “I notice your sister’s place every time I visit. There’s a neon hand in the front.”
    “Yes, that’s it. But don’t let the name fool you. Isabel takes her work very seriously.”
    The last time I’d been to the Institute, I’d spotted Devlin on the front porch with a shapely brunette who I had assumed was the palmist. Now I was sure of it, and I was equally certain that the woman I’d seen him with last evening hadn’t been Clementine Perilloux, after all, but her sister, Isabel.
    We both fell silent as we finished our coffee, and, given this new development, I wondered if I should just make a graceful exit and forget about the broken statue. I’d waited too long. Now a confession would be terribly uncomfortable. Still, Clementine had been nothing but gracious, and I felt I owed her the truth and some manner of compensation.
    I nodded toward the garden. “I see your statue’s been broken.”
 She followed my gaze. “Oh! Isabel said she and John heard someone in the garden last evening.”
    My heart skipped a beat. “John?”
    “He’s a police detective. He and Isabel…”
    I leaned in.
    “…are very close friends.”
    Friends? I was both hoping for and dreading an elaboration, but when none was forthcoming, I let out a breath. “You’re not upset about the statue?”
    Her eyes flickered. “There was one very like it in the garden at…where I lived before. I didn’t care for that place so I’m happy to be rid of the reminder.”
    I felt a tiny prick of unease, that prescient tingle along my spine and scalp that made me say quickly, “This has been lovely, but Angus and I really should be going.”
    “I’ll walk you around,” she said. “Promise you’ll come again. Next time I’ll invite Isabel. I’d love for you to meet her. I know I’m biased, but she’s…well, you’ll just have to see her for yourself. I think the two of you would really hit it off. You have a lot in common.”

Chapter Seven
    T hat night I fixed a light dinner for myself, and after the dishes were washed and put away, I made a cup of tea and settled down to work. My office at the back of the house was a converted sunporch, surrounded on three sides by windows. By day, the sunlight shining in from the garden was warm and relaxing, but by night, the darkened panes spurred the imagination, especially on evenings like this when I sensed the nearby presence of restless spirits.
    But I refused to give in to the sensation at my nape. I wouldn’t look around. I wouldn’t scour the garden for the telltale illumination of a manifestation. Instead, I powered up my laptop and opened a new document file.
    For weeks, I’d been ignoring my blog, but now that I found myself in between restorations, the ad money generated by Digging Graves was an important source of revenue. I’d already come up with a new topic—“The Crypt