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  THE PSYCHIC EYE MYSTERY SERIES

  Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye

  Better Read Than Dead

  A Vision of Murder

  Killer Insight

  Crime Seen

  Death Perception

  Doom with a View

  A Glimpse of Evil

  Vision Impossible

  Lethal Outlook

  Deadly Forecast

  THE GHOST HUNTER MYSTERY SERIES

  What’s a Ghoul to Do?

  Demons Are a Ghoul’s Best Friend

  Ghouls Just Haunt to Have Fun

  Ghouls Gone Wild

  Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls

  Ghoul Interrupted

  What a Ghoul Wants

  The Ghoul Next Door

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Victoria Laurie, 2014

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Laurie, Victoria.

  Fatal fortune: a psychic eye mystery/Victoria Laurie.

  pages cm

  “An Obsidian mystery.”

  ISBN 978-0-698-15250-2

  1. Cooper, Abby (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women psychics—Fiction. 3. Women detectives—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3612.A94423F38 2014

  813'.6—dc23 2014008293

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Also by Victoria Laurie

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  For my amazing editor, Ms. Sandy Harding.

  Abby wouldn’t be Abby without you.

  Acknowledgments

  Jotting down the acknowledgments is always my favorite part of any book. And not because by the time I get around to writing them the manuscript is just about finished and I’m feeling pretty good, riding those “Whoooo! I’m DONE!” vibes. Okay, so it’s mostly that. But it’s also that I’m afforded an amazing gift in that I get to publicly state how grateful I am to all those people who help make my stories into books—actual things that you can hold in your hands, see in a bookstore, check out from the library, or download to your gizmo. Without these vitally important souls, all these stories that I’ve written, these worlds that I’ve created, these characters I’ve loved and made live, and, yes, even killed off (my favorite part) would simply sit idle in a file on my computer, and they and I would be deprived of your delightful company, and where’s the fun in that? So I think that thanking these folks is pretty crucial to the process. I’m doing it to serve the higher good . . . that I benefit greatly from. But still, serving up some GOOD!

  So! Without further ado, lemme get to those thank-yous!

  First, I’d sincerely like to thank my amazing editor, the divinely sublime Ms. Sandra Harding. I often rave about Sandy. I suspect that all of her authors rave about Sandy. She’s supremely talented, insightful, smart, charming, and utterly delightful, and in addition to being a schmabulous editor, she’s also a wonderful person. I hearts her. Abby really wouldn’t be as daring, bold, or human without Sandy’s fabulous guidance and support. I think the very best books in the series have been written under her cool, calm, impeccable guidance, and for that I’m oodley grateful. You rock, Sandy. Thank you very much for all you do.

  Next, I’d like to thank my literary agent, Jim McCarthy. I’mma be honest here and say that I’m running out of nice words to say about Jim. Like, every single book I just roll through all those adjectives, trying to fully describe how awesome he is and now, after a bajillion books together, it’s finally happened . . . I got nothin’. Hence, as I’ve already used up all the good words to describe Jim, I’m left with only one option: I will now be forced to make up new words to express my devotion and gratitude. So, here goes: ahem . . . ahem . . . Jim, you’re amazereat. No, really, you’re fabredible. I can’t fully express to you how wonderlar and specable you really are! So please, don’t ever change. You’re fantacerful just the way you are and I adorve you.

  Moving on, I’d like to thank the rest of my NAL team and they are: Elizabeth Bistrow, Kayleigh Clark, Danielle Dill, Clair Zion, Michele Alpern, Sharon Gamboa, and Monika Roe. These divinely talented women work so hard behind the scenes. They are my unsung angels and I’m so lucky to have each and every one of them along for the ride.

  Last, but certainly not least, I’d like to thank my friends and family, who continually assert their love and support for me even when my blood-sugar levels drop to the danger zone. (Don’t mess with me when I’m hungry, motherfinkers!) Brian Gorzynski, Sandy Upham, Steve McGrory, Mike and Matt Morrill, Katie Coppedge, Karen Ditmars, Leanne Tierney, Nicole Gray, Jennifer Melkonian, Catherine Ong Kane, Drue Rowean, Nora, Bob, and Mike Brosseau, Sally Woods, John Kwiatkowski, Matt McDougal, Dean James, Anne Kimbol, McKenna Jordan, Hilary Laurie, Shannon Anderson, Thomas Robinson, Juliet Blackwell, Sophie Littlefield, Nicole Peeler, Gigi Pandian, Maryelizabeth Hart, Terry Gilman, Molly Boyle, Martha Bushko, and Suzanne Parsons.

  You may not all be related by blood, but you’re my family all the same. Love you.

  Chapter One

  • • •

  My eyes popped open just after three a.m. I’m not sure what woke me except that I had a bad feeling the second I sat up in bed and looked around. My hubby, Dutch, was sleeping peacefully next to me, the sound of his light snoring filling the room.

  Instinctively I reached for my cell phone, which was facedown on the nightstand and turned to silent. I always mute my phone before I go to bed because anyone calling after eleven p.m. usually has only bad news to share, and in recent months I’ve had all I can handle in the bad-news department.

  Focusing on the phone’s display, I saw that my best friend and business partner, Candice Fusco, had just called—and she’d left a message. I pressed play and held the phone to my ear.

  “Abby!” the voice mail began, and the urgency in her voice made my back stiffen. “You have to trust me. It’s not how it looks.”

  It’s b
een my experience that nothing good ever starts with those words.

  Immediately I paused the message and called Candice. It went straight to voice mail. “Shit!” I whispered (swearing doesn’t count when you whisper), and tried calling her again, only to get the same result. I looked at the time stamp of Candice’s call. Three oh four a.m. It was now three oh six.

  I tried a third time to reach her and again the phone went straight to voice mail. Either Candice’s phone was turned off or it had lost its charge, because otherwise it would’ve rung before clicking over.

  “Where are you?” I muttered, tapping the phone to go back to that paused voice mail. “You have to trust me,” I heard the message repeat. “It’s not how it looks. But it’s gonna look bad, Sundance. Real bad. Listen carefully and whatever you do, don’t share this voice mail with anybody. This is for your ears only. I need you to go to the office the second you get this and do something for me. In the back of my closet is a wall safe. The combination is Sammy’s birthday—you remember it, don’t you?”

  Sammy was Samantha Dubois. She was Candice’s older sister, who, tragically, had lost her life in a fatal car crash just outside Las Vegas when Candice was in her teens. Candice had been in the passenger seat at the time of the accident and had nearly died too. She’d pulled through after spending several months in the hospital. I couldn’t imagine how difficult that time must’ve been for her, but I knew it still affected her deeply, because my best friend almost never talked about the accident. Still, I’d see the deep emotional wound appear in Candice’s eyes twice a year on two specific dates: August 5—Sam’s birthday—and June 17, the date of Sam’s death.

  I also knew that in years past Candice had kept a Nevada driver’s license with her photo but her sister’s information on it. As Candice was a private investigator by trade, she’d confessed to me that the fake ID came in handy on occasion, and it actually had come in very handy on one particular occasion that I could remember.

  “Inside the safe you’ll find a file,” Candice went on, and it was then that I noticed her breathing had ticked up—as if she’d started running. “Take the file and hide it. Don’t show it or share it with anyone, Abby. No. One. Not even Dutch or Brice. I’ll be in touch when I can.”

  The cryptic message ended there. I replayed it and held the phone tightly, as if I could squeeze more information out of Candice’s voice mail. And then I got out of bed and looked around the room trying to figure out what to do.

  After a few seconds I did what comes naturally to me. I flipped on my intuitive switch and tried to home in on Candice’s energy.

  I’m a professional psychic by trade. I have my own steady business of personal clients, and Candice and I work private investigation cases together. We work so well together that we’ve nicknamed each other after Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I’m Sundance, and, as there’s nothing butch about Candice, she’s just Cassidy. When I’m not working a case with Candice, or busy with my own clients, I also sideline as a psychic for the FBI—although my official title at the bureau is “FBI civilian profiler.”

  Kinda makes it sound like I have a fancy degree in psychology, doesn’t it? For the record, I majored in poli-sci, and there wasn’t much fancy about it. As long as nobody asks too many questions when they read my official ID, the Feds are happy.

  My husband works for the bureau too. So does Candice’s.

  Brice Harrison, Candice’s husband, is my boss at the bureau. Brice and Candice were married last month, when they eloped to Las Vegas and stayed there for a week and a half on their honeymoon. I wasn’t invited to the wedding, but then, nobody else was either. I guess it’s only fair, as Candice wasn’t exactly present for my wedding to Dutch. And it was probably a little bit my fault that she hadn’t gotten married locally. My sister, who’d attempted to orchestrate my wedding extravaganza, was still looking to exercise her wedding planner muscles on someone. The rest of us were just looking to exorcise my sister. She’d been like a woman possessed ever since Dutch and I had gotten engaged, and our wedding had hardly turned out like she’d planned (and planned, and planned!).

  Still, it would’ve been nice to watch Candice and Brice exchange their vows. I’m pretty sure she thought the same about Dutch and me, which is why I pretended to be thrilled when she called me from Sin City to let me know they’d eloped. I think Candice knew I was a little hurt, but the weird thing is that ever since she got back from Vegas, she’s been different.

  Candice has always been a pretty cool cucumber—it’s rare to see her lose her composure—but when she came back from her honeymoon, it’s like someone turned the temperature of that cool demeanor down another few notches. She’s become a little more withdrawn, and a little more—I don’t know—secretive?

  It’s not anything I can put my finger on, but lately she hasn’t been as open with me about what’s going on in that highly intelligent mind of hers. I’ve been chalking it up to the fact that she and Brice have been busy house hunting and easing into their married lives. But deep down, no matter how I’ve been trying to rationalize it, I’ve been worried about her. And my radar has certainly pinged with a sense of urgency every time Candice and I hang out. I kept thinking a big case must be coming our way that just hadn’t appeared yet, but now, in light of the voice mail I’d just listened to, I knew I’d completely misinterpreted the signal.

  “Abs?” I heard Dutch whisper as I fished around on the floor for my slippers.

  “Go back to sleep,” I told him. The last thing I needed was for Dutch to get involved in whatever this was before I had a chance to figure it out.

  The light on his side of the bed clicked on. “What’s wrong?”

  I hid my phone behind my back and adopted what I hoped was an innocent smile. “Nothing, sweetie. I couldn’t sleep, so I’m just gonna go downstairs and watch some TV.”

  Dutch rubbed his face and yawned. “Is there any cheesecake left?”

  “No,” I lied, willing him to roll over and go back to sleep.

  Dutch blinked. “You ate six pieces between yesterday and today?”

  My smile got bigger and more forced. “Yes. It was too tempting to resist.”

  Dutch focused on me, his eyes narrowing. Instantly I could tell he knew that (a) I was a liar, liar, pants on fire, and (b) I was hiding something.

  “Abs,” he said, his gaze traveling to the hand holding my phone behind my back. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  He sighed heavily. “So it’s bad, whatever it is.”

  I opened my mouth to insist that there was nothing wrong when Dutch’s phone rang. He glanced at it, then looked back at me as if to say, “I knew you were hiding something.”

  Heat tinged my cheeks, but I held my ground and motioned with my free hand for him to answer his phone.

  “Brice,” he said as he picked up the call, and a shiver went down my spine. I knew Brice was calling about Candice, and if Brice was calling Dutch at three a.m. about Candice, whatever was going on was as bad as bad gets.

  If I needed any confirmation, the expression on Dutch’s face said it all. As he listened, he visibly paled and then his jaw clenched before he said, “When?” followed by, “Where?”

  I shoved on my slippers and eased out of the room. Rounding the hallway into our beautiful new kitchen, I didn’t even bother to click on the lights. I just navigated the darkness the best I could, muttering the occasional “Dammit!” (swearing doesn’t count when you bump into furniture in the dark), and making my way toward the counter with the little copper dish that held my car keys.

  “Abby?” I heard Dutch call from the bedroom.

  I ignored him and hustled to the door leading to the garage, so thankful that I didn’t require the use of a cane anymore. I’d had a nasty accident eighteen months before that’d nearly permanently crippled me, but with a whole lot of physical therapy (and maybe some
tough love from Candice when I didn’t push myself to get off the cane), I’d finally gotten the full use of my legs back.

  “Abs?” I heard Dutch call again as I slipped out the door, closing it as quietly as I could behind me. I tapped the button for the garage door opener, then hurried to the car, tucking inside my shiny new SUV with my pulse racing. If Dutch discovered that I was slipping away, he’d grill me for details, and I felt intuitively that I had to get to the office and retrieve that file for Candice because time wasn’t on my side.

  I backed out of the garage and closed the door, hoping that Dutch wouldn’t see me leaving before the door closed. My hubby had coated the garage door with enough silicone to make a Slip ’N Slide look sticky. Dutch liked that it barely made a sound as it moved up and down, and at the moment I was really glad he’d used two spray cans of the stuff on the gears. It’d give me a few extra seconds before he gave chase, and I knew he’d give chase because that’s just how Dutch rolled when it came to me.

  Crouched over the steering wheel, I navigated the dark neighborhood streets, for once ignoring the beauty and quiet of our lovely suburban Austin community, and drove to the office I shared with Candice. My phone rang through the SUV’s Bluetooth a couple of times, but I ignored the calls from my husband, focusing instead on getting to the office as quickly as I could.

  Once I was within sight of the building, I circled the block, hoping to spot Candice’s yellow Porsche nearby, but there was no sign of it. I parked in the alley between two buildings a couple of blocks down from the office, guided by my intuition, which was sending me lots of “Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!” signals, and, after looking around the all but deserted streets, I got out and trotted toward our building.

  Along the way, I paused once or twice to listen and look, every nerve tingling with trepidation, and at last made it to the front door. I peered through the glass, looking around, but the place was so dark that I couldn’t see anything inside.