From The Cold Heart of Capricorn
I wish only my good premonitions came true.
My name is Elizabeth Chase and I am a psychic. It's not an easy calling. For starters, I don't even like the word. It conjures up images of glowy-eyed soothsayers mumbling vague predictions for questionable fees. Yet from an early age I've known outcomes before they've happened, seen people whom others can't see, heard voices that others can't hear.
Longing for normalcy and social approval, I kept most of this information to myself, did my best not to know, see, or hear. It didn't work. My experiences intensified, culminating in the sighting of a ghost in broad daylight on the Stanford University campus during my sophomore year. I figured I was crazy, but just to be sure I abandoned my premed program and threw myself headlong into the study of psychology and parapsychology. Two Ph.D.s later I concluded that I may not be crazy after all and that while I might never understand them to the satisfaction of my rational mind, my strange perceptions could have practical applications. Finding lost children. Recovering stolen property. Fingering scumballs.
At some point I realized that a private investigator's license would come in handy toward these goals, so I got one. People started calling me a psychic detective. I loathed that hokey label, so much so that one of my twisted friends printed up business cards stating same, just to razz me. I decided to stop taking myself so seriously and started using them. It felt like destiny.
This last investigation, the case of the serial rapist, almost killed me. Literally. Had I seen it coming? Yes, I'd seen glimpses of the dark days ahead. So why didn't I use my precognition to avoid the nightmare?
Because sometimes the only way to escape evil is to turn and face it head-on.