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YOU DON’T KNOW JACK
ERIN McCARTHY
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Prologue
“Ten bucks says he’s not wearing any underwear,” Allison whispered in her ear.
Tempted to laugh, Jamie Peters turned to her roommate and shushed her. “Don’t disturb his essence, Allison.”
Beckwith Tripp, ex-junkie and current psychic, was leaning over the coffee table, eyes half closed as he chewed his lower lip, currently sporting Pucker Up Pink lipstick. While his vintage Chanel suit did match the lips to a tee, it was a startling contrast to the very obvious male bulge below his waist.
So Beckwith was a little on this side of odd. He had the gift. He sensed things and could translate them into remarkably accurate predictions of the future.
Jamie had been ecstatic when she had stumbled across him while working on one of her many post-prison reentry cases as a social worker, and had seen his talent. Beckwith had been straight for four months, had an apartment in the Bronx, and a booming business telling fortunes.
She loved the success of helping someone better his life.
Jamie also loved the thrill of hearing what lay around the corner for her, besides the Village Deli, that is. Hopefully it would involve losing ten pounds—actually twenty—and an unlimited supply of funding for Beechwood, the social services agency where she worked.
Jamie’s friend, Allison Parker, a nonbeliever in fortunes, karma, healing crystals, or the power of love, was intent on scoffing at everything out of Beckwith’s mouth. She lounged on the sofa next to Jamie, swinging her crossed leg so that her red toenails flashed in her stiletto sandals.
Caroline Davidson, her cool blond hair swept into a twist, sat across their living room, looking nothing short of horrified. Jamie recognized the expression well, since Caroline wore it every time she popped her head into Jamie’s bedroom and saw the vibrant and cozy warmth of kitsch that Jamie surrounded herself with.
Mandy Keeling, the fourth resident of their two-bedroom walk-up in Greenwich Village, was on the floor on her knees, across from Beckwith, her brow crinkled in concentration.
Jamie thought Beckwith’s prediction for Mandy was interesting, a nice hodgepodge of hope, love, and pastries. It was a bit subject to interpretation, but a nice fortune all the same.
It was Jamie’s turn now.
Jamie knew Allison was closed to the possibility of anything unscientific. Not Jamie. She wouldn’t hold back. She believed, and she had every intention of letting Beckwith scramble around in the depths of her past, present, and future via her mind, heart, wavelengths, aura—whatever it was called.
Beckwith smiled at her, adjusting his pearl earring.
She grinned back at him. “Are you going to do the cards?”
“Yes, honey, I know you love the cards.” Beckwith drawled his words out slowly as he slapped the deck of tarot cards in front of her. “Cut the deck.”
Jamie closed her eyes and tried to feel the right place to separate the cards. Nothing. Not an ounce of intuition. She either didn’t have Beckwith’s sensitivity or she was approaching the whole thing wrong. Either way it was cause for a good sigh. She had spent a good many years of her childhood wishing she were psychic or, even better, a witch.
The only sign she’d ever shown of being a witch was the wart she’d developed on her thumb at age seven.
Beckwith took the split deck and flipped the first card of the new pile over. “This is an accident card.”
Now that wasn’t a very promising beginning. She wiped her sweaty palms on her long floral skirt. “What kind of accident?” Maybe she should stop using the food processor to make guacamole.
“Oh, nothing major.” He waved off her concern. “And I think…” He flipped the next card. “Yep. It has to do with meeting this man.”
His long pink fingernail tapped the card.
Jamie’s heart stopped pumping. Well, not really, but it certainly felt like a malfunction. Accidents involving strange men sounded like the contents of a future police report. “What man?”
“One not like your other men.”
“You mean he has a job?” Allison said sarcastically.
Everyone laughed, and Jamie nudged Allison with her knee, but didn’t protest. It was sad but true. She had dated a disproportionately large number of unemployed men. But that was just the way she was, and she couldn’t help herself. She liked to help people, fix them up, send them on—better off than when they’d met her. It was why she was a social worker.
Still, she defended herself, happy to talk about the irrelevant and avoid a discussion of who the man in the cards was. “Scratch had a job.”
Caroline raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “True, after you got it for him. Now he’s a tattoo artist who dumped you the first chance he had and left you with nothing to show for three months of your life.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Jamie did have a daisy-chain tattoo wrapping around her left ankle compliments of Scratch.
“Tell me about this guy, Beckwith.” She pressed the tip of her finger to the
