Cold seeped into Sarah's bones. Not from the air conditioning, but from the sterile walls of the interrogation room. Gray metal table. Two chairs. One occupied by her, the other by a man whose stare felt like a physical weight. She traced the faint grain of the table with a trembling finger, seeking an anchor. Her stomach churned with a familiar dread. This wasn't just an interview. This was an accusation. Detective Arthur sat opposite her, an impassive monument of law enforcement. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, were devoid of warmth. They seemed to dissect her, searching for the crack in her composure. He’d barely spoken, yet the silence screamed. Each tick of the wall clock amplified the tension. Seconds stretched. Minutes crawled. Sarah felt the truth, an unwelcome guest, already forming on the tip of her tongue. It pulsed behind her teeth, a bitter metallic taste she knew all too well. Arthur finally stirred. He pushed a file across the table. It stopped inches from her hand, a silent barrier. His gaze remained locked on hers, unwavering. "Miss Sarah," his voice was a low rasp, gravelly and controlled. "We're just trying to understand." His words were calm, but his posture suggested otherwise. Shoulders squared, jaw tight. Understanding was a luxury Sarah rarely afforded herself, let alone others. How could they understand what she saw? What she *knew*? It wasn't a choice, not a skill. It was a burden, a relentless stream of absolute, undeniable facts that left her isolated. "About Philip Sterling," Arthur continued, his voice cutting through her thoughts. "You knew him, didn't you?" His pen clicked rhythmically against the file. A small, irritating sound that grated on her nerves. Knew him. She knew his future, his grotesque end. That knowledge was a thousand times heavier than any casual acquaintance. "He owned the old Sterling Estate," she managed, her voice thin. It was the truth, but felt like a lie in its inadequacy. Arthur's lips barely moved. "Indeed. A prominent figure in our small community. Very prominent." The emphasis on 'our' felt pointed. She was an outsider, always had been. "And you had… dealings with him?" he probed, leaning slightly forward. His shadow stretched, enveloping her side of the table. Dealing. She had seen him. Two days before, he’d stormed into her shop, eyes blazing, demanding a reading. He’d scoffed at her warnings, dismissed her visions of his imminent demise as a scam. Then he’d called her a threat. Loud enough for half the village to hear. "He wanted a reading," Sarah stated, her voice stronger now, fueled by a faint tremor of indignation. "I told him what I saw." Arthur's eyebrow arched, a subtle shift that spoke volumes. "And what exactly did you see, Miss Sarah?" His voice dropped, losing its neutral tone. It became a hunter's whisper. She hesitated. The image flashed, unbidden: Philip, eyes wide with terror, a dark river flowing from his mouth. His fingers clawing at the air, red, so much red. The note, a single, scrawled word, clutched in a rigid hand. A prophecy, a warning, a curse. Her truth. "I saw… his death," she admitted, the words tasting like ash. Every time she spoke a truth like this, it solidified, becoming more real, more inescapable. It cemented her role in the grim unfolding. Arthur's pen stopped clicking. The silence returned, heavy and suffocating. He watched her, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Sarah thought she saw a flicker of something in his eyes – skepticism, maybe a hint of morbid curiosity. But then it was gone, replaced by a cold, professional resolve. "His death," Arthur repeated, savoring the words. "And how accurate was this vision, Miss Sarah?" He laced his fingers, resting his chin on his hands, a predator observing its prey. Too accurate. Every detail. The way his body contorted, the precise pattern of the blood. The chilling note. She swallowed hard. "Precisely accurate." A sharp exhale escaped Arthur. He sat back, his chair scraping against the linoleum floor. It was the first truly human sound he’d made. But it wasn't a sound of relief. It was a sound of confirmation. "You know, Miss Sarah," he began, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "Many people in this town heard Philip Sterling accuse you. Accuse you of threatening him. Just hours before his body was found." Her jaw clenched. It was true. Philip had been enraged. He'd screamed his accusations outside her shop, attracting a crowd. He'd called her a witch, a fraud, a harbinger of ill will. He'd vowed to ruin her, to run her out of town. The irony was a bitter pill. "He was angry I wouldn't lie to him," she countered, her voice tight. "He didn't like what I saw." Arthur pushed a button on the intercom. A faint static crackled, then silence. He didn't speak into it. He just stared at her, his gaze unwavering. "We found Mr. Sterling in his study," Arthur stated, his voice now devoid of any pretense of understanding. "Bleeding from the mouth and nose. Just as you apparently foresaw." Sarah's breath hitched. She could feel the bile rising. The vision had been so vivid, so visceral. She’d tried to warn him, but he’d simply laughed in her face. He opened the file. Her eyes darted to the movement, a primal fear seizing her. What would he show her? What piece of her own foresight would he use against her? Arthur produced a photograph. He didn't slide it. He slammed it onto the table. The sharp crack echoed in the small room, a gunshot to her calm. It landed face up, inches from her trembling hand. The image was stark, horrific. Philip Sterling, his face a ghastly mask of blue and purple. His mouth agape, a dark stain spreading down his chin and chest. His eyes, fixed on something unseen, were wide with a final, desperate terror. Her stomach clenched violently. A wave of nausea washed over her, chilling her to the bone. Not from the shock of the grotesque image itself, but from the horrifying, undeniable familiarity. It was him. Exactly as she had seen him. The dark rivulets from his nose, the way his jaw was slack. The contorted angle of his head. Her vision. Played out in stark, undeniable reality. It was real. More real than the sterile room, more real than the cold man across from her. It was the truth, the absolute, unyielding truth that had haunted her sleep and poisoned her waking hours. And now, seeing it laid bare, concrete proof of her burden, terror solidified in her gut. Her gift had become her curse. She was not just a seer; she was a suspect. Arthur leaned forward then, his eyes boring into hers, a predatory glint in their depths. His voice dropped, a low growl that vibrated through the metal table. "Tell me, Miss Sarah, how did you know he would die exactly like that?"

Chapter 1: The Unseen Truth