The Chain Smoker

The next morning, the rain was heavier. It drummed against the metal roof of the diner like a drumroll for an execution.

Cassie was wiping down tables when the cruiser pulled up. It was a vintage Ford Crown Vic, rusted around the wheel wells, looking as tired as the town itself.

Sheriff Miller got out. He was a man carved from granite and regret. He wore a tan uniform that was tight around the middle and a raincoat that had seen better decades. He lit a cigarette before he even hit the door, shielding it from the rain with a practiced cupped hand.

He walked into the diner. The bell jingled. The sound made Cassie flinch.

Miller didn't sit. He walked straight to the counter. He took off his hat, shaking the water onto the linoleum. He looked at Cassie.

"Cassandra Vale," he grunted. His voice sounded like gravel in a cement mixer.

"Sheriff," she said, clutching her rag.

"You work last night?"

"Yes."

"You wait on Arthur Henderson?"

Cassie’s stomach dropped. "Yes."

Miller reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic evidence bag. Inside was a soggy, coffee-stained piece of paper.

* STAY AWAY FROM WATER TONIGHT. PLEASE.*

"We found this in his jacket pocket," Miller said. "Henderson is dead, Cassie. Found him this morning. Drowned in his bathtub. It looks like he slipped, hit his head, and went under. But then I find this note."

He slammed the bag onto the counter.

"You want to tell me how you knew a healthy forty-year-old man was going to drown six hours before it happened? Or should I just cuff you now for premeditated murder?"

"I didn't kill him," Cassie whispered. "I tried to warn him."

"Warn him?" Miller scoffed. "With what? A crystal ball?"

"I just... I had a feeling."

"A feeling," Miller repeated flatly. He took a drag of his cigarette, ignoring the 'No Smoking' sign. "Get your coat, kid. You're coming to the station."

The ride to the station was silent. Cassie sat in the back, behind the wire mesh. She looked out at the passing trees. They were blurred by the rain, looking like skeletal fingers reaching for the car.

She closed her eyes. She tried to block it out. But she could still see Henderson’s blue face. She had failed again. Just like the others. The curse wasn't just seeing the death; it was the impotence of being unable to stop it.