The woman’s smile froze. “Did Annie tell you about her growing pains? I’m sorry she bothered you, and I appreciate your concern, but her pediatrician said it’s nothing to worry about.” Then she walked away.

I told you so, Desmond sneered silently as, moments later, the candidate left with his entourage and his family. For a long moment, I stared down at the half-empty mug the little girl had left behind, before I dumped its contents into a bus tray. That’s the hard part, honey, Lucinda told me. Knowing what you know, and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

A week later, the candidate’s wife came back to the diner—alone, dressed in jeans instead of a pricey red wool suit. She made a beeline for me, where I was wiping down a table in a booth. “They found cancer,” she whispered. “It wasn’t even in Annie’s blood yet. I made them do a bone marrow test. But because it’s so early”—here she started to sob—“she has a good chance of surviving.” She grabbed my arm. “How did you know?”

That might have been the end of it—a good psychic deed, a way for me to tell the ever-snarky Desmond I told you so—but the candidate’s wife happened to be the sister of the producer of the Cleo! show. America loved Cleo, a talk-show host who had grown up in the projects of Washington Heights and was now one of the most recognizable women on the planet. When Cleo read a book, so did every woman in America. When she said she was giving away fuzzy bamboo bathrobes for Christmas gifts, the company’s website crashed. When she asked a candidate for an interview, he won his election. And when she invited me onto the show to do a reading for her, my life changed overnight.

I told Cleo things that any idiot could have guessed: that she would become more successful, that Forbes would list her as the richest woman in the world that year, that her new production company would launch an Oscar winner. But then something crept into my head, and because she had given me permission, I blurted it out—even though I should have thought twice. “Your daughter is looking for you.”

Cleo’s best friend, who was part of the show that day, said, “Cleo doesn’t have a daughter.”

This was true; she was a single woman who’d never been linked to anyone in Hollywood. But tears welled in Cleo’s eyes. “Actually, I do,” she confessed.

It was one of the biggest news stories of the year: Cleo admitted to being date-raped as a sixteen-year-old, and sent to a convent in Puerto Rico, where the baby was born and put up for adoption. She launched a public search for the girl, who was now thirty-one, and they had a tearful television reunion. Cleo’s ratings skyrocketed; she won an Emmy. And as a reward, her production company transformed me from diner waitress to celebrity psychic, and gave me my own syndicated show.

I had a special connection when it came to kids. Police departments invited me to go into the woods where the bodies of children had been found, to see if I could read anything about the murderer. I went into homes where children had been abducted, and tried to sense a trail for law enforcement to follow. I’d walk through crime scenes with blood spatter staining the protective booties I had to wear, and try to visualize what had happened. I’d ask Desmond and Lucinda if a missing child had crossed over yet. Unlike faux psychics who’d call in hotline tips as a way of garnering fame for themselves, I always waited for the cops to come to me. Sometimes the cases I pursued on my show were recent ones; sometimes they were cold. I had a remarkable accuracy rate, but then again, I could have told you when I was seven that I wasn’t faking. At the same time, I started sleeping with a .38 under my pillow, and I invested in a complicated alarm system for my house. I hired a bodyguard named Felix, who was a cross between a Sub-Zero refrigerator and a pit bull. Using my Gift to help those who had lost loved ones put a target on my back; perps who knew I could point a finger at them could find me easily.

Mind you, I had my critics. The skeptics called me a fraud who bilked people out of money. Well, there are psychics who bilk people out of money. I call them the swamp witches, the faux psychics along the side of the road. Just like there are good lawyers and ambulance chasers, good doctors and quacks, there are good psychics and charlatans. The other, odder complaint came from those who berated me for taking a God-given talent and charging money for it. To them, I apologize for not wanting to break a couple of my favorite habits—namely, eating and living indoors. No one ever bitches to Serena Williams or Adele for capitalizing on their talent, do they? Mostly, I ignored what people said about me in the press. Engaging with haters is like rearranging pictures on the Titanic. What’s the point?

So yes, I had detractors, but I also had fans. Thanks to them, I got to appreciate the finer things in life: Frette linens, a bungalow in Malibu, Mo?t & Chandon, Jennifer Aniston’s cell number on speed dial. All of a sudden I wasn’t just doing readings; I was scrutinizing Nielsen ratings. I stopped listening to Desmond when he told me I was being a media whore. The way I saw it, I was still helping people. Didn’t I deserve a little something in return?

When Senator McCoy’s boy was kidnapped during fall sweeps, I knew I had a once-in-a-lifetime chance to become the greatest psychic of all time. After all, what better endorsement for my Gift than a politician who was probably going to be president? I had visions of him creating a Department of Paranormal Affairs, with me at the head; of the cute little town house I’d buy in Georgetown. I just had to convince him—a man who lived every moment in the public eye—that he could gain something from me, too, other than the ridicule of his constituents.