It could be worse, I told myself as I adjusted the camera pin on my lapel and Lia leaned forward to ring the town gossip’s doorbell. Lia could have chosen a more destructive outlet for her issues.
“Can I help you?” The woman who answered the door was in her early fifties, with vivid red hair that wouldn’t have looked natural even if she were two decades younger. Her sense of fashion tended toward skintight and shiny.
You wear bright pink lipstick, even in your own home. The house is classic, understated—everything you’re not.
“If you’re Marcela Waite, I believe that we can help you,” Lia murmured.
Even a Natural liar’s credibility could only take us so far. As much as I loathed doing it, I picked up the slack. “My name is Cassie Hobbes. You knew my mother, Lorelai. She helped you connect to loved ones on the other side.”
Recognition sparked in Marcela’s eyes.
“Forty-four percent of psychics believe in UFOs,” Sloane blurted out. “But twice that believe in extraterrestrials.”
“The spirit realm speaks to Sloane in numbers,” Lia said solemnly. “You have four dogs buried in your yard.” Sloane rocked back on her
heels. “And you replaced four hundred and seventy-nine shingles on your roof last year.”
Marcela’s hand flew to her chest. Clearly, it had not—and would not— occur to her that Sloane was simply good at math and extremely observant.
“Do you have a message for me?” Marcela asked, her eyes alight.
“My mother passed away several years ago,” I said, sticking to the story we’d told Ree. “I came to Gaither to scatter her ashes, but before I do…”
“Yes?” Marcela said breathlessly.
“Her spirit asked me to come here and do a reading for you.”
I was a horrible person.
As Marcela Waite served us tea and sat down across from me in her formal sitting room, I pushed down a stab of guilt and forced myself to focus on her BPE instead. Behavior. Personality. Environment.
This was your husband’s house. He came from money. You didn’t. He never pressured you to change, and you haven’t—but you also haven’t altered his décor. My gut said that she’d loved him.
“You’re a very spiritual person,” I said, feeling more like my mother than I had in a very long time. “I’m sensing that you have a touch of the Gift yourself.”
Most people liked to consider themselves intuitive, and 90 percent of this job was telling the client what they wanted to hear.
“You’ve been having dreams,” I continued. “Tell me about them.”
As our hostess launched into a description of her dream from the night before, I wondered how my mother could have done this for so many years.
You did what you had to do, I thought. You did it for me. But deep down, I also had to admit, You liked playing the game. You liked the power.
It took me a moment to realize that Marcela had stopped talking.
“There are two sides to the dream you’ve described,” I said automatically. “The different sides represent two paths, a decision you have to make.”
The trick to my mother’s trade had always been to stay vague until the client gave you cues about how to proceed.
“New versus old,” I continued. “To forgive or not to forgive. To apologize or to bite your tongue.” There was no reaction from Marcela, so I got a bit more personal. “You wonder what your husband would want you to do.”
That opened the floodgates. “His sister has been so nasty to me! It’s pretty rich, the way she looks down on me when she’s on marriage number four!”
Your husband’s sister never thought you were good enough for him—and she let you know it from day one.
Sloane cleared her throat. “There are fifty-six anagrams of the name Marcela, including caramel, a calmer, and lace arm.”
Marcela gasped. “Caramel was my Harold’s favorite candy.” Her brow furrowed. “Harold wants me to be calmer? More patient with his sister?”
Lia took that as her cue. “I smell caramel,” she said, her eyes focusing on something in the distance. “Harold is here. He’s with us.” She latched on to my hand as she turned her weighty gaze to Marcela Waite. “He wants you to know that he knows how his sister can be.”
“He didn’t always see it when he was alive,” I added, elaborating on Lia’s statement to make it more consistent with my profile of Marcela. “But he sees everything now. He knows it’s hard, but he’s counting on you to be the bigger person. Because he knows you can be.”
“He said that?” Marcela asked softly.
“He doesn’t say much,” I replied. “In spirit form, he doesn’t have to.”
Marcela closed her eyes and bowed her head. You needed to hear that he supports you. You needed to remember that he loved you, too.
I could almost believe that we were doing a good thing here, but then Lia
arched her back, her body contorting itself into an unnatural position.
“Help.” Lia pitched her voice into a high, nails-on-chalkboard whisper. “I can’t find my son. There’s blood. So much blood—”
I gave Lia’s hand a warning squeeze. This wasn’t how I would have chosen to bring the conversation around to the Kyle murders, but Lia—in true Lia fashion—hadn’t left me much of a choice.
I forced myself not to roll my eyes. “Tell me your name, spirit,” I said. “Anna,” Lia hissed. “My name was Anna.”
