The Tarot Reader, page 4
How wrong would it be to call, make up some random location for where he was, and hope for the best?
It’s wrong, Jade. His family is suffering. You’re thinking like a vulture. Like a Crawford.
Minutes passed and I paced the room, my decision changing with each turn of my heel. If I submitted a tip, worst case, I’d be wrong. Best case, I was the genius psychic who everyone would be begging to give them readings.
I lifted the landline from its cradle gently, like any moment it might explode. Was this a bad idea?
Yes. Don’t do this.
I paced from the kitchen to the living room, biting my nails as I turned and took the same manic path again and again. I paused, taking a long, deep breath. I felt something inside me crack and give way, and despite how repulsed I was with myself, I was even more disgusted by the surge of adrenaline. Of excitement.
Do it. Do it now.
Readying myself to take the leap, I exhaled and gripped the phone hard in my hand as I dialed the police.
* * *
“Winston-Salem Police Department. How may I direct your call?”
“Uh, hi. Hello. I would like to submit a tip about the missing councilman. Thomas Nichols.”
The phone clicked, and tinny hold music began playing. Only ten seconds later, a deep voice answered the phone. “Sergeant Whicks. Who am I speaking to?”
“Hi. My name is Jade Ravencroft.” I introduced myself with my working name. I didn’t want them to make the connection between me and my parents. “I wanted to submit a tip about Thomas Nichols.”
A brief moment of silence. “This is being recorded. Is that okay with you?”
“Yes.”
“All right, let’s hear it.”
Why hadn’t I thought of what was I going to say? Oh God, this was a terrible idea. Not only was it morally wrong, but so many things could go wrong. Could I get fined for this? Arrested, even? I opened my mouth, still not knowing what was going to come out. “There’s a waste management facility being built about two miles away from Salem Lake. I think he’s there.” Heat flushed my cheeks. I couldn’t believe I was doing this.
“And why do you believe that?”
“Well…” I paused. Here we go, brace yourself. “I’m a psychic. I have a shop in the West End. Ravencroft Psychic Parlor and Shoppe.” The real truth behind my tip was that last week Stevie had complained about the construction noise while we walked around the lake, lamenting the blanket of trees that had been gutted from the ground and would soon be replaced by cement buildings and mounds of waste. It wasn’t magic. It was just the first place that came to mind.
Another pause. I could have sworn I heard a sigh in the background. “All right, Jade. Thanks for the information. This is a solid lead.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, and I wanted to reach through the phone and shove a middle finger in his face. “Bye-bye now.” Click.
Mortification swept over me. I was proudly a psychic to anyone with spare cash in their wallets, but claiming it to someone official like a police officer was one of the most embarrassing things I’d ever done. I knew they thought I was batshit crazy. And maybe they were right. What kind of sane person would do what I just did?
I poured myself a glass of water, my mouth dry as bone. His reaction was justified, I reminded myself. I couldn’t be angry about a rightful reaction. Psychics weren’t real. Only scammers and frauds, I told myself. Just like my parents.
“Wow,” a voice said behind me.
Every muscle in my body tensed as I jumped. “Jesus, Stevie. You scared the shit out of me.”
“My bad. What the hell was that?” She pointed at the phone. Her purse was slung across her shoulder, and she wore her typical work uniform: tight black jeans and an even tighter low-cut black top. It was clear why she was a favorite with some of the frequent male drinkers.
The flush in my cheeks was spreading across my body, and I was beginning to sweat. “Well, our vision about the missing dog went so well, I just figured I could try it with this missing-person case.”
“Yeah, but the difference is you knew where the dog was, but not this missing guy.” She paused, feigning suspicion. “Or do you know?”
“I know it’s stupid. But what’s the harm? If it works, we become filthy rich.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to shake off the embarrassment. If it didn’t come to anything, only Stevie and I would know about the failure.
“Seems kind of fucked-up. But whatever works for you, sis.” She laughed as she plopped her keys carelessly into her bag.
“Late shift?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yep, I’ll be home around one.” Stevie turned, distracted by the fact that she was likely running late, like she always was. “Catch you on the flip side, Madame Ravencroft.”
Within seconds, she was gone and I was left to sit with my embarrassment. Regret was already sinking in, and I was about to pick up the phone to call the police back. Could I claim it was a mistake without getting charged for wasting police time? I could say I had another vision—one that contradicted my tip. But then that’d just be another lie.
I took another sip of water. A loud knock on the front door made me jostle my glass, spilling a small stream of water down the front of my shirt. The cops were already here, handcuffs waiting, I thought.
I walked over to the living room window, which I’d opened as the sun set, reveling in the hint of crispness in the air as fall approached. I stuck my head out the window and peered down. Daniel was gazing up at me, his head tilted as far back as it could go. His hair glowed like fire under the orange streetlamps.
“Tired of me yet?” he called up, smiling.
“How could I ever tire of you, Daniel?”
“Want to watch a movie tomorrow?” He was shouting up at me, and two women at the outdoor bar seating across the street scowled at him. God only knew our perpetually angry neighbor Phyllis already had her phone in hand to call the police.
“Depends on what the marquee says,” I shouted back.
“Well, not to brag, but I just got Hulu, so the sky’s the limit.”
“Oh, so you’re a billionaire, huh?” I laughed. “Your place tomorrow at eight?”
His smile broadened, and he gave a dorky thumbs-up before shuffling back to his apartment. I peeked out farther and watched the windows brighten as he turned on more lights.
I wondered what it was like to live in a vibrant, bright space. Our shop was so dim, and the dark and mystical energy was sometimes comforting, but more often than not I found it claustrophobic.
CHAPTER
6
Jade
THE NEXT MORNING the shop’s landline rang, and a silly part of me hoped it would be our rental company, apologizing for the error they sent us. Instead, I was greeted with a familiar yet unexpected voice.
“Jade?”
My mouth hung slightly open, no air passing between my dry lips. My grandmother. A part of me yearned to speak with her after years of her forcing distance between us, but I also harbored anger toward her for completely abandoning us. I knew she loved Stevie and me, but she’d been so jaded by my father’s actions that she’d withdrawn herself entirely from the family and was now living a happy life at a senior living facility in Florida.
“Jade? Are you there?” My grandmother’s voice was low and raspy from years of smoking. It enveloped me like a blanket fresh out of the dryer, the warmth of it draping across my body, because underneath the rasp, she sounded a bit like Mom.
“Grandma?” I was shocked by the croak of my voice.
“It’s so good to hear your voice, sweetie. I don’t have long, but I have something to tell you.”
“All right. Are you okay?” Her voice trembled, and a tense shiver rose in my body to match it.
“I’m fine, I promise. Listen—” Someone in the background urged her to wrap up the call, and I knew well enough that she stared daggers at them, because they quickly stopped. Grandma’s eyes—just like my mother’s had been—were a piercing green, almost unnaturally so, sharp pieces of polished jade behind thick, black eyelashes. I’d always wondered if that’s why they’d chosen my name. “Your father is out of prison.”
Blood rushed to my head, thrumming in my ears. “When? How? He was supposed to be there for seven years.”
“He got out about a week ago—on good behavior. Ironically.”
“Have you heard from him yet?”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t believe it. The little shit sent me an email. An email for an eighty-five-year-old woman, are you kidding me? All it said was ‘I’m out.’ So I checked with the prison, and sure enough, poof. He’s gone.”
She kept ranting, growing increasingly angry about my dad’s ambiguity, but I could hardly hear what she was saying. There were too many noises all at once—the sound of the cars outside, people beginning their workday in a rush, the heat failing to keep up and spitting out stale cold air. My mouth was hanging open, my tongue dry against the back of my teeth. I couldn’t say anything. What was I supposed to say?
“Just be safe, sweetie,” she whispered in warning, like she was worried he was listening.
“What do you mean?”
She sighed. “If he could do what he did to his wife, he’s capable of anything. Remember that.”
How could I ever forget what he did? I wanted to bite back, anger flushing my cheeks. Did she think that in the years since she’d abandoned us, I’d somehow forgotten my father was the reason I was motherless? Screw that, parentless?
An authoritative voice approached, likely a staff member at Grandma’s senior living facility, urging her off the phone. “I have to go. Be safe.”
Click. Again she was gone.
* * *
My family came from a long line of liars, thieves, and scammers. Every woman in my family was born with The Gift. We told others, and sometimes ourselves, that The Gift was the power to foresee the future, to commune with the dead. In reality, the gift was not a gift at all. It was a curse. The curse of a flimsy spine and a willingness to do wrong even at the slightest pressure from others.
On the surface, the women were the manipulators, lying to their clients and stealing from strangers. We stole information and in my parents’ case, even others’ belongings, but the women weren’t the root of the problem. It had always been the men.
The story goes that it all began when my great-great-grandfather William Crawford took his wife, Mary, to a presentation on spiritualism in 1849. He was amazed as the crowd threw money on the stage in the hopes of having their fortune read or being hypnotized by a greasy man with a waxed mustache. That night, long after Mary had fallen asleep, he snuck out to the inn where he suspected the performer was staying. He plied him with drinks, and when he was drunk enough, he wrung his secrets out of him like a wet rag.
“How do you do it? Is any of it real?”
“The crowd’s emotions are real,” the performer said. “That’s all that matters to them.”
When the performer slumped over at the table, William fished a thick, palm-sized notebook out of his pocket. Every page was covered in what appeared to be gibberish. Each night for the next month, he spent hours by candlelight attempting to decode the notebook. It stumped him, night after night, as he tried to decipher the list of names and symbols.
Cora Mary Hofer… Mother Minnie Allory ○ … Father Horace Allory . Blind in one eye… operation did not restore sight… Grandmother Mary Elizabeth Scott Died from a disease she could not shake… Grandfather Clifton ○ running around. This disturbs Minnie… Fr. of Father Herman Wegner … Son is John Wegner ♡ … Fr.’s mother was named Wilharber…
Each page was riddled with nonsensical tidbits of information such as this, with names and symbols neatly drawn. Tabs on the side divided the notebook by state, city, and county.
Day by day, name by name, William deciphered our city’s section. After asking around about the names in the list, he finally cracked the code of the symbols. The first name in the list was the performer’s target—the one he would draw up onstage. A circle next to a name meant the person was alive, while a cross indicated they’d passed. A heart was the target’s love interest, and information about friends, abbreviated “Fr.,” was also noted.
The performer noted small, seemingly useless details about a target’s circle of people, like a relative’s blindness resulting from a failed surgery. With this, he would feign sudden blindness onstage, conjuring feelings of darkness and fear as he convinced the target he was communing with her late blind father.
The performer dated his entries, and William discovered he arrived to town two days early for each performance every single time. With that time, he would visit the local cemetery, writing down names and dates of death. He would then go to pubs and inns, scribbling down pieces of overheard conversations. He created a web of relationships and secrets owned by the town and then deployed it during his shows to convince the audience of his occult powers.
My great-great-grandfather became obsessed, creating his own notebook filled with webs of information. William wasn’t even a religious man, much less one to believe in spirits and mystical powers, but the draw of the money was too tempting to resist, and so was his ego. As time went by, he became more and more hesitant to admit he hadn’t come up with his complex system. It was stolen, his entire identity shifting to match the performer he’d left drunk at the inn that night. His skills grew, and each member of the family continued in his wake. That’s all there was in the Crawford family.
Spies, not spirits.
* * *
I stood with the phone in my hand, heart racing. I had to tell Stevie about Dad, but it was the last thing I wanted to do. She waffled back and forth between being angry with him for what he’d done and missing him, and I wasn’t sure which way she would swing when I told her the news. I wouldn’t know how to react if she had even a shred of desire to rekindle their relationship.
When I finally worked up the courage, I went downstairs and found her puttering around the shop, which was miserably empty.
“Stevie,” I said. “I have some news.”
She spun around. “Are you pregnant?” she gasped. “An immaculate conception will really draw in the customers.”
I ignored the playful jab about my desolate dating life. My palms were clammy, but I had to bite the bullet and tell her. If I wanted her to be safe, she needed to know. “Grandma called to tell me Dad’s out of prison.”
Her face reddened, but she didn’t speak. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
“He got out on good behavior, supposedly. Him escaping through some underground tunnel seems more likely, if you ask me.”
She sighed, and I waited nervously for her to speak. “Only he could weasel his way out of a seven-year sentence and make it two,” she said, picking nervously at her cuticles. “Do you think he’ll try to come back to the apartment?” she asked.
My heart dropped. It wasn’t something I’d thought of before, but it made sense. He probably still thought the lease was in his name.
“No chance in hell he’ll get in, even if he wanted to,” I said. “I had all the locks changed after he went to prison, even on the windows. Dad is the most conniving man we have ever known. If he wants to find a free place to stay, there are plenty of people he could sink his fangs into.”
“Nice of grandma to crawl out of her hole to deliver the good news,” Stevie grumbled. “So helpful.”
I glanced furtively at Stevie as she rearranged items in the shop, checking to see if she was all right. “I’m fine,” she said. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a little girl.”
Despite her claims that she was okay, her movements were jerky and clumsy. I winced as she nearly knocked over a bowl of crystals.
“You good?” I asked, and she just sighed. The bell above the shop’s door chimed, and a middle-aged woman stepped in, her nervous energy palpable. She nearly collided with the shelves of candles and herbs for sale, but didn’t seem to notice.
“I’m here for a reading,” she said flatly. Underneath her eyes were deep circles ringed with smudged, unwashed eye makeup. She wore clean, well-tailored clothes that were at odds with her disheveled face and hair.
Stevie gave me a look that said Good luck with this one and scurried out of the room without a word, closing the velvet curtain behind her.
Great, I thought. A cold reading. My favorite.
Unlike a hot reading, where you could set yourself up for success with already-acquired information, a cold reading required intense focus on your sitter and split-second thinking, with guesses about the person based off throwaway comments they made or small physical details. If you’d had a sleepless night or were distracted, forget about it.
“I can help you. I’m Jade. What’s your name?” I spoke to her in the soft, low voice I used when I worked.
“I need to know if he was unfaithful,” she demanded, ignoring my introduction.
I got this exact same question at least once a week. I took a deep breath, my mind racing to come up with a game plan. “I see,” I cooed, and motioned her to my table. Once she was seated, I asked, “May I see your hands?” I extended my hands to her, and she flinched.
Domestic abuse? I wondered, taking mental notes.
She hesitated, her eyes wary. Finally, she gave me her hands. I gripped them, holding my breath at the shock of her thin, frail fingers. Her wedding ring was so loose that it nearly slid off in my hand.
She hasn’t been eating. She’s been worried about this for a while.
I gently unfurled her hands and asked her to close her eyes, but they widened in resistance.
“It’s okay. It’s only for a moment.”
