The Tarot Reader, page 9
“No need. I’m gonna do it.”
I winced, my stomach immediately in knots at the thought of her alone with him, even for a moment. “Absolutely not. I don’t want you involved in this.”
“You’ve already involved me by showing me this. And come on, what better bait than a former student? A young one at that.”
I glared at her. “You want to be pervert bait?”
“Come on. Think of those girls. He ruined their lives.”
“I have to be there to make sure nothing goes wrong.” My mind was racing as I pictured all the things that could go wrong and how powerless I would be to protect her, even if I was there.
“You know that makes no sense. You’ll blow your own cover. Please, just let me help.”
“Fine,” I finally said. She was never as eager to be on the acting end of our schemes. Always the stagehand, scurrying behind the walls to make the magic happen. But now, with her skin flushed and eyes wild with excitement, she was ready to step out onto the stage. The change was startling.
I stuck out my hand for a handshake, and she shook it firmly with a clammy hand. She laughed in disbelief as she stared down at the patient files spread across the coffee table. “We’re going to get ourselves killed one day.”
CHAPTER
13
Jade
“JADE!”
I pulled my right ear out from my headphones, music still streaming in from the left side. I waited to hear my name again, but nothing. I peered out the window into the street. The pavement glistened in the sun after an early-morning shower, and a few people trickled in and out of the buildings along the street. I was dreading starting the day. I’d had a fitful night of sleep after my conversation with Stevie. I couldn’t stop trying to connect the dots between the councilman and Ian Stellman, but I was coming up short.
I’d nearly slid the headphones back on when I heard Stevie yell urgently, “Jade!”
“What?” I shouted back, a little annoyed, a little curious. I hadn’t even heard Stevie leave her room this morning.
“Come here!” she yelled.
My annoyance rose. She’d been like that ever since she learned to talk—never an explanation behind her demand. Just a simple, direct order. She was always thankful after, but the vague way she asked for things grated on my nerves.
“Get the fuck in here!” she yelled again. I guessed her small allotment of patience had worn out.
I tossed my phone to the side of my bed and hopped down, sliding my feet into my slippers. They were ridiculous, frilly little things—lavender fur with white stars and crescent moons—that Stevie had gifted me last Christmas.
When I found my sister, she was standing wide-eyed in front of the television, wrapped in a fleece robe. She gnawed on a fingernail while the other hand gripped the remote in a vise. I couldn’t tell whether she was terrified or thrilled.
“What is it, Your Highness? Did you smoke too much and watch Hereditary again?” But when I looked at the TV, it wasn’t a horror movie. It was the news. Along the bottom of the screen, the ticker said, “Breaking news: Body of councilman found.”
A commercial began, and Stevie looked at me wide-eyed. “The anchors said the same thing earlier but mentioned a local business helping. You don’t think…”
“There’s no way.”
The news returned, and Stevie clicked the volume button multiple times until the anchor’s voice rose to an almost unbearable volume.
“Geez, Stevie, turn it down. I won’t be able to listen if—” I stopped talking.
“We’re back with a tragic update. Beloved councilman Thomas Nichols has been found dead. His disappearance on September twentieth rattled the community, who now mourn the loss of an incredible community figure. His body was found at the construction site for a future waste management facility approximately two miles from Salem Lake. Police made this discovery after a local psychic, Jade Ravencroft, called the hotline to report a psychic vision regarding his location. We will provide updates as we receive new information.”
The woman set her stack of papers on her desk. Her co-anchor said, “A truly troubling story, Anna. What a magnificent gift this Jade Ravencroft has.” It seemed like he truly believed I had a psychic gift. Like I’d done some good for the community.
The anchorwoman let out a tiny, almost imperceptible scoff.
Stevie muted the TV when they moved to their next story. She stared at me, expecting me to say something, but I gaped back at her. I didn’t even know what to say, but I should say something. Anything. I opened my mouth, but only a tiny croak came out.
When I finally spoke, she did too. “What the fuck?”
* * *
My vision was right. Oh my God, I was right.
My guess, I corrected. I’d made a wild, desperate guess and I’d somehow gotten it right.
“So are you, like, actually psychic or something?” Stevie erupted into a fit of laughter and held her stomach with one hand. Her laugh had always been infectious, and I couldn’t help but join in. “Oh God,” she said, “I’m gonna pee.”
“It never ceases to amaze me how this family always finds a way to claw ourselves out of our little holes,” Stevie finally said after she caught her breath.
“The holes we dig for ourselves, you mean.”
“I guess,” she sighed. “It’s not like we dug this hole, though. Mom and Dad dug it for us.”
“Dad did,” I said a bit too severely. She was still smiling, but her eyes made it clear I’d been too harsh. “Sorry. Well, that old bastard would be seething with jealousy over this trick.”
Our dad had always used the word trick. Never scam. A trick had an air of innocence, which was exactly the opposite of the crap he’d been getting up to before he was sentenced.
“Wait, wait, wait. How much was the reward again?” Stevie asked.
I cleared my throat, desperate to get back to the levity we’d had right after the news announcement. “Two thousand dollars.”
She was laughing again now, tears of pure exhilaration brimming against her lower lashes. “I hope this doesn’t make them think you did it.”
Although it was clearly a joke, the words wiped the smile off my face. When I’d submitted the vision to the police, I’d only been thinking of the potential money I could be rewarded. Woolridge had been a jerk, but there wasn’t any reason for him to think I actually killed the councilman. In my greed, I hadn’t for a second thought of how it might make me look if my tip was right.
Like a murderer.
* * *
Soon the phone began to ring nonstop, and Stevie answered what she could downstairs while I tackled the emails and direct messages on social media. The repairmen were scheduled to begin work soon, and Stevie was downstairs collecting the soiled towels and full buckets of murky water before they arrived.
“Um, Jade,” Stevie said behind me as I answered an email from a journalist asking to arrange an interview. “You won’t believe who’s here to repair the ceiling.”
My stomach dropped as I pictured our dad downstairs, waiting at the door with a toolbox and a shit-eating grin on his face. “Dad?”
“What?” Stevie said. “God, no. It’s Adam.”
I rolled my eyes and groaned. This wasn’t anywhere near as bad as our dad being downstairs, but it was still going to be miserable. Adam was the older brother of my toxic ex-boyfriend Chris Pulaski, who I’d wasted two years of my life on after meeting them at his parents’ pawnshop. He’d shamelessly dumped me after Mom died, complaining that in my grief, I’d given up on myself. It had only added salt to the already-deep wound, but now, two years later, I was glad to be rid of him and desperate to never see him or his brother again.
I braced myself as I walked downstairs with Stevie. There Adam stood with two other workers, readying materials to fix the gaping hole in the shop ceiling. One of the men was clearly the boss, as he barked orders at Adam, who gritted his teeth in annoyance. He was just as petulant as his brother, only he threw his tantrums silently, and somehow that was more frightening.
“Adam,” I said, not bothering to say hello. “I didn’t realize you were doing construction work.”
“Yep,” was all he said, and he turned on his heel to fetch something from their van.
“Isn’t he a ray of sunshine?” Stevie murmured. The three men eventually began their repair, and Stevie and I did our best to cordon off their work with shoddy velvet drapes and strategically placed bookshelves. Despite all our hard work, the harsh clanging of tools disturbed the carefully curated ambience in the shop.
The incessant ringing of the shop phone added to the onslaught of noise, and I gritted my teeth in panic as Cheryl entered the shop with no appointment. She’d come in for a last-minute reading to ease her anxiety about her son, but as our reading began, it became clear the day wasn’t going to slow down in the slightest.
I flipped over a card for her. “The Four of Wands. Cheryl, how lovely. This card signifies celebration and unification within a family. Have you made progress with your son?” The phone rang again the moment she started speaking, and I winced. “One second.” I waited a beat for Stevie to answer, but after two more rings, I leapt up from the tarot table, picked up the phone, then quickly slammed it back down.
“I listened to your advice, and I decided to change my mindset. For the sake of my family, I’ll be throwing them an engagement party.”
The phone rang again, and I hustled over and hung it up with a slam, then took it off the hook so nobody else could call. Where the hell was Stevie? She’d taken a phone call after Cheryl arrived, but now she was nowhere in sight.
“That’s fantastic. Things are looking up for you and your family. You deserve it.” I wasn’t sure if I fully meant that—she was actually kind of a terrible person at her core. But people could change, I reminded myself, and everyone deserved a second chance.
Well, most people. I thought of my dad and wondered how long it would take him to relapse back into his typical behavior, if he hadn’t already. A year? A week?
The front door chime made us both jump in our seats. Below the OPEN sign, I’d flipped around a placard that said READING IN PROGRESS.
We’d gotten the sign because we realized people wandered in more often when they knew a reading was going on: moths drawn to the spectacle. They’d pretend to wander around, smelling candles and herbs, but really they were eavesdropping on the reading. More often than not, if someone wandered in during a reading, they ended up getting one themselves.
We’d added the little curtained-off area after Stevie started working at the bar. She’d returned home after her first night rambling about how much more people would drink and how much longer they’d stay if you put them in what she called the “very intoxicated people” section. So we’d recreated that in the shop with some cheap velvet cloth we’d nail-gunned to the ceiling.
I peeled back the velvet curtain and secured it with a gold cord, apologizing to Cheryl for the interruption. I had begun to stand to let whoever it was know I’d help them momentarily when to my relief, Stevie’s footsteps approached the newcomer, clicking the shop phone back onto the receiver as she passed it. She was wearing her typical psychic shop uniform—a long black dress, black Doc Martens, and a black lacy shawl draped across her shoulders. She joked that when she was working at the shop, she might as well dress as her namesake, Stevie Nicks.
When I peeked out farther, I took in a sharp, startled breath. It wasn’t just one person. It was a crowd, each person holding their weapon of choice, whether it be a microphone, camera, or pen and paper. A few taller men stood behind them, pointing cameras right at Stevie. Reporters.
I crept out of the cordoned-off area and motioned for Cheryl to stay put. The wide windows next to the front door revealed even more people, some of them pressing their hands to the glass, trying to peer in.
I smoothed my skirt down and fussed with my hair before walking to the door. This was it. Our time to shine.
“Welcome,” I said in my Madame Ravencroft voice, “to the Ravencroft Psychic Parlor and Shoppe.”
* * *
As soon I uttered half of the word welcome, the reporters flooded in, elbowing each other and jostling for the best position.
Despite the fact that there wasn’t an inch left uncovered by the journalists, there were still three of them left out in the cold. One of them propped open the door, and they peered in jealously.
“Are you Jade Ravencroft?” a woman asked, pointing her recorder at me, and I nodded. She was on her own, no cameraperson in tow behind her. I took her in—her crisp white button-up, black slacks, and black boots with a slight heel. She had a confident air about her, like she had all the time in the world, making her stand out from the others, who had the chaotic energy of hungry dogs circling around one bowl.
A man in a bright-blue windbreaker with a news channel logo reached around her and shoved a bulbous microphone in my face, nearly bumping my chin. The woman with the recorder gave him a withering look but stood her ground even as their elbows jousted.
“Tell us about your vision of Councilman Nichols,” the man barked at me.
Another reporter from the doorway shouted, “Who did you get the information from?”
I cleared my throat. “My information came from a vision.” The crowd murmured, some in mocking disbelief but others mere inches away from being convinced. “I’m a psychic.”
God, what have I done? This was exactly what I’d wanted, yet it was too public. Too vulnerable.
“There’s no such thing as psychics,” a reporter shouted from the middle of the crowd. I clenched my jaw. His polo said Star News—the local channel that was infamous for poor reporting and even poorer journalistic integrity.
“Perhaps there’s no scientific proof, but humans throughout time have been given spiritual gifts. I’m one of many women in my family with such a gift.”
The Star News reporter scoffed. I glanced over at Stevie, who was openly snarling, and I prayed none of the cameras were pointed at her to witness it. “Would you be willing to prove that you have a gift by hosting a public séance?”
I blanched. The concept had never crossed my mind, despite the many celebrity psychics that were on TV or performed in flashy shows in Las Vegas. If I said no, it would be an immediate red flag. So I gave a smile and agreed to the only option. “Absolutely. Stay behind, and we’ll set up the details.”
The reporter flashed his teeth in a wide, wolfish smile, and all my muscles clenched as I thought of all the things that could go wrong in a public séance. And clearly, he was thinking the same thing. “This should be good,” he laughed to the cameraman next to him.
I startled at the loud voice right behind me. “Everything Jade says is true. She’s been given an incredible gift. She reunited me with my son.”
Approving chatter rippled through the packed room of journalists, who were already spinning their tales into a tidy TV-worthy segment.
“Cheryl.” I clasped one hand against my chest. “I’m so sorry about all this.”
The steadfast reporter with the recorder turned to her. “Ma’am, can you elaborate?”
Cheryl stepped forward to the nearest microphone. Had she applied lipstick? “My son and I have had a rocky road lately. I didn’t approve of the woman he fell in love with, but Jade helped me come to my senses when she had a vision he was going to propose. And she was right.” More hushed whispers among the crowd. Cheryl continued, “She helped me realize my faults, and now I’m happy to say I’m throwing my son and future daughter-in-law an engagement party. And of course Jade will be invited, because without her, the party wouldn’t be happening at all.”
A strange mixture of pride and embarrassment washed over me, and I worked hard to keep my face placid and calm. Cheryl was singing my praises exactly how I hoped all my clients would, but I was fighting the tiny urge to correct her. I could tell them I was more like a therapist, albeit an unlicensed one. And uneducated. And tack on unethical to my résumé too.
But I had to go along with it. This was my career. My livelihood. Over the next hour, reporters asked more questions, and I sweated my way through my answers. Eventually, I politely asked them to leave and call to arrange further interviews. I wanted to keep an air of mystery, and I couldn’t let them think my entire day was empty. Despite my request, two reporters lingered.
The reporter who’d challenged me to host a public séance stayed behind to arrange the details. He approached me with a business card.
“This is the owner of the community theater,” the reporter said, shoving the card into my hand. “He’s already agreed to host you.”
I clenched the card, trying to keep the annoyance off my face. He’d clearly come to ambush me, thinking he could prove some point by having me publicly fail. He had no idea how wrong he was going to be.
“Maybe you’re the psychic,” I said with a smile, “since you and”—I looked down at the card—“Mr. Melville both knew I would accept the offer.”
The reporter laughed stiffly, and for the next ten minutes we created a rough plan for the event. It would be held in just five days, and anyone who was interested would be able to anonymously enter themselves for a chance either to participate as a sitter or as an audience member. My head spun, but Stevie nodded to me, silently communicating she’d take care of the logistics.
One final reporter remained, and despite the fact that I’d asked them all to leave, it didn’t bother me. Something about her made me want to prove myself to her.
“If they see you lingering, they’ll storm back in and I’ll never be able to get rid of them.” I smiled as I tidied up the shelves that some of the reporters had bumped into. Someone had carelessly toppled over a row of chakra candles, leaving a rainbow-colored mess on the floor. I picked up a flattened and disfigured red root chakra candle and sighed. Ironic, considering the meaning—feeling rooted and secure in life.
