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“Uh-uh. I mean, I shake hands when I meet them, but nothing like this. When the woman, Donna, took my hands she was definitely a little apprehensive. She looked right at me and I could see a little fear in her eyes. I figured she was worried that I’d tell her something bad. Roxanne was nervous too, worrying about possibly dying.”
“Hmmm. The emotion might also be a factor. A handshake is casual. But if you’re connected when the client is emotional, that must somehow trigger a different kind of reading. You say the images are flying by?”
“It starts out normal, then speeds up, like a DVD on fast forward. I couldn’t possibly keep up with it.”
Mom furrows her brow. “At what point did the images speed up?”
“Well, with Donna, it was right after I saw her murder. The afterlife image started at normal speed and then it did the same thing. With Roxanne, it was right after I saw…you know, what I told you.” I see the image in my mind again and it makes me cringe.
She slowly nods. “Both caused emotional responses in you. Donna’s reading scared you, Roxanne’s upset you. Had they not, I would guess you would have seen the images at your normal speed.” She pauses a moment, looks up at the ceiling as if searching for inspiration, then back at me. “I need to get in touch with The Council about this so they can explore it before we get there this weekend. Perhaps there’s some precedent they know about.”
“And in the meantime?”
“Try taking the hands of a few clients this week. See what happens.”
***
I’m bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and the image that played on an endless loop making my imagination run wild. My mind has created many upsetting scenarios, all of which include something physical. Roxanne slides her tray onto the table and takes a seat across from me. I’m about to make my case and open my mouth when she cuts me off before I can say a word. “Don’t even start with me.”
“Rox, really, you have to go—”
“No. I’m not having this argument again.”
“Honestly, it won’t bother me.”
She rolls her eyes. “What a steaming pile of horse shit, Jillian. Of course it will bother you and I know it’s been bothering you. It would bother me if the roles were reversed. Look, one date in high school doesn’t mean anything to me one way or the other, and I’m not hurting my best friend.” She looks around to make sure no one’s within earshot, then leans closer and drops her voice to a tone that tells me she’s digging in her heels. “I am not going on a date with Ryan. When he asks me out I’m politely turning him down. End of story.”
The image flashes through my mind again and makes me cringe ever so slightly though I try to maintain my game face. Ryan stopping by her locker, asking her out to the dance…
And then, of course, everything went into super fast forward so I have no idea what happened next.
Because, as Mom theorizes, I was upset at the thought of the guy I desperately want for myself going out with my best friend.
Well, make that one of the guys I desperately want. (Hey, cut me some slack, I’m a teenage girl. I can like more than one guy, okay? And no, I don’t wanna share.)
Still, what do I do? Maybe that’s the first date of a long relationship. Maybe Ryan and Roxanne are soul mates, and meant for each other, would have a happily ever after ending.
Or maybe I’ll grow a pair and ask him out one day.
But she deserves the chance to find out if he’s the one. “Look, he obviously likes you or—”
“Stop it. I’ve known him as long as you have. Sure, we like each other well enough…as friends…and he’s a great guy. But he’s not my type. He’s your type.”
“My type might also be Jake. What, I’m going to call dibs on all the guys at this school I might have a crush on and forbid you to consider any of them? That’s not exactly fair.”
“Jillian, he’s your best male friend. He might one day become your true love. You’ve had it bad for him the last year or so since you started looking at him differently. And you know boys mature later than we do. Give him some time to figure things out. Wouldn’t that be cool, to marry someone you love who’s also a great friend, someone with whom you have everything in common? I’m not going to come between that possibility. No, he’s yours. Besides, I aint datin’ no mindreader. One look inside this head and he’d leave skid marks running away. And like I said, he’s not my type.”
“Okay, so what is your type?” I already know, I just want her to admit it.
“Doesn’t exist at this school.”
“Now who’s shoveling the horse shit? I’ve seen you bite your knuckles when that Brian Kale walks by. You can’t tell me you don’t think he’s pretty hot.”
“Yeah, but he’s a crash test dummy. You ever talk to him? He’s TSTL.” (That’s too stupid to live for those who aren’t privy to teenage girl acronyms.)
“Rox, I know you like Ryan. You always have.”
“End. Of. Discussion.”
She gives me the Sicilian death stare usually reserved for losers who hit on her and I know it’s time to back off and drop the subject. I’ll be honest here; I’m relieved she’s not going out with him. Time to fess up. “Thank you,” I say softly, dropping my head and staring at the mystery elbow macaroni casserole that might actually contain the elbows of some poor creature.
She reaches across the table and lifts my chin so that I’m looking at her. “I could never hurt you, Jillian. Just like you could never hurt me. I’ve always got your back.”
She’s protected me from bullies, now the game has changed. Still the big sister keeping me from getting hurt. “You know, for a muse you inspire a lot more than creativity.”
She begins eating her lunch. “By the way, on the subject of hot guys…” Her eyebrows went up and so did her voice, into a sing-song third grade lilt. “I know someone who likes Jill-i-an…”
***
His name is Gavin, and he’s a new client. He greets me with a warm handshake and I gesture toward the seat opposite mine. He’s maybe thirty, tall and slender, expensive charcoal gray windowpane suit and a red paisley tie with a perfect dimple in the knot. Classic square jaw, jet black hair, deep blue eyes I could get lost in if I were ten years older or he were ten years younger. Champagne Rolex on his wrist, french-cuffed shirt with gold cufflinks. Tells me he manages a mutual fund. I’m wondering why the hell a guy who looks this good and is obviously loaded needs help with romance.
And then he tells me. “I’m thinking my fiancée is cheating on me.”
“I’m thinking your fiancée is an idiot,” I mutter.
Oops, he heard me. He furrows his brow. “Excuse me?”
I smile and laugh a bit. “Forgive my attempt at humor. But what you said surprised me. I mean, well, I would guess women would be beating a path to the door of a guy who looks like you and wears a watch that costs more than most cars.”
He offers a sheepish grin. “That, uh, used to be the case. But I’m ready to settle down. I need to be sure my fiancée is as well.”
“Any particular reason you think she’s cheating?”
“Well, lots of calls to our apartment lately that hang up when I answer. She’s working late a lot. And, she, uh, had a reputation as a party girl a few years ago.”
“Fair enough. You brought a picture of her?”
He nods and reaches into his back pocket, then pulls out his wallet. “Sure.” He removes a small photo and hands it to me.
I can see why he’s worried. Blonde, stunning, holding a drink, obviously hammered past the legal limit, wearing a skirt up to her ass. “She’s really pretty,” I say, as I hand it back to him.
“Sometimes they’re too pretty, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t, but let’s get started. I want you to take my hands for a moment, look at me, and ask a very specific question.”
“Okay.” I reach out and he takes my hands, then looks at me with those incredible eyes that make me gulp. “Is Jennifer Logan cheating on me?”
“Now close your eyes and focus on your question, and only your question.”
He closes his eyes. I do the same as I let go of his hands and take the crystal ball in mine. I focus on this Greek god sitting five feet away, then on his bimbo fiancee. I’ve got a pretty good idea what the future will reveal. A minute later I look at him. “Okay, open your eyes.”
He does, and I look at the ball.
Which is already fogged up.
Emotion. But it’s all his this time. I personally don’t feel anything one way or the other.
“Well?” he asks.
I put up one finger. “Patience. The image is clearing.”
It does and reveals an image of his fiancée actually working late. But she’s doing so with another man, and it’s obvious they’re attracted to each other. The clothes come off, the image begins to get a bit X-rated, my eyes grow wide as I can’t help but blush at a scene that belongs on late night Cinemax.
“You see something?” he asks.
I nod. “You were right. She’s with another man. Someone at her office. The name on the door reads…Dan Jellison.”
His hands ball into fists, the blue eyes narrow and fill with hate. “I’ll kill him,” he says.
And then I see him do it.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ua083f870-6d11-52ab-8419-75659a7579c1)
“So after you saw this man kill his fiancée and her lover, what happened?”
This time it’s just one prosecutor at The Summit, and Sebastien is being a lot nicer this time. He’s politely asking questions instead of demanding answers. We’re in his office, along with my mom.
“Right after he said ‘I’ll kill him,’ he got up and stormed out. I followed him out to the street and tried to get him to come back but he ignored me. Got in his car and peeled off.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I pulled out my cell phone and called Fuzzball. The police got there just in time or they would have been dead.”
Sebastien makes some notes on the legal pad, which sits atop his massive oak desk, then turns to my mother. “Is she always emotional?”
“I’m not an emotional person!” I say, realizing I sounded like one. “Who wouldn’t get emotional after seeing real-life murders?”
He put up a hand toward me. “Please, Jillian. I’m asking your mother.”
“No,” she says. “Jillian’s usually very calm. Doesn’t get angry. She’s very easygoing. We get along remarkably well, especially considering half the teenagers out there don’t even speak to their parents.” She shoots me a look and smiles. I nod back, silently thanking her for not telling Sebastien about our argument last week about my father.
The ticking of an ancient grandfather clock is the only sound in the room for the moment. Sebastien leans back in his leather swivel rocker and looks up at the ceiling, as if searching for answers. I sit silently, looking around the dark paneled room at the very old oil paintings of people I don’t recognize, probably paranormal pioneers of some sort. Finally he breaks the silence. “Tell me what you were thinking during each reading when you felt emotion.”
“Well, with the murders, I was more scared than upset. I mean, watching murders that are real instead of the stuff you see in movies scared the hell out of me. I could feel my heart pounding. In the last case, I was even more frightened because the man sitting across from me was the murderer.”
“And yet you ran after him. Weren’t you afraid for your own safety?”
He has a point. If I was so scared, why did I run after him? “I guess…maybe subconsciously I knew his anger wasn’t directed at me. I was hoping to calm him down and maybe stop him from killing people.”
“And the situation with your friend Roxanne?”
Great, let’s bring up that memory again. “I was upset. It might have been easier to see Ryan with another girl than her. I know that doesn’t make sense, because she’s like a sister to me and I want the best for her. But somehow seeing him ask her out on a date really hit me the wrong way.”
He nods and makes more notes.
My mother leans forward in her chair. “Sebastien, is there any precedent for this?”
“For seers seeing the afterlife or having images race by as she described, no. As for emotion affecting one’s powers, you know the answer to that one.”
I whip my head toward her. “Mom?”
Mom looks away as Sebastien answers. “Emotion…in a few cases, has acted as somewhat of a magnifier…something that takes powers to the next level. We know of three cases in particular.” Sebastien’s eyes grow sad.
“I’m most afraid to ask,” I say, with a lump in my throat.
He nods. “Yes. Your father is one of the three.”
“And who—”
“The other two are dead.”
***
I guess I should tell you about Fuzzball, who, due to my unusual powers, is likely to become my partner in crime.
Or at least in stopping it.
Spencer Ball is New York City’s top detective, solving just about every case to which he’s assigned. At thirty-five years of age he’s a household name when it comes to the city’s high profile crimes. It doesn’t hurt that he has the classic looks of a model, his shirtless buffed physique having once been captured by a tabloid photographer while at the Jersey shore. Tall, with short dark hair and deep-set pale green eyes; combine that with a rugged angles-and-planes face that could easily serve as a marine recruitment poster.
It helps that he’s a master of astral projection. Basically he can send his spirit anywhere at any time, which gives him a huge advantage when it comes to spying on criminals. He’s a human fly on the wall, eavesdropping on the bad guys and often catching them in the act because he knows what’s coming and they have no idea he’s there. Fuzzball could obviously make a fortune as a corporate spy or a private detective checking up on cheating politicians, but feels that those with superpowers should act like superheroes. He once climbed the tree in our front yard to save my kitten.
As for his nickname, it has nothing to do with his appearance, as his ever-present three-day stubble isn’t remotely fuzzy. I’m told that back when dinosaurs roamed the earth (the sixties) police officers were referred to as “the fuzz.” Combine that with his last name, and you get a moniker that stuck to him like superglue in his rookie year on the beat. He doesn’t mind, and seems to get a kick out of it when people my age use it. One time our school bus pulled up to a red light next to his car, and we all yelled, “Hey, Fuzzball!” at him. He shot a crooked smile at us and did that “I’m watching you” thing cops do on TV when they use two fingers to point at their eyes and then the person they’re watching.
Anyway, back to my calling him the other night, and he was the only law enforcement person I could call. I mean, who else would believe me? Imagine this 911 recording:
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“Hi, I’m a mystic seer and the guy I did a reading for is about to kill his slutty fiancée and the guy she’s sleeping with. I saw it clear as day in my crystal ball.”
“Uh-huh.”
Since Fuzzball lives across the street and has known me since I was a little girl, he knew it was serious when I called. He zapped his spirit into the office where the two lovers had been, ahem, working late and saw them both being pummeled by my client. He rolled on it, called for backup, and managed to get there in time. The two had been beaten within an inch of their lives. My client was charged with two counts of attempted murder, as both of them survived. Fortunately I’m not going to be involved since the guy couldn’t possibly say he found out about the affair from a mystic seer and hope that a jury would take him seriously.
Fuzzball stopped by our house the next day (the actual person, not the spirit) and I told him about my earlier experience as well, so he made me put his number on speed dial. (Can you imagine the buddy cop movie this would make? Crystal Blue might be a good title.)
I don’t want to see murders on a regular basis. Really, I don’t. But so far I’ve saved three lives, which is pretty cool. And that, my mother says, trumps any uneasiness I might experience.
***
