No, my soul whispers.That can’t be.
Spirit where are you?!I plead. But it’s a question. My soul is hollow, cold. I’ve always thought of myself as lonely, but I was mistaken before. My Team of Light—they were always, always there.
And now?
Tears sting my eyes, my throat seizes.
I am lonely. I am alone.
Doyle slams down the telephone and takes charge. “The operator assures me the authorities are on the way. Now. Her—”
He points to McLean. “Someone move her to a bedchamber. Get her some ice. She cannot remain on the floor.” Evalyn McLean is dragged—dragged!—to the nearest room down the hall.
Hedda Hopper, loyal to her gossip, takes feverish notes.
Doyle spins on his heel and points at me. My stomach plummets.
“You!” he commands. The guests turn and stare at me. Hundreds of pairs of eyes bore holes in me like termites.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle looks at me with a mix of torment and respect. I must remember: He is a true believer. A Spiritualist. Yes, he is a scientist and a doctor, and he is famous for crafting characters who rely on logic and astute observation. And yet, he regularly consults mediums and clairvoyants.
Humans will always surprise me.
That thought—the surprise humanity, the faithfulness… it reminds me of Pax. I wish he were here. I could use a tether.
“You!” Doyle says again. “I don’t know what kind of illusion that was, but you are obviously powerful. Get back to work. Tell us where the Hope Diamond is.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I am breathless with how awry this evening has gone. I’m still weak and sickened by the glimpse we were given into the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire. I blink as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle points at me and orders me to find the Hope Diamond. Honestly, I have no idea where it might be. None of this evening has gone as we’d hoped. As we’d planned.
I pause. Breathe…
Still nothing from Spirit. Just… silence.
I am so hollow, I ache; there’s a cavity in my soul.
Doyle nudges me to the chair at the head of the table again. “Sit. Tell us where the Hope Diamond is.” His deep Scottish accent booms. The guests have all pushed toward me, glaring. They are messy, disheveled, clothing torn and tattered, their jaws and fists tight, cords in their necks straining. They demand answers. My heart thrums in my ears. I scan the room, but there is no escape.
The guests press in farther, and I am reminded of the crowd of zealots gathered on the streets below. Reverend Jenkins and his cronies, all mustered near city hall, chanting, “Witch! Sorcerer! Occultist!” I am those things, am I not? What kind of creature creates the scene we just experienced, if not an evil one? What kind of person creates a scenario where her friend is now captive and accused?
I feel sick. Trapped, like a kitten surrounded by wolves.
I have no information—not that Spirit would’ve answered my query anyway—so I remain steadfast to our original plan.
Which is: the safe. It was always supposed to be the grand finale of the séance.
But has Pax had enough time?
My pulse hammers. I widen my eyes. “Does Blanck have a safe?”
“Excuse me?” Blanck says. He’s at the bar cabinet, helping himself to another double scotch. His bow tie is askew. I have a moment of wanting to pretend to straighten it, then using it to choke the life out of him.
I blink away that desire. Whew—the absence of Spirit changes me.
“Is there—a safe?” I ask. “In this apartment? Spirit is showing me an image of a safe.”
Spirit is showing me no such thing. I am simply sticking to our plan.
