Page 23 of The Sisters of Crimson House

Charley knew Celeste wasn’t a mind reader, but she recoiled as the woman’s blue-gray eyes met her own. “It’s not a service so easily advertised on the family flier, but we all have our parts to play, as your mom is fond of saying.” Celeste gave her a genuine smile now, studying her niece. “I’d say your job isn’t so much different from mine.”

“How so?”

“I don’t remember signing up to be my sister’s keeper.” Celeste turned to gaze out at the yard one last time, breathing in the last hint of magnolia on the night air before going back inside.

Twelve

October 2, 2008

Carl Jung stated, “Often the hands will solve a mystery that the intellect has struggled with in vain.” The Art of Palmistry said it could be an overdeveloped Mount of Venus. Yahoo said that the shiny pink tint to the mark on her hand was likely the sign of an infection. Charley stared at her palm and then gently rested her chin in it, two hours devoted to research and nothing besides a burgeoning allergy to dust mites to show for it.

The house was quiet, shockingly quiet for what she assumed was the happy reunion happening on the other side of the house. Sadie had hugged her long-lost granddaughter, kissed her cheek like she was greeting royalty, and then ferreted her away for tea in the kitchen. Which was fine. Charley was still too worked up to engage in polite conversation with her sister, and it also gave her a few uninterrupted hours to creep unnoticed through Sadie’s study on the main floor for possible theories of why a two-inch-long scar might have spontaneously developed on her palm. She didn’t come in here often. The room always felt cold, a museum of lifetimes and possibilities that had died when her parents did. Even when Sadie had been working, entertaining a roster of celebrities and normal people unified by their breaking hearts, Charley felt unwelcome. Maybe it was the large mahogany desk with the thick leather client roster and general fussy Victorian-ess of it all, the heavy brocade curtains and the one ancient Boston fern she still occasionally managed to water. But the room just felt like one giant stain.

“There are way too many chairs in here to be sprawled out on the floor.”

Charley startled, seeing Astrid silhouetted in the doorframe. She was dressed for a night out, another vintage Clash T-shirt over low-slung black pleather pants and stacked heels.

“You know none of them are comfortable,” Charley said, carefully getting to her feet, as one of them had fallen asleep.

“Mm-hmm,” Astrid responded, not looking at her but at the corner of the room. “It’s not the chairs. It’s this room.”

Stain, thought Charley again, the word rising unbidden as she turned to look where Astrid was staring. Charley felt her hand twitch, her palm suddenly warm. She didn’t see dead people like the kid in the movie, like strangers passing her on the street. But her radar was keen. When separating a mark from his money, one had to be very attuned to people’s moods, their body language. If she didn’t know better, she’d say the natural shadow in the corner next to the window had darkened. And moved closer.

“You want to get out of here?” asked Charley, unsettled. She left the office without looking back, slipping her scarred hand in her pocket.

***

The lights were always low at Grace Lounge, the vibe managing to feel sexy but with enough zebra print and blue upholstery to keep it from taking itself too seriously. And being one of the rare bars within walking distance from Crimson House, it was often Black and Bell’s de facto office space. Astrid and Charley lingered at the bar, watching all the patrons watch Zavier and Miranda, who—Charley couldn’t help but notice, to her aggravation—looked regal seated in a shiny royal-blue wingback chair. The most famous medium in Memphis had been away from the city a long time, but she had lived on in their imagination. She hadn’t paid for a drink since she’d set foot on the premises.

“Homecoming queen sure can put it away,” said Astrid, sipping her Moscow mule from a copper mug. Miranda was on her third sauvignon blanc.

“Mm-hmm,” said Charley, not paying attention as she rubbed her thumb across her hand, reveling in the bizarre sensation of scar tissue on her palm. There was a Star on her palm. Well, not a full Star. One line of a pentagram. Or according to palmistry, a really pronounced, newly formed Saturn line or line of destiny. Or just a cut. Surely it was just a cut. Surely she was having a well-overdue psychotic break. If Astrid looked at her now, would she see the psychosis shining like a lighthouse in her eyes?

“This is good, right? Finally having her home?”

“Yeah. Of course,” said Charley. “What could possibly be bad about your glamorous, famous sister dropping in out of nowhere when you thought she might be dead?” And now that she knew for sure she wasn’t dead, how soon could Miranda be added to the tour roster? It felt dangerous, allowing herself to hope for a world where Miranda was more than just a concept on a map. Miranda leading a haunted-history tour? Miranda—dare she dream it—performing for the masses once again at Crimson House?

“She’s not all that,” Astrid said appraisingly. “But her skin is ridiculous. Like, there are going to be questions about regimens.” Astrid was various shades of gold from her hair to her nails, so this was high praise coming from her. “Any idea how long she’s here for?”

“Until she gets whatever it is that she came for.”

“What makes you think she wants something?”

Charley fought the urge to stare at her palm again, chewing on her fingernail as a misdirect. “That’s always been her way. What’s the Myers-Briggs type for ‘only motivated to do stuff when it serves you’?”

“E-N-T-J? C-U-N-T? That’s one of the subtypes, right?” Astrid grinned at her, and Charley secretly re-upped her eternal devotion to her best friend. Astrid might look immaculate, but she grew up gutting and cleaning the bass fish she caught from her own johnboat and might have been the perpetrator of at least one beatdown in her high school hallway. One crossed her at their own peril.

“You’d tell me if you weren’t okay, right?” she said, studying Charley over her drink. Her look was impeccable, her emotional radar flawless, and right now she was staring at Charley like warning bells were pealing overhead. “I know this is a lot all at once. Miranda is back. Celeste?”

Charley shook her head. “MIA.”

“Okay, also a lot to process. But what about you? You would tell me if you weren’t okay?”

How to even answer that? What did okay even mean? With Miranda’s sudden reappearance, the whole world felt dangerously off-kilter. What was the harm in keeping the slash on her palm like the little delusion it was all to herself? Because what if this was in fact the opening salvo in the story of how Charlotte Bryde lost her mind? What if she had wished so hard to be different that her brain had finally granted her request but with an ironic, monkey-pawed twist? For the moment, the possibilities were endless, but they were hers alone to ponder.

“I’m fine,” she said, too bright. She chewed harder on her thumbnail, thrilling at the electric shock of pain when her teeth met the nerves under the quick.

“Uh-huh,” said Astrid, narrowing her eyes at Charley. “We con the clients, not our friends, yeah?” Astrid gave her a quick kiss on the forehead before taking another sip of her drink and rejoining the group.