Page 31 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“No, I don’t think I do.” This was finally making sense. The timing, Miranda showing up right as the mark appeared on her hand. “This is why you parachuted in. You sensed I was finally starting to manifest some power of my own, and you wanted to put a stop to it.”

“You’re right,” said Miranda.

Charley blinked. “Wait, I am?”

“Because I knew something was wrong,” she said more to herself than to Charley. “This is what called me home, Charley. This,” she emphasized, reaching for Charley’s hand, “is wrong. You don’t have a Star on your hand because you aren’t supposed to. Doesn’t that make sense?”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Charley, genuinely confused. Why shouldn’t this be happening for her?

“What did Mom say? We all play our parts?” said Miranda. “This part is not meant for you.”

Charley steadied herself, absorbing the blow. She’d been her own goddamned mother for years now. Miranda could shove off if she thought she was going to take that spot. “Don’t you dare bring Mom into this.”

“She wouldn’t want this for you.”

“You know what she wouldn’t want? Being dead and you acting like my mother in her place.”

Miranda went white. For an instant, Charley felt horrible. She’d officially gone too far.

But to her credit, Miranda swallowed whatever horrible thing she wanted to say in response. “You’re not wrong about the reason I’m here,” she said carefully. “Yes, I felt that something was happening to you. I told you as much. But that’s why I’m here. To help us both understand,” she said, pleading. She looked like she wanted to touch her, hug her like Zavier had. Connect. Charley almost believed her.

“No, I think I understand perfectly why you’re here.” She grabbed her phone from the hall tree in the lobby and headed toward the front door. “It’s been nice having you home, Miranda. Maybe in another eight years, you can stop back in and meddle where you’re not wanted.”

Seventeen

Charley hopped out of the taxi on Summer Avenue, thanking Sam, the driver, for the last-minute ride with a quick three-card spread. Temperance (Easy on the booze, Sam), King of Pentacles (Yes, that’s a sound investment, Sam), and the Two of Cups (Go get her, Sam). No driver’s license? No problem, as her cards continued to work like the bargaining chips they were. Memphis folks were broke but doubly as kind. Sam was usually good about bartering rides if she was low on cash and the Black and Bell Subaru was occupied. Or if she didn’t want anyone knowing her business. Too angry to change out of her work heels and Morticia-esque dress, she oh-so-carefully click-clacked her way to the entrance of the Luciann Theater. The Luciann was a jewel box movie house built in the 1920s, currently disintegrating after its most recent turn as a porn theater next door to the local power company’s bill-collection office. Just like Crimson House, Charley thought. Anything hinting of magic in this town was torn down or left to rot. A sandwich board propped up out front read OCCAM’S RAZOR—otherwise she’d be concerned she was in the wrong spot. But honestly, the fewer witnesses here, the better.

She took out the piece of paper she had hidden in her dress pocket, unfolding it to reveal the simple xeroxed flier that had been left for her at Grace Lounge.

Can you offer proof of the paranormal?

Demonstrate powers that defy comprehension?

Occam’s Razor believes this to be impossible.

Prove us wrong and take home $100,000.

It was like he’d left her an engraved invitation to take his money. Her hand was on the door handle when it suddenly flew open, a squat redhead barreling her way past Charley in a huff. Amelia Blackstone, a.k.a. Madam B., a.k.a. the worst of the worst fake psychics in the city, was having a really bad day.

“Complete bullshit,” she huffed as she stormed down the sidewalk toward her car. “He says I have nothing legitimate to offer to the field? He can take that hundred thousand dollars and shove it up his bony ass!” her gold bangles clacking as she waved her arms for emphasis. “Give your crazy-ass grandma my regards!” she shouted as she lumbered across Summer Avenue.

Charley stifled a laugh. Madam B., at best a lover of the classic curses-for-cash scheme, at worst the kind who exploited parents of missing children by claiming she had information on their kid, was public enemy number one for outfits like Occam’s Razor. And the Bryde family, if Charley was being honest. Predators still in business, like Madam B., were the reason the Brydes would never fully be trusted by the general population. If Osiris had shown Madam B. the door, he couldn’t be all bad. On the other hand, Charley thought as she walked inside, she wasn’t the only wannabe psychic who had come across one of his fliers.

She crossed the deserted lobby and entered the darkened movie theater, the seats conspicuously empty. A small stage jutted out in front of the screen, a relic of the days of emcees and cinema pre-show entertainment. Sy stood in the spotlight next to a small metal table and chair, lost in thought. He didn’t look as arrogant as when he had been doing his Mr. Skeptic song and dance, but she hesitated in the doorway. Coming here might be the stupidest thing she had done in a week of stupid acts, but if there was a chance she could pick up a lot of extra cash—and piss off her sister in the process—she was doing this.

“Really?” Charley called out. “Nobody wants a hundred thousand dollars?”

Sy shaded his eyes, peering into the auditorium. “That’s how much we’re giving away?”

“It’s what the flier said.”

“Honestly, I xeroxed so many, I’ve lost track.”

Charley made her way down to the stage, staring up at him. He was in his uniform: Black pants. Black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, which only accentuated the tattoos inked across his forearms. Closer now, she could identify an anchor, what looked like a triangle, and a cursive letter c. Edgier than what she would have imagined for a professional skeptic.

“I picture Occam’s Razor being a group of ancient bearded dudes in tweed who meet at, like, an Elks Lodge or something,” said Charley, smirking at him. “Lots of microfiche.”

“You’re not entirely wrong,” he said, walking toward the stairs at the end of the stage. “I might be the youngest member by like fifty years. But Elks Lodges have a lot to be said for aesthetics. Kind of like vintage movie houses.” He glanced around the theater, clearly fond of the art deco sconces and gold leaf architecture.