Page 32 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“No audience to watch my historic win?” She was honestly surprised to see the large space empty.

“If we profited off the procedure, then we wouldn’t be able to maintain any kind of neutral position. But way more interesting to meet here than in a lab.”

So he did have some scientific scruples. Drat.

“Madam B. didn’t take home the grand prize?” Charley asked.

Sy laughed. “A blind man could see that woman coming from ten counties over.”

“Hey! Something we actually agree on. She reads palms like a butcher with a slab of meat. Zero finesse.” Charley looked around the empty theater. “So it’s that simple? I do my thing, and I give you my bank account info? I’ll take a cashier’s check.”

Sy smiled at her. “Did the website mention that hundreds have taken Occam’s Razor’s challenge and none have yet to claim the prize? Three failed just this morning.”

“Sorry to bust your winning streak.” Charley hiked up her dress and climbed the stairs to the stage. “This visit wasn’t exactly planned,” she said, unceremoniously kicking off her heels and turning to face him. “I left work earlier than expected.”

“Now I feel overdressed,” he said, and they both fell quiet, suddenly uncertain with each other.

“How’s your hand?” he asked.

She self-consciously flexed it. “It’s all right.”

“I owe you an apology.”

“You owe me an apology, but certainly not for my hand. I’m fine.” She folded her arms, uncomfortable with the attention.

He tilted his head, curious. “How would you explain what I saw?”

“And what did you see exactly?”

He took his time answering her. Finally: “Inconclusive.”

“Inconclusive?” Charley laughed. “Let me ask you a question: Why is it so hard for you to believe in magic?”

This made him laugh—the first time he’d sounded genuine, she thought. “That is a common misconception about skeptics. It’s not that we don’t want to believe,” he said, running a hand through his dark curls. “We just need proof. Offer me legitimate evidence that you have actual magic powers, and you won’t see a more open mind than mine.” The spotlight overhead chose that moment to flicker. “Been doing that all morning,” he said, gazing up at the light fixtures.

“Probably Ruby just messing with you.”

“Ruby?” he said, his face lighting up with genuine interest.

“Ruby Whitley was on this very stage performing the Firecracker—her signature move—when the original building literally caught fire and burned to the ground. We lost a pioneer that day, but some say she never actually left this theater.”

Sy studied her. “Is that true?”

“Nope,” she said after a moment, unable to hide a grin. “This was a porn theater until the nineties, and I honestly can’t believe I’m standing here in bare feet without a hazmat suit on. But, you know, it still has its charm.”

“You can’t help but make up a story,” he said, and any goodwill she had felt toward him vanished.

“Are you accusing me of having an imagination?” She remembered exactly what he had accused her of at their last meeting, how he’d threatened to expose her family as frauds. What was she even doing here? She was furious again, and that anger refined her focus. She was doing what she did best. Using her gifts to separate a mark from his cash and buy herself a new roof.

“Let’s get started,” he said after a long beat. “Have a seat.” Sy motioned to the metal folding chair on the stage. He held out his hand to her, and she hesitated before taking it. They both stared at their joined hands until, self-conscious, she took her hand away and sat in the seat.

“Did you feel anything? In your hand?” he rushed to clarify.

What had she felt? His palm. Long warm fingers. Skin soft to the touch. She laughed. “No. And stop looking at me like I have fireworks hidden up my sleeve.” Charley turned her attention to a small card table onstage.

Sy picked up a small black handheld recorder and spoke into it. “Today’s date is October fifth, 2008. My name is Sy Prescott with Occam’s Razor, and I am meeting with test subject number two hundred twenty-four.”

“Why am I two twenty-four?”