Page 59 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“My mother was addicted to psychics,” he said finally, sounding tired. “After my father left, she was devastated. She wasn’t content to leave anything to chance. She had to consult the oracle every time there was a decision to be made: Which job was going to hire her? Should we move? Would she marry again? Funny how the psychics didn’t foresee us going into bankruptcy. They drained her entire life savings.”

Charley’s stomach dropped. “Jesus. That’s horrifying.”

Sy’s jaw visibly tightened. “Agreed. As is a career where the entire point is to drain people’s life savings.”

“There are plenty of con artists out to make a buck,” said Charley carefully. “But not every psychic is a liar.”

“And you’re different?” he said.

“Yes,” she said, defiantly staring him in his eyes.

“You mean, now that you’re getting the Seeker’s Star on your hand, it’s no longer pretend,” he said, challenging her.

“I thought you said this was stigmata,” she said, surprised he’d concede this.

“I know that’s not what you believe it to be,” he said. Her instinct was to lash out, go on the defensive again. But not after what he had just shared with her. Not when he was right.

“I don’t know what it is or what is happening to me,” she said, holding out her palm so that they could both see the V shape prominently in its center. “But I’m experiencing things I can’t control or understand.”

He glanced at her hand, his eyes narrowing. “I mean, a sharp blade and careful aim can open up an entirely new origin story for you.”

She laughed out loud, genuinely surprised. “You think I did this to myself?”

“Maria Vollhardt had bloody wounds on her palms, claimed it was the stigmata before she was busted by a psychiatrist who caught her with a stash of chicken blood,” said Sy, confident. “When people are desperate, they’ll believe just about anything.”

“Do you think I’m stashing dead chickens in my purse, Sy? Slicing up my hand for theatrics?” For a smart guy, he was also astonishingly dumb. “You’ve been with me the two times it’s happened. Did you see a knife? A carefully concealed stash of chicken’s blood?”

“The con is built into your DNA, Charley.” Sy folded his arms and stared at her coldly, any trace of vulnerability gone. “You know your sister is a liar. Just like you are. That’s why you won’t ask me where your sister was when she pulled a knife on me. Because you already know the answer.”

“I’m so stupid,” Charley said, fuming. What did she expect, confiding in a stranger who had made it his life’s work to destroy her? “I know the reason no one has won the prize money. It’s because nobody wants to deal with any of your bullshit.” She hated that she was so desperate for money—and if she was honest, power—that it had led her to this point, to literally stand in front of a man who was laughing in her face for existing. She was done. She started back down the hallway. “Miranda? We’re going.”

“You just don’t like hearing the truth,” he said, trailing her down the hallway.

“No, that’s your problem, Sy,” she said, turning back to face him. “I am sorry for what happened to your mother, truly. It’s awful, and neither of you deserved it.” She meant it. For what it was worth, she hoped he could see that on her face. “But this crusade of yours isn’t going to make it right. So leave us alone.” Where was her sister?

“Miranda?” Charley stopped outside the bedroom where she’d last seen Miranda enter and blinked in shock. Miranda sat on one of the twin-size guest beds, cross-legged, staring at the little blond girl who sat opposite her on the other. Astrid sat on the floor against the wall, so still that she looked like she’d been turned to stone.

“You can see her?” asked Miranda gently, eyes trained on the little girl.

Charley looked at the ghost, who stared back with watery brown eyes. She held out a pale hand to her, beckoning. Charley nodded. “I think she’s asking me to sit down with her.”

“Who wants you to sit down with her?” Sy said from the doorway, irritated.

“Shut up, Sy,” hissed Miranda. She returned her attention back to Charley. “So go sit with her.”

Astrid gave her an encouraging smile. Charley took a deep breath and walked over to the bed. She was scared. Not of the girl, not really, but of the enormous pressure she suddenly felt to get this right, especially with this particular audience. The little girl watched her as she made her way to the bed, giving her a shy smile as Charley tentatively sat down next to her. She looked solid, Charley realized, marveling at her pink skin, bare heels caked with dirt. Her yellow shirt had a grass stain on it, and she had a tiny yellow dandelion tucked behind her ear as if she had just been playing outside. She could practically smell the sunshine on her skin. It made her tremendously sad.

“My name is Charley,” she said, holding out her hand, painfully aware of the V shape on her palm. “What’s yours?” The little girl slipped her hand into Charley’s. She was stunned at first by the solid, fleshy pink of the little girl’s hand, secondly by how shockingly cold she felt, and then panicked when the girl sank her teeth into the meat of Charley’s thumb.

She cried out.

And then she was falling.

Charley shivered against a deep, bone-chilling cold before she felt the floor beneath her feet again. When she had her senses about her, she held up her hand, examining it. There was no blood, not even a mark on her finger. And there was no little girl, no one in the room at all.

“Hello?” she called. A child’s giggle answered, as if the little girl had just scampered out of sight. Nope. Not following that into the hallway. All investigating would be done where she could see all four walls and one entrance. Charley looked around the room, noting that the light was different, hazier and pink, like dusk was approaching. Two beds still flanked the room, but the comforters had been swapped out; the one she was still sitting on was now a green plaid with red accents, vaguely Christmas themed. Charley stood and walked over to the bedroom window. The second floor looked out over the backyard, a large, showy crepe myrtle with big pink blooms dominating the view.

There was a vintage-looking swing set, a chrome-and-metal kid’s dream that was surely a lawsuit in motion. A doghouse with a shingled, pitched roof identical to the main house flanked the swing set, adding to the overall vintage feel. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen an actual doghouse. The mid-1990s? It wasn’t in keeping with what she had seen of the rest of the updated, freshly painted house. Puzzled, she turned to study the bedroom anew. This had to have been the little girl’s bedroom. She turned, wary of a sneak attack from her bitey new friend, and slowly made her way to the other bed, feeling the springs creak underneath her as she sat. She ran her hand across the bedspread.