Perry groaned loudly.
Mom glowered at him, and he shrank back. Yeah, most of the time, she looked like a harmless little hippie, but Mom’s glower could make a clam shuck itself.
“Need I remind you that these appointments pay for all the food you gobble up and the Internet connection you’re constantly using?” she said.
“I know,” he said, and plodded toward the reading room as if he were walking down death row.
I followed him in, less dramatically.
We spent more time on the upkeep and cleaning of the reading room than any other part of the house. It was also the only room that wasn’t modernized. From the intricate molding to the oak fireplace, it looked historic. Freshly painted, but historic.
Mom pulled the red velvet drapes closed, and I helped finish lighting the votive candles. Perry kept his head down on the long table.
“So who is it?” I asked.
Mom fiddled with the volume on the New Age music. She preferred it to be very soft, almost unnoticeable. “First-time customer. She didn’t leave a name.”
The doorbell rang.
“Here she is!” Mom said excitedly. She loved new customers in the off-season. Mostly for their potential of becoming regular customers.
I watched the woman as she walked with Mom from the entryway. She wore nice dress pants, but they were creased, and her white blouse was misbuttoned. Her hair had that finger-in-the-electrical-socket kind of look. Even my bottle of Frizz-Ease couldn’t touch that mess.
I stood with my hands folded in front of me, prim and proper. I kicked Perry’s chair and he lifted his head up, but didn’t stand.
“I’m Starla Fern,” Mom began. “This is my daughter, Clarity, and my son, Periwinkle.” Mom took a deep breath, about to launch into her script describing our gifts and how our “readings for entertainment” worked. But the woman held a hand up.
“I know who you are,” she said in a soft voice. “I live here in town.” She paused. “And I read in the paper about what happened this summer.”
“Okay,” Mom said.
“I’m hoping you can help me. My name is Tracy Waldman. My daughter, Sierra, is dead.”
MY KNEES WENT WEAK, AND I SHOT A HAND OUT to brace myself against a chair. I’d never known Sierra Waldman, never spoken to her. She was just another face in the hallway. But to think she was dead …
Perry sat frozen, all the color draining from his face.
“They found her?” My voice came out in a croak.
“No,” Mrs. Waldman said.
My mother offered her a chair on the opposite side of the table. “Then how do they know she’s … passed?” Mom asked carefully.
“The police are still claiming she’s alive. ‘A voluntarily missing adult.’” Sierra’s mom made quotes with her fingers as she said the words.
“I’m confused,” I said. “Why do you think she’s dead?”
“Because I’m her mother and a mother knows.” She rubbed her sunken eyes. “She would not have run away. If she had a secret boyfriend like in those rumors going around, I would have known about it. She would have told me. Or I would have noticed something.” Her voice tightened and she reached a hand to her throat.
Mom sat beside her and placed a gentle touch on her shoulder. “I’m a mother, too. I understand what you’re saying. We’ll help if we can.”
I settled into the chair beside Perry. He hadn’t said a word. He seemed to be having a staring contest with one of the candles.
“Our gifts are limited,” Mom explained. “But you never know …”
“I’m willing to try anything,” Mrs. Waldman said. She looked at each of us in turn. “What, specifically, are your abilities?”
Mom spoke first. “I’m probably the least helpful. I’m a telepath. If I concentrate on a person within close range — the same room — I can hear their thoughts. I can’t hear past thoughts, only what they’re thinking at that very moment. Would you like to try it out?”
Mrs. Waldman nodded eagerly.
Mom closed her eyes and took a deep breath. After a few moments, she began rattling off thoughts as she received them. “We’re nicer than you thought we would be. Oh my, she really can do it. It’s real. Now you feel bad for your first thought because now we know you had low expectations of us. Now you’re wishing I couldn’t read your mind —”
“Okay, okay,” Mrs. Waldman interrupted, wide-eyed.
“And you also need to use the bathroom,” Mom added quickly.
“That’s enough,” Mrs. Waldman said. “You have proven yourself.”
To end the awkward moment, I piped up. “My gift is retrocognitive psychometry. If I touch an object and focus my energy on it, I can sometimes see visions. Nothing in the future. Past only. Connected to that object.”
Mrs. Waldman was nodding. “I read about you in the newspaper. About how you helped the police track down that tourist’s killer last summer.”
Ah yes, the news coverage that turned me into a local celebrity and made me strangely popular at school.
Mrs. Waldman pulled a hairbrush out of her large leather handbag. She placed it gently on the table as if it were an invaluable holy object. “This was Sierra’s.”
“May I?” I asked.
She gently pushed the brush toward me, and I picked it up. It was forest green, rounded, and obviously well used, from all the frizzy brunette hairs entangled in it. Everyone waited. I closed my eyes, focused on the weight of the brush in my hand, and opened up my mind.
The vision pulsed and appeared from the void. Sierra stood in front of a mirror, brushing her hair. She looked a bit like her mother. The same big unmanageable hair. Shy, downcast eyes. Tall and rail thin. I searched her emotions, but she was only tired. Maybe a bit anxious. I heard the echo of tinny music. Sierra frowned in the mirror, put the brush down, and the vision disappeared.
I opened my eyes and returned the hairbrush to Mrs. Waldman. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Just brushing her hair in the mirror.”
“Nothing else?” she asked with obvious disappointment.
“Maybe music in the background. Something classical.”
Mrs. Waldman smiled sadly. “She was always listening to music. She was a pianist.”
I remembered hearing something about that in school. “She won awards and stuff, right?” I asked clumsily, not knowing the correct terminology.
“More than that,” she said. “She was a child prodigy. Born special. She could read music at age four. By seven, she was composing.”
“Wow, that’s amazing.” No wonder she kept to herself, I thought. She was writing concertos while the rest of us were still playing with dolls. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get anything helpful from the hairbrush.”
“Maybe you can come to the house, spend some time in her room?”
I stole a quick glance at Mom, who gave a nod of approval. “Of course,” I said.
In the silence, we looked next at Perry, for his turn. His eyes were glazed over, not paying any attention to us.
“My son,” Mom said loudly, “is a medium. His gift is perhaps the most powerful, yet also the most inconsistent. If someone who has passed, who is connected to you, is around and wishes to pass on a message, Perry has the ability to hear that message.”
Mrs. Waldman paled. “So if Sierra is …”
She let her words trail off, but we all knew what she was asking. Mom nodded. We all looked at Perry.
“Does he talk?” Mrs. Waldman asked.
I kicked him under the table, and he blinked rapidly and focused on us. “Sorry. I’m not feeling very well.”
“Give it a try, honey,” Mom said, her voice filled with sympathy. I was surprised. Normally, any unprofessional behavior gets us verbally spanked, not coddled.
Perry closed his eyes and let his chin fall to his chest. His nostrils flared as he took deep breaths.
“Someone’s here,” he whispered.
Mrs. Waldman gasped, hand to her heart. I flinched.
I suddenly didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to watch this poor woman’s world fall apart.
“Is it her?” Mrs. Waldman asked, her voice panicked.
Perry, eyes still closed, cocked his head to the side. “No. It’s not Sierra.”
Mom exhaled her relief so hard, the votive flames flickered. “Who is it, Perry?”
“I’m trying to listen,” he said through gritted teeth. “She’s hysterical. She’s talking too fast, and she’s going in and out. I can’t understand her.”
I wanted to reach a hand out. To comfort him in some way. But I didn’t know if it would help or hurt, so I stayed still and watched as he struggled.
Readings didn’t take much effort for Mom or me, but they sapped energy from Perry, sometimes leaving him exhausted. Most of the dead visitors people had were elderly. But now he was reaching out for Sierra, an eighteen-year-old girl, the same age Victoria had been. Perhaps it was too much, too soon.
Perry slouched forward and opened his eyes.
“What? Who was it?” Mrs. Waldman asked.
Perry shook his head. “I couldn’t understand her, really. She had long blond hair, but that’s all I could see. I did get a name, though. Ashley.”
Mrs. Waldman straightened. “I don’t know any Ashley.”
“You have to,” Perry said. “I can only contact those who are connected to the place I’m in or the people I’m with. And we have no Ashley connection, right?” He looked at Mom and me. We both shrugged.
“Well, I don’t have an Ashley connection, either,” Mrs. Waldman said indignantly. She made a face. One I’d seen plenty of times before. Narrowed eyes, scowling mouth. The face of a nonbeliever. She was questioning whether we were frauds after all.
“Thank you for your time,” she said, rising, though her voice betrayed her words.
Even after Mom refused to take her payment, the woman’s suspicion lingered. And worse, she looked lost and hopeless, as if her last chance had just blown away in the wind.
After Mrs. Waldman left, the three of us went out on the porch. Mom and I sat on the porch swing while Perry sulked in the wicker chair, his chin in his hand.
“I feel so terrible for her,” Mom said.
“You listened in more than she gave you permission for, correct?” I asked. Mom had a habit of doing that.
She gave a little shrug. “I wanted to make sure she wasn’t psychotic. Especially if you were going to go to her house.”
“I won’t be expecting that phone call anytime soon,” I said.
Mom nodded. “We didn’t live up to her expectations.”
I lightly pumped my legs, to give the swing a little push. “Did you learn anything else?”
“She blames herself. Wonders if this wouldn’t have happened if she was a better mother. Wonders if she missed anything. She feels powerless.”
“I’d like to help her,” I said softly.
Mom considered that for a moment, then spoke with a familiar worried tone in her voice. “Clarity, I think we should mind our own business.”
“But if we can help a mother find her daughter —” I started.
“We don’t know what went on in that house,” Mom said, interrupting me. “Maybe that girl is better off wherever she ran to.”
“Yeah,” Perry said, speaking up for the first time. “It’s not our problem.”
“We did what we could,” Mom said.
My throat felt tight. Solving that case over the summer had planted a seed inside me. And it had started to grow. I didn’t want to insult Mom by vocalizing my feelings too much, but readings for tourists weren’t enough for me anymore. Entertaining people like I was a circus clown, when I had the ability to do so much more. To help people. Working on that case had given me a sense of purpose. A feeling that maybe this ability I was born with wasn’t just a freak curse. Maybe it was something more.
I took a deep breath and raised my eyes to my family. “I feel that these gifts we’ve been given …”
“Our abilities?” Mom clarified.
I nodded. “That because we have them, we have a responsibility to use them to help people.”
“We do,” Mom said. “We make people happy. We amaze them, make their day brighter, their vacations more exciting. And Perry has soothed the grief of dozens of people.”
“I know that, but … I feel like I should do more.”
“Oh, look, it’s my little sister,” Perry said, breaking into his movie trailer man voice. “She’s a sassy girl detective, out to save the world!” I rolled my eyes at his sarcasm, but he continued, “Seriously, Clare. Who do you think you are, Spider-Man?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Huh?”
“You know. ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’”
At my blank look, he shook his head. “I’m going back inside.” His movie man voice echoed as he climbed the stairs. “The sassy girl detective saves the world — one person at a time.”
I groaned and balled my hands into fists.
“You know your brother loves you,” Mom said. “And you love him.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Mom let out a small sigh, got up from the swing, and walked toward the door.
“It’s a nice thought, Clarity,” she said, “but where would you even start?”
I sat alone for a while, thinking about the Waldmans. It would be helpful to have more details on the case. To make sure I had all the facts.
Maybe from a police source.
YUMMY’S IS THE MOST WIDELY LOVED RESTAURANT in Eastport. Tourists like the kitschy drunken sailor décor. Locals approve of the fresh food. Teens appreciate the prices.
I seated myself in a booth under a precariously hung lobster trap filled with plush lobsters featuring Yummy’s logo (on sale for only $12.99 each!). Though the owners liked to stick with the same ocean motif all year round, they had placed a pumpkin at the end of the bar. Good for them. Expanding their horizons and all that.
I perused the menu, wondering if I wanted regular dinner or something from their breakfast-all-day menu.
When I’d called Gabriel, asking him if he could pick his father’s brain on the Sierra Waldman case for me, he’d asked for dinner at Yummy’s in return. I figured he already knew most of the details because … what else are you going to talk about with your cop dad at the end of the day? But I’d agreed anyway.
Yummy’s was where I first saw Gabriel. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but that day proved the existence of lust at first sight to me.
If Gabriel had come into my life at any other time, I’d have been all over the idea of our being more than friends. If I’d met him before I met Justin. Or even right after the breakup. But now … things weren’t so simple.
Justin had earned my forgiveness. Hell, he’d nearly died trying to save my life. My feelings for him had morphed and changed again and again, but the one constant was that they never completely went away. I knew I wanted Justin in my life. What I had to figure out was … in what way. And I couldn’t jump into anything with Gabriel until I answered that question.
I felt a blast of cool fall air as the door opened. Gabriel’s gaze swept around the room as he walked in. He wore a faded gray T-shirt, dark jeans, and running shoes. His black hair was choppy and messed up from his habit of running his hands through it. But, still, all the female heads turned. He didn’t even have to work at it.
Gabriel’s eyes found mine and lit up. My heart did a little dance in my chest.
He slid into the booth opposite me. “Who said there’s no such thing as a free lunch?”
“First off, it’s dinner. Secondly, it’s not free. It’s a trade.” I leaned forward on my elbows and said conspiratorially, “Information for French fries.”
He smirked. “I feel like I’m in a spy movie. Will you be my Bond girl?”
“No, thanks,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“All the Bond girls end up dead.” I shoved a menu into hi
s hands. “Pick your poison.”
We ordered, and I gave voice to something that had been weighing on me. “I have a question,” I said. “Did you leave a note in my locker this week?”
“Nope.”
“And … you didn’t happen to leave flowers on my porch?”
He chuckled. “Not my style. It’s obviously Justin Spellman.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, fiddling with the zipper on my hoodie.
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Do I have another competitor to deal with?”
I waved it off. “Nah, it’s probably just a joke.”
Our meals came then, and I got down to the real business at hand.
“Why isn’t everyone out there looking for Sierra?” I asked. “Amber Alert and everything?”
“It’s not like that. She’s eighteen, so she’s an adult missing person. The protocol is different.”
I picked up my sandwich. A clump of lettuce fell to the plate. “How so?”
Gabriel reached for a fry. “Her mother was able to file a report. But Sierra’s not high risk because there was no confirmed abduction and no indication the disappearance was not voluntary.”
“What do you mean?”
“She took some items, like her laptop and her purse. She also left a note.”
A note?! That would have been convenient information for Tracy Waldman to share. “What did it say?”
“‘Don’t look for me.’”
I leaned back in the booth. “Mrs. Waldman didn’t mention that.”
Gabriel took a bite of his burger and chewed it slowly. “Well, she wants you to help find her daughter. Wouldn’t you be more inclined to look if you thought she was in danger than if you thought she didn’t want to be found?”
“Still, I don’t like being lied to,” I said bitterly.
“Put yourself in her shoes.”
I had a hard time doing that, though it was probably easy for Gabriel, considering his family history.
“What do you know about Sierra?” Gabriel asked.
I shrugged. “I didn’t know her at all. She’d only been in our school a month. Plus, she’s a senior. You probably know more than me.”
Perception Page 4
