Psychic for Hire Series Box Set

by Hermione Stark

  “What estate?” I ask. “My mother had an estate?”

  “Ladies!” says Dr Carrington sharply, startling us both into shutting up. “Diana, are you saying that your aunt told you that you are under police probation?”

  I nod.

  He frowns at her, and she looks defensive.

  “There is no police probation,” he says to me. “I have no idea why your aunt told you that. It is your mother’s lawyers who require my assurance that you are of sound mind.”

  “It was a lie?” I ask faintly. I have been kept here with a lie? I could have left when I turned eighteen? Nearly three whole years ago?

  “Dr Carrington has no idea what he’s talking about,” says Mrs Colton. “The case was never closed. If you’re not under probation, you damn well should be. At least your mother’s lawyers had more sense than the police.”

  “The lawyers sent me something,” Dr Carrington says sleekly.

  He places a large thick envelope on the coffee table in front of me. It is cream colored, and has a look of importance. It has my name on it. When I reach for it, Mrs Colton snatches it away. She looks uneasy.

  She crunches the envelope up in her fists, but when she speaks her voice is sweet. “We do love our little Diana. And what is in her best interests is our business, not yours.”

  “The lawyers disagree,” says Dr Carrington. “Given her possible involvement in her mother’s death, they want assurance that she is of sound mind and fit to inherit the estate.”

  Mrs Colton loses her cool. “You snake!” she hisses at him. “What have you said to them?”

  “There’s no need for that language,” says Dr Carrington. “I think you and I both know that when your niece turns twenty-one it will be best for her, and her family, if she were to live in a secure medical facility, where any accusations she might make about any abuse suffered under your care can be dealt with in a way that’s best for all parties. Yourself included.”

  I blink in shock at his words. And then I start shaking. He knows about the abuse? I was always too scared to mention it, but he doesn’t even care!

  “No,” I say. “You can’t do this.” I’ve worked so hard at my appointments with him to persuade him that I am healthy, not a danger to anyone. Doesn’t he care?

  “Quiet,” Mrs Colton says, and she slaps me hard, right in front of Dr Carrington.

  I clutch my stinging cheek, realizing what it means. She knows he doesn’t care. Suddenly there is a sharp pressing pain all around my skull. My chest feels heavy. I feel oddly suffocated, like the world is closing in. I clutch my throat, gasping for breath. Mrs Colton and Dr Carrington are too busy glaring at each other to care.

  My fear awakens the little voice inside me. Calm down, it commands. If you behave like a victim, they’ll treat you like one.

  But I cannot calm down. I can smell blood, though there is no blood here. Its stench makes me gag. A vision is coming. Something awful.

  It can’t come now. I don’t want to fall apart in front of him, and give him one more reason to lock me up. I rock myself back and forth, and blink my eyes rapidly, trying to hold it back. A small groan of effort escapes my throat.

  Hush, says the voice, trying to soothe me, a tactic it rarely uses.

  “She’s having a panic attack,” Dr Carrington says mildly.

  Mrs Colton ignores me. I try to focus on her face. Keep my mind here in the room with them.

  “She’ll make trouble for you,” Mrs Colton snarls. “She knows things. She sees things. She’s a nasty piece of work.”

  Dr Carrington shrugs. “That could be useful. If not, the drugs should take care of things for us.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “I understand perfectly. She’s a special girl who needs to be kept in a special place.”

  Mrs Colton looks startled. “You… you.. You’re nothing but a thief,” she hisses. “You’re trying to steal my money. I’ve waited six years for it, and I’ve put up with her, and no one is going to take it away from me now.”

  “I am merely suggesting that as your niece is mentally incompetent, that her aunt and her psychiatrist would be best placed to be the trustees of her inheritance.”

  “Share it?” says Mrs Colton scathingly. “With you? Absolutely not.”

  Dr Carrington looks meaningfully at my bruised collarbone. “It’s either that or I shall have to inform the lawyers and the police that your niece is being abused. I’ll still get the girl, but you’ll see none of the money. And imagine what your neighbors will think when your good name is being dragged through the courts. Is that what you want?”

  Mrs Colton is red in the face. “You bastard,” she whispers. She glowers at him, her mouth puckered like she has tasted something filthy. All the while she scrunches the thick cream envelope in her fists.

  “Don’t you want to give that to Diana?” he taunts. “It’s hers to read.”

  “I’ll decide what she reads or not!”

  “Not for much longer,” he says smugly. “I offered you a deal. Take it or leave it.”

  Don’t take it, I want to say, but I cannot get the words out.

  There is no need to be afraid, says the voice. Breathe. Just breathe. We can deal with anything.

  Dr Carrington and Mrs Colton glare at each other, neither willing to give in. Finally she accepts defeat, she nods. He reaches across the coffee table, offering his hand. He is smiling, but it is a cold untrusting smile. She shakes his hand as if it is a slimy cold fish, letting go quickly.

  And suddenly my lungs constrict so tightly that it is painful. I try desperately to suck in some air. I want to shout at them. Tell them I won’t allow them to do this to me. But there is no oxygen. And a blackness is washing over my eyes. The vision is pushing in. I am gagging at the smell of blood, and a scent of applesmoke that is so overly sweet it makes me want to wretch.

  I fight it, pushing it away from my mind. I won’t see it. I don’t want to. I shake my head, willing it to go away. I try to stand up, to leave the room, but my legs won’t work. The stench of blood and fear is overwhelming. So real. As if it is here in this room. I resist it, telling myself it isn’t here, and for a moment my brain seems to flick between reality and the vision.

  Don’t worry, croons the little voice. I’ll take care of you.

  And then I black out.

  Chapter 4

  DIANA

  As I slip into darkness, the vision wins. It unfolds in my mind like a dream. When I regain consciousness in my bed in the attic, I remember it clearly. There had been blood. So much of it. On a bed. In a puddle on the floor. On a big gleaming knife. The aftermath of a horrific murder. And on the wall there had been something big and gruesome, something I recognized. Something so awful that my mind has blanked it out. I cannot remember it, and I don’t want to.

  Was this dream about Xander Daxx too? But in last night’s dream he had been shot, not stabbed. Will it be both?

  I feel the urge to get out of my bed and write it all down, to follow my ritual of writing and burning to help purge it from my mind. But my body feels heavy and lethargic. I can feel that the aches and injuries from my earlier beatings are gone. I’ve healed while I was blacked out.

  Buck or Cody must have carried me up here. The thought of either of their hands on me when I was passed out makes me feel sick. I want to go over to the wash basin to scrub myself but when I move, a wave of dizziness makes me lie down again quickly.

  I feel weak. It is sometimes like this after a healing. My brain feels fuzzy, and I feel sick to the bone. I know if I look down at my navelstone it will be angry and dull. A hateful reminder of what I am. This unnatural healing is no blessing. Perhaps if the beatings had left me laying injured in bed for weeks or needing medical attention, Mrs Colton would have stopped by now.

  There were even times when I first came here that I wished I was dead. But then three years back, the first time Mrs Colton caught Mr Colton cornering me in the kitchen, she beat me so badly
that I did nearly die. She certainly thought I had. I regained consciousness to find her wrapping me in black plastic bin liners. That experience had taught me that I want my life. I want to make it my own.

  It is dark outside my window. Night already. A whole day gone. My stomach is a ball of pain, as if it has shriveled from extreme hunger. I never managed to get my meal today. No wonder I feel so awful.

  It’s bad that I have slept this long. It will have forced Mrs Colton to cancel the meeting with her precious client, which means she will be furious. I am happy to put the meeting off a little longer. I don’t want to meet the bereaved mother, still bewildered by the loss of her only child and refusing to believe it was suicide, not when my dreams told me the same. I cannot tell her about them. What good would it do? I did not see the murderer. I cannot give her justice.

  I have learned by now that grieving clients cling to every shred of hope, and that their pain is too hard for me to bear. I prefer the ones who have lost belongings or money to the ones who have lost people.

  My stomach rumbles painfully. I manage to half roll half flop out of bed and crawl to my loose floorboard. I get out my bag of emergency raisins, stolen from the kitchen only after I was sure that Mrs Colton had forgotten about it and had no intention of using it. It is my emergency stash for when I feel faint after a healing.

  I take out a handful and put them in my mouth one by one, slowly sucking their sweetness before chewing them. I make them last. I feel like crying. Stupid weepy emotions. It must be shock.

  At Maplewood Park my chance of escaping will be gone forever. Dr Carrington never had any intention of helping me. It was money he was after all along. No wonder all my sessions with him had never helped me remember my adoptive mother’s death, or anything about her. He never wanted me to recall her wealth. He wanted me powerless. Stupid me for so longing to know what I was and where I come from. Of dreaming of what I could do with my life. At Maplewood Park there will be no life.

  She had left me an inheritance. She must have loved me. I couldn’t have hurt her. If only I could get in touch with my mother’s lawyers and speak to them myself. Persuade them I am not disturbed or delusional. But how to find their contact details? Mrs Colton will have them, but she is very careful. Any paperwork will be under lock and key.

  Slowly the sugar from the raisins gets into my bloodstream and perks me up a little bit. And then I remember the letter that Dr Carrington had brought. It was from the lawyers. Suddenly I sit up fast in bed. What if it is in the garbage? She had crumpled it up, like she was going to throw it away!

  I get out of bed and creep to my door. I stand with my ear pressed against it for a long time, listening to the sounds of the house. Everything seems oddly quiet. Eerily so. When I am sure that no one is up, I walk on my bare feet quietly out of my room and take the long slow journey down the first flight of creaky steps to the first floor landing.

  The worst bit comes next. I tiptoe very slowly across the length of the landing, passing by the closed doors of each bedroom. First Mr and Mrs Colton’s, then Cody’s. I stop to listen for the reassuring sound of their snoring before sneaking past each door. I breathe a sigh of relief when I pass the final door, Buck’s.

  I am surprised the little voice hasn’t popped up inside my head. She usually appears in moments of tension and fear like this.

  As I creep in complete darkness, I worry about the creaky floor on the landing just before the next flight of steps leading downstairs. My foot lands on something soft and fluffy. The thing shrieks in surprise and swipes me with its sharp claws. I go lurching head first towards the stairs.

  I grab hard onto the banister and manage to save myself from falling. Angel, Mrs Colton’s cat, whimpers and rubs herself against my ankles, like a sulky baby. My heart is booming like a drum. When no one flies out of their rooms to get me, I crouch down to stroke her.

  “Sorry, Beastie,” I whisper, sitting on the top step so that she can climb into my lap. “Did I hurt you?”

  I stroke her, feeling for any injuries, and am reassured by her loud purring that she is fine. She curls up onto my lap, like she fully intends to stay there. This is not her being friendly. She knows full well I have other places to be. She is punishing me.

  Angel is Mrs Colton’s beloved cat. A pure-white super-fluffy ball of fuzz who looks like she belongs in a commercial, even with her permanently grumpy little face. She is mean and spiteful, but her great redeeming feature is that she hates the Coltons with a passion —every last one of them. She doesn’t mind me. Sometimes I even think she might quite like me. I call her AngelBeast. It suits her far better than Angel.

  “Sorry, Beastie, I can’t stay,” I whisper, rubbing her under her chin and then putting her down into her spot. I smooth her long silky fur until she settles.

  But when I carefully get back to my feet, she mews a complaint. Beastie doesn’t tolerate any affection from the rest of the family. She had been a gift from the pastor’s wife who, eager to be rid of unwanted kittens, had given her away far too young. A misfit like me, she keeps me company about the house as I do my daily chores.

  “Come on then.” I scoop her into my arms and take her down with me, thanking my lucky stars for saving me this time. I had been sure I was done for.

  When I get to the kitchen I switch on the light. It scares me to have it on, but without it I won’t be able to see what I am looking for. The first thing that my eyes land on is a loaf of bread. I am so hungry that I stuff a slice of it, plain, into my mouth, and then have to gulp down a glass of water when I nearly choke on it Beastie watches me reproachfully. I pour a handful of treats into her bowl, and she attacks them with relish.

  Finishing my bread, I go over to the bin. I am glad to find that Mrs Colton has not emptied it. Not surprising, as this is usually my job. I look inside but there is no sign of the letter. My heart sinks. But it must be here somewhere.

  The kitchen has a door which leads to the lounge. I go there, just in case by some miracle it is lying there, forgotten. To my frustration the lounge is clean and tidy, no sign of the letter crumpled up on the coffee table. I sink into an armchair in disappointment, suddenly feeling like crying.

  And that is when I see Mrs Colton’s handbag on the floor. I can’t believe my eyes. She usually keeps it in her room. I quickly unzip it before my fear of doing that kicks in. And there is the letter in a crumpled ball, unopened. My heart is now beating what seems like a thousand miles a minute. If only she had opened it. I could have read it. If I open it, she will know it was me.

  But maybe I do not need to open it. All I need is the law firm’s address. I turn it over and check the back flap. To my disappointment there is no return address on it. I suppose it was too much to hope for.

  Perhaps I could take it. In all the fuss with Dr Carrington’s visit and me passing out, maybe she will have forgotten that she put the letter in here? After all, she has already forgotten about safely putting away her handbag today.

  And why shouldn’t I take it? It is mine. Someone has written to me. Maybe someone who cares enough to help. I have to know what is in it. Perhaps it is a way to finally be free. I cannot give up this chance. And yet the letter is thick and large, and if anyone catches me going back up the stairs I will have nowhere to hide it.

  Before I can have any further doubts, I snatch up the letter and thrust it in a large lump inside my nightshirt. I zip up Mrs Colton’s handbag and put it back in its place. With one last glance around the lounge to make sure there is no sign I have been here, I click the light shut and slip out of the room.

  Chapter 5

  DIANA

  Luck must for once be on my side because I make it back up both flights of stairs without incident, pausing only to tickle Beastie before leaving her on her spot atop the first floor landing. Finally, I sink onto my bed with relief and excitement.

  I take the envelope out of my nightshirt and smooth it out. I stare at it, almost too afraid to open it. Unopened, it is a beacon o
f hope. Opened, it might be just a trick of Dr Carrington’s. There might be nothing inside at all.

  And yet my name is written on it in beautiful gold-edged calligraphy. The flap is secured by a flattened blob of deep red wax imprinted with a complex coat of arms. Why would Dr Carrington put that much effort into a mere trick? I run my finger over the lettering. In fact, why would my mother’s lawyers send me such a fancy letter? Could it have come from someone else?

  I take a deep breath and tear open the envelope carefully, not wanting to damage the wax seal or any of the precious contents. Inside, protected by a sheet of thick waxy paper, are several smaller envelopes. I pull out the prettiest one. The coat of arms is embossed on it too. It is sleek, with lacy golden patterning all around the edges. I am almost sorry to tear it open.