okay with someone going to a medium for a reading, maybe even amenable to the idea that it’s possible to contact someone who’s passed on. But the minute you say ‘shade’ or ‘possessed,’ your credibility is shot.”
Rafe nodded tightly. He knew all this. Which was why he needed to find out who’d killed Barbara Fisher—and find evidence tying the killer to the crime—before his case went to trial. “And if she was shade-walked...or I was...what then?”
Hamilton turned off his digital recorder. “If you say anything like that in court, I won’t be able to help you. Your defense simply cannot be ‘I was possessed when I killed her.’”
Rafe didn’t flinch from the serious pale gaze. “Then I guess we’d better hope there’s not enough evidence to charge me.”
“Well, we may have a problem, given your answer about your level of familiarity with the victim.”
Rafe blinked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The police have a witness who alleges to have seen you and Ms. Fisher together on multiple occasions engaged in behavior that didn’t appear to be related to palm reading.”
“What?” Outrage spiked in his blood. He leaned forward in his chair, his posture challenging, as if Hamilton had made the false accusation himself. “That’s ridiculous. I only met Barbara Fisher a week ago, and saw her exactly three times, including Friday night—as a client.”
“That’s what the witness is implying. That you were a client of Ms. Fisher’s—in a rather different sort of business.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Barbara Fisher operated more than one business out of her home. She also advertised her services on adult websites as a masseuse—for very personal massage, if you catch my drift. The police tracked IP addresses of her correspondents on the site—and one of them matched yours.”
Rafe’s hands clenched around the armrests. “That’s impossible. I’ve never even been to any adult services websites—or any high-end masseuses.”
Hamilton set down his pen and paper. “Then I’d have to conclude, Rafael, that someone must be setting you up.”
The weather stayed muggy all afternoon, with nothing but heat lightning to show for it, though the bolts of current across the sky made a pretty picture at dusk over the stone pylons of Cathedral Rock. The view from the back of the house was mostly obscured by newer housing developments, but even a little bit of a view could be spectacular.
A chime from her phone provided a welcome distraction—a text from Theia. She hadn’t talked to either Theia or Rhea since they’d been home from college for spring break.
Had a dream about you. It wasn’t the first time Theia had started such a conversation out of the blue. You were flying on the back of a snake.
Snakes don’t fly. She typed the reply automatically, but Rafe’s tattoo of Quetzalcoatl immediately came to mind, brilliant blue-green wings rippling over his shoulder blades.
This one did. It had feathers. A pause for effect was followed with, Maybe it was a boa.
Hilarious. Theia was studying zoology; maybe she could identify Puddleglum’s bird. Speaking of feathers, Glum treed a bird earlier, some kind of owl. Dark brown, except for white on its chest and around its eyes. Is there anything like that around here?
Sounds like a spectacled owl. Not native this far north. Maybe somebody’s pet got loose. Theia typed for a moment. Could be an omen. Anyone new in your life?
Phoebe hesitated, which was foolish, because Rafe wasn’t in her life. No, no one new.
Well, there should be. You’re going to get cobwebs up there.
Phoebe sent an eye-rolling emoji.
All kidding aside, I’d keep an eye out for someone untrustworthy entering your life. Maybe a client, someone bright and attractive who’s not what he seems. Just be careful.
Phoebe hated how intuitive her little sister could be. After Theia signed off, she set the phone down and wiped the sweat from her temple. The evaporative cooler was useless in this humidity. She shut it off and opened the windows wide, letting the ceiling fan in the living room move the air around.
Phoebe was serving up Puddleglum’s “beef and chicken feast” in the kitchen when the air grew heavy with the familiar aura of a step-in. She considered refusing it. Maybe it was time to start putting up some defenses. But if it was Barbara Fisher or one of the other shades who might have information about her murder, Phoebe needed the shade as much as it needed her. She’d go with her gut.
Phoebe sat on the couch, not wanting to take another fall. Her skin prickled with goose bumps as the shade began to step through into the same corporeal space. Some might dismiss the sensation as someone “walking over their grave,” unaware a shade moved through them unable to find an anchor. Phoebe, on the other hand, had always been solid for them, a body they could merge with without displacing its usual occupant, as might otherwise be the case. And thus, a body they could communicate with, and through.
But this shade wasn’t trying to communicate. It was trying to manipulate her physically. Though it seemed to be attempting to hide its identity, she recognized it now as the one she’d hosted the night before. For whatever reason, Lila had stepped in and wanted to control her.
Phoebe rose from the couch, her limbs directed by the shade, though she felt she could wrest control from her if she had to. Perhaps Lila wanted to show her something. For now, Phoebe would let her steer.
She walked to the back door and opened it, stepping out into the yard. She was only wearing flip-flops, but presumably, Lila wouldn’t take her far. Unfortunately it was also getting dark and Lila hadn’t stopped for a flashlight or turned on the porch light.
Phoebe continued walking toward the rear of the property. She hadn’t been out here to deal with the weeds and briars in weeks, and she was beginning to brush against the spiky overgrowth of graythorn bushes.
A sound ahead of her in the brush sent a chill up her spine. She’d never encountered one on her property before, but the telltale maraca-like sound of a rattlesnake gave warning. And Lila was directing her right to it.
Phoebe tried to stop, but her feet continued moving forward. She dug her nails into her palms and gritted her teeth, slowing a little but still walking.
“Lila.” The sound of her voice seemed to shake Lila’s hold, and Phoebe managed to stop herself in her tracks, though she couldn’t yet persuade her limbs to turn back. “Lila, what are you doing? What do you want?”
“Stop fighting me.” The throaty Kathleen Turner voice came out of her. “He wants you to go.”
“Who wants me to go?” Her own voice was stronger now. She was breaking Lila’s hold.
“Tloque Nahuaque. Lord of the Near and the Nigh.”
The rattler sounded again, threatened in its hiding place.
