Page 6 of Power of the Mind

“Two hundred bucks? That’s insane.” I scrolled and read another.

I knew Madame Rowena in the eighties when she worked alongside her husband to alleviate ailments via psyche cleansing. TBH, he did better work. He was the real deal. She’s okay. Average. I paid for a standard reading—no cleansing for me, tyvm—and pretty much got what every psychic in the city delivers nowadays. Probably won’t go back.

And another.

Ever had someone finger fuck your brain? Well, that’s what this shit felt like. It’s mental rape that I paid way too much money for. No thanks. Way too invasive. I felt violated after she was done, and for weeks after too. Like she was still inside my brain. But she was right about one thing. In my original reading, she said I would come into a windfall. Well, I got promoted at work, and it came with a raise. So I guess that counts, right? Anyhow, don’t get the aura cleansing! That shit is sketchy, and I didn’t like how out of control I felt. Stick with standard readings.

I skipped back to the review that claimed she used to work with her husband in the eighties. Curious, I Google-searched Madame Rowena, but apart from her current business and the few times she had taken out advertisements in the local newspapers, nothing stood out. I tried several search parameters, including keywordseightiesandpsychic cleansing.

None of the results seemed to pertain to Memphis’s psychic.

Returning to the woman’s website, I discovered her full name under the contact details. Rowena Fitspatrick. I implemented a new search using her full name pluspsychicpluseightiesand hit Enter, skimming the results. Again, they were utterly beige, so for fun and because I was tired and quickly losing interest in Memphis’s quirky excursion the following day, I addedmindcontrolto the search bar, assuming I was ten seconds from slamming the laptop closed and calling it a night.

When the results appeared, I paused. New articles filled the screen, ones I hadn’t previously dismissed.

Ones involving a sideshow hypnotist named William Hilty, who happened to have been arrested in the eighties for manslaughter. One who happened to have been married to a woman calling herself Madame Fitz. A woman who had also been arrested for the same crime.

I clicked the article and read.

Then I read another.

And another.

Closer to dawn, the rabbit hole had turned into something fromAlice in Wonderland, and I was so deep underground, so entrenched in the outlandish story, I couldn’t find my way out if I tried. I was more awake than ever, the hairs on my arms standing on end, and with phantom fingers crawling up my spine and over my scalp.

I may not believe in magic and psychic readings, but I had radar when it came to suspicious deaths and criminal behavior—thank you, CSI.

What I was reading was implausible, yet theories and ideas spun wildly around my brain. Red flags flapped in the wind. Twice, I considered if I was losing my mind. Twice, I dismissed it.

All I knew was Amber with the migraines, who had apparently taken her own life, whose older brother was convinced she’d been psychically manipulated by Madame Rowena, wasn’t sounding as crazy as it once had.

And that in and of itself made me question my sanity.

The theory was so far out in left field that I considered if my feeling of dread had something to do with lack of sleep or a few too many glasses of wine. I was subject to an overactiveimagination, but I would be a horrible friend if I sat back and did nothing with the information I’d learned. Right?

First, I texted Memphis a resounding,Do not go to the psychic!!! Call me when you wake up, hoping my urgency was properly translated with my use of exclamation points.

Then I stared at the curtain-covered window in my bedroom, recalling the dozens of times I had peered out and found a Jeep Wrangler parked on the street below, with a tortured man sitting behind the wheel because he was too fucked in the head to act like a normal guy and ask me out.

He wouldn’t be there now. He was never around in the early morning.

But I needed him.

I needed Diem.

3

Diem

Cautiously, carefully, I let go of the sign, and for a brief, gratifying moment, it hung on the nail. Tension left my shoulders. Air escaped my lungs. I almost had time to take joy in my accomplishment.

Then it crashed to the floor.

“Motherfucking piece of shit.” I kicked the plastic sign, sending it flying down the hallway along the shit-brown, mildew-scented carpet toward the stairwell. “Fuck it. I don’t need a fucking sign. If people don’t know who the fuck I am, they shouldn’t be knocking on my fucking door. Fuuuck!”

It wasn’t like anyone randomly showed up off the street looking for my help anyway. It wasn’t like business was booming. Hell, the ad I’d taken out in theToronto Suna few weeks back had been a waste of a hundred bucks.

I reentered the office and forcefully slammed the door, surprised it didn’t come off its hinges. At least there was no morerattling sign to crash to the ground. Good. How was that for satisfaction?