Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective

Chapter 42

Zandra doesn't need to say anything to Abby to get the message across. The stiff expression says it all. Zandra's feet point back toward the stairs while her eyes keep on the shoe and her hand itches for the lawnmower knife.

"This is the original foundation from the house that used to sit here, before Gene built his palace over the top of it," Abby says. There's a speck of delight in her eyes as her pupils chase Zandra's. "He doesn't like coming down here, for obvious reasons. Always had a hunch something was going on down here, though, like a gas leak or something. He'd ask me to check it out, and of course I'd tell him it was nothing."

Zandra inspects the shoe a little closer. A canoe-shaped folding knife with a brass and wood handle rests beside it. It's a Buck 110. The blade is open and gummed over with the gristle of dried blood.

Seth?

Zandra's eyes fall to the rusty dryer. Someone built a padlock into the door, although it's unlocked now. The drum inside is large enough to hold a child. Zandra swings the door open to find tiny claw marks etched into the metal inside. A lone fingernail rests at the bottom of the drum.

So this is what revenge looks like.

Abby's neck crouches into Zandra's view again from the other side of the plywood. "No matter how many pairs of those stupid pink shoes we bought, she always managed to lose them. Wouldn't wear anything else. You know how kids can be," she says.

"You got me. I was wrong about you," Zandra says.

"You're full of shit. I knew it the minute you babbled on in that séance," Abby says. "You act like you're the smartest person in the room. And all along, there I was, sitting right across from you."

Zandra shuffles away from Abby, pressing her back against the flecks of chipped white paint sprouting from the old cement walls like mushrooms on a tree. They crunch against her purple gown as the lawnmower knife slips out from her sleeve.

Abby looks unimpressed. She lifts up her shirt with all the concern of someone about to go to bed. Planted against her hip between her white undershirt and jeans is an inside-the-waistband holster with a pistol grip peeking out.

It seems stupid to fire the pistol this close to the ears of the upper levels, but Zandra's not so sure. The cacophony that greeted her in the house earlier can't be heard now in the basement. The sheer size of the Carey home could soak up anything from an unattended TV to a cry for help.

Zandra squeezes the paracord of the lawnmower knife and watches Abby draw the subcompact pistol. Can't hold too many rounds. Then again, it only takes one to drop a psychic with a bad ankle.

"I'd put away the knife and listen to what I have to say," Abby says, her prolapsed grin as menacing as the pistol now aimed at Zandra's chest.

The lawnmower knife returns to its sleeve. The pistol's barrel points downward as Abby paces the damp cement floor.

"Why don't you start with how you know Seth?" Zandra says.

That stops Abby in her tracks. "You might be a shitty psychic, but you got that one right. The day he showed up to talk about that hunting land with Gene, I just couldn't stop staring. He'd come back week after week to talk deer, but he'd stay for me. That's when we got the idea to pump Gene for cash and blow my job as a glorified ass wiper for my cousin, Kendra. The only question was how," she says.

Zandra takes a minute to read Abby's posture. It's confident. Breathing is steady. Hands relaxed. Face and eyes fully exposed. No signs of deception.

"You kidnapped Elle, then demanded ransom," Zandra says. "But the police said there wasn't a ransom note. And you obviously haven't been paid or you wouldn't be here."