Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective

Chapter 44

"Oh, excellent, Abby, you got the memo. I was a little worried when I couldn't reach you," Gene says when he enters the cabin. The officers remain outside, holding watch over the front door.

"Memo?" Abby says from the table.

"Yes, the police wanted the house vacated. They tracked that crazy bitch, Zandra, to our property. They say she's going wild with a knife," Gene says. "Kendra, God bless her, decided to stay back at the house. Didn't want to leave."

The cell phone in Gene's pocket blurts out an obnoxious ring tone. He excuses himself to a corner next to a makeshift closet, barely making par for manners in the one-room cabin. It's only inches away from Zandra's hiding spot inside the closet. She holds her breath behind a thick sheet of terrycloth threaded through a metal rod.

Gene talks on the phone so even the police officers can outside can hear, stuffing the cabin with his ego. Zandra uses his voice as a cover for stretching her cramped leg. Her body is finished with this cloak-and-dagger runaround. It takes every crumb of willpower to suck in her reflex to cry out in pain. She massages the Charlie horse while Gene talks into the phone, stopping when he stops.

The thought crosses Zandra's mind to reveal herself, to expose Abby and Seth. After all, Elle could be only feet away, given the food Seth inadvertently prepared for her. Would it be enough to clear her name? Is sticking with Abby and Seth better or worse than stepping out from the closet? Better question: How long can she keep standing on muddy boots in a closet before her bad ankle gives out and exposes her anyway?

Zandra stays put for now, instead focusing on the tone of Gene's voice. He wrangles a business deal with the smoothness of peach skin. There's a soothing purr beneath his words, the kind that could convince anyone to lay down money. And have they ever. Investors love Gene's returns, fueled by his game of falsifying claims. It's said that one year he never paid out on a single claim. It might be an urban legend, but it may as well be true. The only way he retains policy holders is through dirt cheap rates. He preys on the naïve and desperate the same way Zandra does.

After years of "psychic" readings, Zandra's learned how tone of voice and heart rate are inseparable. For as often as she relies on taking a pulse with her fingers, the steadiness of speech is as much an indicator as a heart monitor.

Apparently, nothing can break Gene's rhythm. Even if his child is still missing. Even if Zandra's supposedly chasing him down with a lawnmower knife. Even if his grieving wife didn't evacuate their home, putting her in danger. Even if the police believe he's in enough danger to warrant officer escorts. What rational person acts like that?

For as forgiving as Zandra felt earlier, she's changing her mind about Gene. He's every bit the sociopath she pegged him as 25 years ago. Even if he had nothing to do with David or Elle, somewhere, sometime, he must have stepped over a few bodies. If not literally then figuratively. A person doesn't build that kind of insurance empire without leaving a few bruises.

With the lingering guilt dissipated, Zandra decides to have a little fun with Gene. She remembers how she tapped her foot during her tour of Gene's house to insert a subconscious trigger. She resumes the mental trick now, her toes keeping a beat to every negative utterance dripping from Gene's dry mouth. It's quiet enough that he doesn't notice. But would it be effective? Zandra's less concerned about that. It feels good to fuck with him.

Gene wraps up on the phone and inspects the wood stove. "Mind if I grab a sandwich?" he says and helps himself to a grilled cheese.

From a tiny gap between the terrycloth and the closet wall, Zandra watches Abby and Seth do their best to look at ease. It's a hard look to force.

"You guys are quiet. What's going on?" Gene says between crispy bites. "You break up or something?"

Seth looks up from his gaze into the table. "No, no, last time I checked we were still a thing. Right, Abby?" he says.

"Of course, sweetie," Abby says, batting her eyes. Her disdain for Seth is hidden as poorly as the pistol beneath her shirt.

"What's that?" Gene says, pointing a corner of the sandwich at Abby's waist.

Abby doesn't attempt an excuse. "With that psychic freak running around, I needed a little protection," she says.

"We talked about this before. I don't like you having guns. My house, my rules," Gene says.

"I think, technically, this is Seth's cabin. He hauled it in," Abby says, glancing to Seth. He keeps his eyes on the floor.

Gene sucks his fingers clean of grease. "Don't be difficult, Abby. I take you in, give you a job and you've yet to thank me for it," he says.

Abby sniffs. "Thank you, Gene, but I'm keeping the gun until they find that, as you said, crazy bitch," she says and points. "For all we know, she could be hiding in that closet."

Zandra nearly chokes. She swallows it back as an idea comes to the surface. Abby's betrayal of Zandra's position, however tiny it might be in the moment, means much more than it lets on. It means the thought of turning on her companions is present in Abby's mind. Massaged in the right way, it's the perfect opening to exploit.

"Fine, keep the gun, but keep it unloaded around me. We've got police outside anyway," Gene says.

Abby obliges and pops the magazine onto the table. Seth tries to make peace by changing the radio station to a sports program, the kind where chuckleheads reword "How 'bout them Packers?" three hours at a time.

After 30 minutes of Packers talk, Gene's cell phone rings. It's yet another business call, except this one requires a trip back to the office. He leaves with the police officers without saying good-bye.

Zandra feels around in her pockets. Most of her props fell out in all this action, but an important one remains: her box of wooden matches. Gripping it in her fingers, she knows there's finally a way out of this mess. Best of all, she won't need to strike a match to do it.

She parts the terrycloth and steps out from the closet. It's time to end this mess.