7. Chapter 7 #2
I complete the intake and learn that Delaney has no significant injuries or medical concerns. The tightness sits primarily at the base of her neck and between her shoulder blades, brought on by long hours reviewing photographs and campaign material.
After she relaxes face down beneath the sheet, I begin with light pressure across her upper back. Her muscles soften readily beneath my hands. She is accustomed to touch and does not treat relaxation as a loss of control.
“You’re very good at this,” Delaney says from the headrest.
“Thank you.”
“You sound surprised.”
“People usually comment on the crystals first.”
“The crystals aren’t loosening the knot beneath my shoulder blade.”
“Some people would disagree.”
“Mason would probably challenge them to prove it.”
Her affection warms the words, even with her face lowered into the headrest.
“He notices when you’re hurting?” I ask.
“Before I admit it.” She pauses. “It used to make me defensive.”
“Why?”
“Because I spent years knowing exactly what people saw when they looked at me. I became very good at controlling the image.” Her shoulders loosen beneath my hands. “Mason notices things I’m not trying to show.”
“That sounds uncomfortable.”
“It was. Sometimes it still is.”
“What changed?”
“I realized being noticed isn’t the same as being judged.”
My hands slow briefly before I continue along the tight muscle beside her shoulder blade.
Being noticed isn’t the same as being judged.
The words lodge somewhere inside that I am not prepared to examine.
The conversation fades as Delaney relaxes. Outside the screens, Chloe speaks with a customer about one of the candles. Festival music moves through the trees, accompanied by footsteps, children’s laughter, and the occasional announcement from the main stage.
For a while, the restlessness beneath the festival disappears.
I finish the session with gentle pressure across Delaney’s shoulders, then step outside while she dresses. Chloe has purchased two candles, a bottle of grounding oil, and a smoky quartz cluster large enough to require both hands.
“Jack will say I bought a rock,” she tells me.
“He may.”
“Is there an official response?”
“Tell him it is a protective mineral specimen selected for the energetic integrity of your shared property.”
Chloe nods. “That should end the conversation.”
“It may begin another one.”
The privacy screen opens. Delaney emerges, rolling her shoulders with obvious relief.
“Oh,” she says. “That is considerably better.”
“Drink extra water this evening. You may have mild soreness tomorrow.”
“I’ll tell Mason I have medical instructions to rest.”
“I didn’t say rest.”
“He doesn’t need every detail.”
Chloe gives me a knowing smile as Delaney collects her bag. Their presence has left the booth warmer, their affection and happiness lingering around the space.
“How long are you staying?” Delaney asks.
“Until the festival ends.”
Chloe adjusts the heavy crystal in her arms. “That isn’t long enough to see Cady Springs properly.”
“Then I may have to return.”
“Good,” she says, as though the matter has already been decided.
Chloe laughs and carries her purchases toward the path. Delaney hugs me before following.
“Thank you,” she says. “For the massage and for not telling Chloe anything alarming.”
“Nothing alarming appeared.”
“That is exactly what I wanted to hear.”
They disappear into the festival crowd.
I clear the treatment area, replace the used linens, and prepare the booth for my final customers. My energy feels lower than it did before Chloe’s reading, but not depleted. Both sessions were warm, balanced exchanges. Neither woman took more than she gave.
The unease beneath the festival returns anyway. A child cries somewhere near the main path. The sound is brief, followed by a man’s reassuring voice and the child’s quick laughter.
Nothing is wrong.
I carry the used linens toward the storage container beneath my sales counter. My hand passes over the cash box. Cold moves through my fingers. I stop.
The metal latch appears perfectly ordinary. Silver, rectangular, secured with a small key. Rocco told me a man photographed locks and cash-handling procedures. Knowing that should explain why touching it makes my pulse quicken.
I place my fingertips against it again. The booth vanishes. Glass explodes in front of me.
A red flash cuts through darkness. Not flame. Fabric, perhaps, or clothing moving too quickly to identify.
Smoke burns my throat. Cinnamon and scorched sugar fill the air.
A child screams.
The sound is no longer playful. Someone shouts for people to get down. Another voice calls Rocco’s name. A deafening crack splits the night.
Then I am kneeling on the ground with blood covering both hands. Rocco’s blood. Warm. Slippery. Too much.
His face is beneath mine, but I cannot see his eyes. Dark hair lies across the pavement. My hands press against him while the child continues crying somewhere beyond the smoke.
The vision releases me.
I return to the booth with my knees striking the ground.
Pain shoots through one hip. The cash box falls from the counter and hits the floor beside me, its contents scattering across the rug. Coins roll beneath the display shelves. The key skids toward the front opening.
I cannot move.
The festival exists around me, bright, crowded, and untouched. Music continues from the stage. Customers pass the entrance. A woman laughs near the candle display.
No one else saw what I saw. I press both palms against my thighs. Clean. There is no blood. My body does not believe it.
I drag in a breath, but the smell of smoke remains trapped in my throat. The child’s scream echoes inside my head. Rocco lies motionless every time I blink.
I need to find him.
The thought should push me to my feet. Instead, the booth tilts. Light narrows around the edges of my vision.
Someone enters through the front. I see black cargo pants and boots moving quickly across the rug.
“Loralee.”
Rocco’s voice reaches me from a distance. Alive. He drops beside me. One hand closes around my shoulder while the other braces the back of my neck.
“What happened?”
I try to answer. My mouth forms his name, but no sound comes. His face sharpens above me. Dark hair. Dark eyes. No blood.
Not yet.
That is the thought that finally breaks through.
I catch the front of his shirt with both hands.
“Rocco.”
“I’m here.”
“There’s going to be a gun.”