Chapter 2
Steam billows from my cup-o-noodles where it cools on the counter. I head to the pantry next and tuck a bag of cheese puffs beneath my arm, stopping at the fridge for a soda while I’m at it.
I justify my junk food binges by telling myself it’s fuel, must haves for the long, late-night shifts I spend on the hotline. I mean, a girl can’t guide the lost through the psychic realm on an empty stomach, can she?
I place my “fuel” on the counter, pretending this isn’t just an excuse to eat things I’d otherwise deny myself, and grab a spork from the drawer. As I’m pushing it closed, the back door swings open, sending my heart into overdrive.
“Holy shi…”
My father arches a dark brow, and I catch myself, remembering that he hates it when I curse in his presence.
“You scared the crap out of me,” I pant, clutching the edge of the counter.
He plucks an earbud from his ear and eases the door closed. “Sorry. Guess I should’ve knocked first when I saw the light was on.” His briefcase lands on the barstool with a light thud, then he points at the door. “However, I wouldn’t have been able to just pop in on you like that if you’d—”
“…locked the door. I know,” I say with an eye roll.
“And yet…”
“I get it. I’ll do better. Promise.”
He sighs, and it quenches his frustration when I stretch onto the tips of my toes to kiss his cheek. When he doesn’t continue the lecture, I assume I’m off the hook. He scans the array of food on the counter next, and then takes notice of my purple t-shirt with the mystical crystal ball in the middle. The one I’ve effectively deemed my work uniform. His mouth curves into a knowing smile.
“Taking calls tonight, Madam Dorothy Dreamwalker?”
I nod. “You know it. But that’s Madam Divina Dreamweaver. Get it right.”
He laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “Excuse me, Madam. But I’m guessing you knew I was going to mess that up. Seeing as how you’re psychic and all.”
“But of course.” I nudge him playfully with my elbow, clumsily gathering my food for the short trek across the yard to the garage, and then up the side steps to my apartment. But before I make an exit, I notice the dark circles underneath his eyes as he scoops coffee into the filter, preparing for a little late-night work session of his own, I imagine.
I glance toward his earbuds and phone on the counter, guessing what he’s been listening to. Several months ago, he transferred a collection of cassette tapes to mp3 files, making it easier to conduct research for his book on-the-go.
But these aren’t just any files.
They’re recordings of past sessions with a patient whose case nearly consumed him. I used to think that he let himself get so deeply immersed because it gave him something to obsess over after Mom died. But since then, I’ve wondered if it was more than that. I’ve wondered if he would’ve been just as obsessed if Mom were still with us.
One of the few memories I’ve managed to retain is of me sitting outside the door of my father’s home office. I couldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen, but it’s so vivid. Warm, yellow light poured out of the room through the small sliver between his door and the frame. I crouched low, making myself silent and small, so he wouldn’t notice me. I just remember needing to know what was so dire that it took him away from me all the time. What was so enthralling that he buried himself within it, shutting me out of his world at a time that I needed him so desperately? And it was as I hid there, betraying his trust, that I finally got my answer.
This patient, my father’s obsession, was a man named Maxwell. He was around my father’s age, and like Dad, he was also a widower. For the most part, his life was unremarkable. He was wealthy, although I never quite sorted out where his money came from, but I got the impression that he was born into it, old money. That detail wasn’t particularly important to me, though. However, what was intriguing, were the confessions Maxwell made to my father. Dark, wicked thoughts, desires that were allegedly all hypothetical, but… there was so much detail.
So much… feeling in the way he described these acts.
Torture.
Violence.
Death.
In the recordings, my father spoke in the same low, reassuring tone I’d heard him use with other patients, but something was different. He dug so deep into Maxwell’s world I worried he’d get lost in it. Was he so invested because… he saw my mother reflected in this man? A fellow broken soul?
The memory evaporates, and I see my father in the present again, adding water to the coffee pot before hitting start. He notices me staring and flashes a weary smile. I smile back but can’t deny that I’m worried. It can’t be healthy for him to sink back into that abyss, but he’s been so determined to finish this book. One based on his experiences with Maxwell, a patient who impacted my father’s life like no other, right up until the man’s death several years ago.
“Promise me you won’t work too hard.”
Dad nods. “Promise. Now hurry. You’ve got lives to change, don’t you?”
A laugh slips out as I exit, but I can’t ignore the stark difference between how my fatherviews my job versus Martinez’s thoughts on it. Sure, yes, we all know it’s complete bullshit, but if anyone gets why I morph into Madam Divina Dreamweaver at night, it should be Martinez.
Being a forensic photographer brings me nose-to-nose with death nearly every day. And after two years in, I’m sometimes uncomfortable with how comfortable I am with the darkness. So, if I’ve found something that lets a little light in, why not let me have that without giving me shit about it? The point is, it’s too easy to not be a dick about it for me to excuse that that’s exactly what Martinez is sometimes.
King Dick.
And I don’t mean that in any sort of flattering light whatsoever.
I fumble with the knob to my apartment because my hands are loaded, but I manage to get inside without dropping anything. Shockingly. The door slams behind me when I nudge it with my foot, setting my food down on the desk to answer a text.
Dad: Forgot to ask, you remembered your meds, right?
Layla: Always do.
I clear my throat when I acknowledge the lie, but he doesn’t need to know about last night.
Dad: Good. Have fun, sweetheart.
I smile at the message, then set the phone aside to get set up. I turn on the TV and fire up the episode of I Love Lucy I left off on last time, then mute the volume. I don’t need to hear the words, but the onscreen movement keeps me company. My desk chair creaks a little when I drop down into it, prop my feet up on the desk, then reach for my gold, fortune teller turban that serves no purpose other than to make me laugh when I catch my reflection in the computer screen. But when I pick up my headset, something near the far wall of my room catches my eye. Something small and dark on the floor near the vent.
I place my headset back on the rack and cross the room, stooping down once I’m close enough to grab what stole my attention a moment ago. A small screw. I pick it up to examine it closer, realizing it’s somehow popped out of the vent. For the next few seconds, I rack my brain, trying to remember if I’ve recently bumped it or pushed something against it that might’ve snagged it out, but I quickly get bored with the investigation and just twist it back into place.
This time, when I drop down in front of my computer again, I slip on the headset and finish logging into the system. It only takes about thirty seconds after that for a long tone to beep in my ear, indicating the arrival of my first call for the night. All of a sudden, I’m no longer Layla Bennett, because the madam has officially entered the room.
“Good evening, fellow seeker. I’m Madam Divina Dreamweaver, your guide through the spirit realm. How can I help?”
“Yeah, hi. I’m Glenn. Thanks for taking my call.”
“Of course. What can I do for you, Glenn?”
There’s a short pause while he clears his throat, and I glance toward the TV while I wait.
“Well, I’m hoping you can give me a bit of romantic insight. There’s a girl,” he says, and I smile a little. “I’m into her, but I can’t seem to decide if it’s time to settle down with her or not.”
I rock back in my chair and nearly fall out of it when I lean too far. After a quick maneuver to avoid a spill, I clear my throat and focus on the call again.
“Well, Glenn, I suppose the first thing I should know is whether you see a reason you shouldn’t settle down with her.”
He’s quiet. Too quiet.
“Hello? Still with me, buddy?”
“I—yes,” he answers, and my eyes narrow, wondering what he’s not saying. “You see, the thing is, I’m hesitant because… she’s… well… she’s invisible. To everyone but me, of course,” he rushes to add, causing my eyes to roll to the back of my head.
You’ve gotta be shitting me.
“Of course,” I echo, sounding as non-judgmental as I can manage under these circumstances. But this is the job. And if Glenn needs me to help him navigate a romance between him and his invisible girlfriend, then dammit, that’s what I’m going to do.
I rock back again, being more cautious this time, but I need to get comfortable. Because if this first call is any indication of what’s to come, it’s about to be a long fucking night.