Chapter 18 – October 15, 1993 – Camille
It was shortly after the accident—maybe three days. I was still beat up and hated myself for what happened and what we did about it, but I was slowly learning to adjust. We decided it wasn’t worth the trouble to check into a hospital, so we kept moving.
So I thought.
We stayed in Massachusetts for a few days to lay low and heal.
I slept a lot. I didn’t eat much. I avoided showering.
Erich kept to his routine, but I was suffocating.
The guilt over what happened to Thomas was eating me alive.
I couldn’t bear leaving the room—not to see his obituary in the paper or the local news headline: “Harvard Student Dies in Tragic Car Accident.” Did Kelly, Henry, or Jake suspect I was there?
Was I just waiting like a wounded animal for a cop to knock on the motel door and question me about that night?
My fingernails became bloody stubs. My hair fell out in clumps.
The day we left, Erich didn’t tell me the plan. He didn’t try small talk. He knew there was something wrong he couldn’t fix on his own—and he was probably right.
He didn’t tell me we were heading to New York until we were already there.
I’d gotten used to reading road signs, watching town names pass, staring at trees from the passenger seat when I wasn’t asleep. But this was different. The massive green highway signs loomed overhead. The buildings crowded together. I started to realize we weren’t just passing through.
Traffic thickened. The buildings closed in.
I hadn’t said more than a few words to Erich since the accident, and I didn’t plan to change that as he weaved between cars, swearing under his breath every time someone cut him off.
One sharp turn off the exit, and suddenly we were in it—city noise, movement, life—before he slammed the brakes, brought the car to a hard stop, and shut the engine off.
We were parked outside a rundown red-and-brown brick building with a tiny rectangular window covered in beaded curtains.
It sat too high to see through, even on tiptoe.
A single “Open” sign hung on the door, ready to flip to “Closed.” Beneath the window, an overflowing trash can spilled pamphlets—one advertising psychic consults and fortune telling.
And the name: Mystique Braun.
My heart dropped.
Why were we here? We could’ve gone anywhere—anywhere—to rest before getting back on the road. I wanted to kick him, demand answers. Better yet, I wanted to force him to start the car and get us out of there.
But before I could act, Erich was already out of the vehicle.
I threw the door open, stepping into smog-thick air that barely filtered between the buildings. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance. The stench of exhaust burned my nose. I held my breath. Erich was already at the door. I was being left behind.
I slammed the car door hard enough to make my ears ring and hurried after him. Without the safety of the Nova, I had nowhere to go but forward—into that woman’s home. Erich’s home. Somewhere I couldn’t meet the eyes of passing strangers or risk being shoved into a dark alley.
Before I could protest, Erich turned the knob.
The door flew open.
I knew immediately—the woman behind the door was Mystique Braun.
She exhaled in relief and pulled him into a hug, arms wrapping around his waist like she’d been waiting for him. I wasn’t acknowledged. Not even seen.
Maybe I’d died and come back as a ghost to haunt him.
Mystique was tall and lanky, with hazel eyes and a mischievous smile.
Dimples rested permanently at the corners of her lips.
She was breathtaking—dangerously so. The kind of beauty that could bring powerful men to their knees.
A red scarf wrapped her coiled black hair, and she wore enough rings, bangles, and necklaces to stock a jewelry store.
Her skin was smooth, glowing. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve guessed she was only a few years older than me.
I was instantly jealous.
Not just of her beauty—but of how effortlessly she held herself. I didn’t want to like her, not after everything I’d heard about Olivia. But I respected her. There was something steady, something bold about her presence.
There didn’t seem to be a mean bone in her body.
But I pitied anyone who found themselves on her bad side—if her paranormal intuitions were real.
Mystique’s wooden calendar on the front desk read October 15, 1993. It was only a few days after I watched a man be thrown out of his car seat and through the windshield. One week from Erich’s birthday, and he dragged us to visit his ex-girlfriend and her mother.
Once I was able to slip inside behind Erich, I gently shut the door behind us.
I had already grown uneasy being the third wheel of this encounter before I was knocked back by my next source of discomfort.
My nostrils were hit by a semi-truck carrying patchouli.
Except the semi-truck was on fire and choking me as well.
It was incense, but the first thought I had was what kind of candle she was constantly burning that I’d feel so irritated by it. Why would anyone want to live in such a strong scent?
“You should’ve called, baby. I would’ve been more prepared for you and made sure Olivia was home to see you as well.
” Mystique swiftly paced through the small room.
She was ecstatic to see Erich and unable to contain it.
I spent a lot of time trying to find a flaw in her actions, a nervous tic from having two people enter her home unannounced.
I couldn’t pin one down. If it were my mother welcoming unexpected guests, her tic would’ve been sipping whatever drink she had closest to her.
The layout of the home was creative. The downstairs had Mystique’s shop area.
We were currently in the room where she had her inventory on display for customers and clients.
Many shelves full of tarot cards, books, candles, incense sticks, potions, and whatever other nonsense I never believed in.
Beyond the beaded curtain was where she did her readings, a small closet-like room with a crystal ball on a wine-red silk-covered table and matching maroon velvet chairs.
There was another room next to it, a worn wooden door with a hefty lock right above the doorknob.
Something about that room gave me an overpowering feeling of doom in the pit of my stomach.
I didn’t dare ask what she did in there.
There was also a set of stairs that led to a basement where she kept her back stock and other business items, such as boxes of paperwork and traveling paraphernalia for séances and the like.
The upstairs was where Mystique and Olivia lived—a cozy apartment-style home with two bedrooms, a closet-sized spare room, a kitchen, a small living area, and a bathroom. Tiny, yet spacious for a small family.
While Erich was seemingly fond of me, the version of him in front of his ex’s mother was a stark contrast to who I’d known.
There were no snarky comments or side-eyes.
In fact, he respected her. He obviously trusted and loved her, too.
On one hand he could count who he respected, and on the other he could count people he trusted and loved.
I wouldn’t doubt Mystique was the only person on both hands.
“We were in town,” he mentioned. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you before dropping by.”
“We were in town.” I could’ve scoffed and corrected him, but I bit my tongue.
Mystique bought it, coming back for another long hug, rocking Erich back and forth, and burying her face in his shoulder.
She was a bit shorter than he was, despite her towering appearance.
Whenever she hugged him, she was on the tips of her toes so she could have her arms around his neck and bury her face in his shoulder.
I tried to read her face… love, affection, motherly. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears of glee. “Honey, you know you’re welcome back whenever. And you can stay as long as you feel necessary. We love you, and this is your home too.”
I was the extra baggage. I could pass for mute if I wasn’t coughing up a lung with my current incense affliction.
I didn’t belong there. My eyes moved from the corners of the walls to the ceiling to convince myself the walls weren’t closing in and I wasn’t being trapped. My instincts wanted to find an escape.
Without any warning, the attention turned to me.
Before I could anchor myself back to reality and hold my breath long enough not to choke on my own lungs, Mystique’s hands were on my face.
Warm, soft. A comforting scent of lavender wiped my senses of patchouli.
Her fingers grazed the small cuts littered across my cheekbones and forehead from the accident.
I became a child with a fever, or a treasured doll in the hands of a careful child, afraid they would accidentally rip its arm off.
Mystique was the mother. Her earthy eyes bore into me vacantly, and for a second, we weren’t on this planet anymore.
I nervously tried to see past her unsettling honeyed irises, through the pinpoint pupils for any kind of explanation, but they wouldn’t give me a single hint as to what she was thinking. Or where they would be taking me.
With my face in her tender hands, she was looking through me. Stripping me bare with her eyes, rubbing the hurt from my wounds. She saw everything I’d seen in my lifetime and became me long enough to grasp it.
I don’t know how much time passed during this strange ordeal, but she eventually dropped her hands, covering her mouth with one before whispering something…
maybe in French? I was slowly remembering where I was and what was going on.
If she had put a spell on me, my eyes were now rolling forward from the back of my head.
“Darling,” she mumbled between her ringed fingers.