Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye Read online

  "I knew it!" Penny said, thumping the arm of her chair with her fist, interrupting me. "She said all they did was kiss, but I knew that slut was screwing around on me!"

  I jumped slightly in my chair, completely taken aback by Penny's reaction; it was like June had just sworn like a sailor during Sunday dinner.

  Also, I hadn't picked up the lesbian thing, and I mentally chastised myself for allowing my first impression to cloud my intuition. I smiled tightly, collecting myself as Penny looked expectantly at me. I turned slightly in my chair and closed my eyes; I couldn't look at this woman and not be thrown off by her appearance. After a moment, I continued, "Okay, the next thing they're saying is that there's this issue about money. I feel like you loaned this woman some money and you two were going to use it to start a business or something? And it has to do with wiring, or copper wire or something like that, but I don't think it's electricity."

  "Yes," Penny said. "She makes this really fantastic jewelry out of copper wire, and we thought we could sell it on the Internet, but she needed some start-up money, so I loaned it to her."

  "Okay, they're saying 'two,' like two hundred. Did you loan her two hundred dollars?"

  There was a pause, so I opened my eyes. Penny's cheeks had rosied to a light pink. "Uh, no," she replied, looking carefully at her feet. "Actually it was two thousand."

  My jaw dropped. Who needed two thousand dollars for some copper wire? I recovered again and closed my eyes. "And she hasn't paid you back yet, has she?" I said, more fact than question.

  "Well, no…"

  "I see," I said knowingly. "I'm afraid, Penny, that my feeling is you're not going to see this money again. I also get the feeling that she didn't put it to very good use. In fact, there is a connection to drugs here," I said, sensing the familiar bitter taste that always came into my mouth when I picked up someone using drugs. "Did you know she's a heroine addict?"

  "She's been in rehab twice. That's how we met, actually; she was a patient at Beaumont up on the rehab ward."

  I wanted to stand up and slap her. In my head I yelled, You gave two thousand dollars to a recovering drug addict?! What were you thinking?!

  Whaling on my clientele isn't necessarily good for business, so I continued with the reading. "You may not like hearing this, Penny, but she's back using again. This is all the more reason for you to be cautious of this woman, because I'm also picking up the feeling of a jail cell here, and I think Brandy is going to get caught by the law very soon. You don't want to jeopardize your career by getting stuck in the middle of all this. Now your guides are insisting that you cut this woman off, that you give her the boot, and the reason you're supposed to give her the heave-ho— uh, sorry, no pun intended—is because there's someone new coming into the picture. I'm feeling like there's another woman on the edge of your energy. She's got brown hair like yours, and I also get the feeling that you two look alike somehow, that you could be mistaken for sisters. I also feel strongly like you know her, or know of her, and I feel like she's a teacher, or she works with small children."

  Penny sucked in a breath of surprise. "Oh my God! That's my best friend, Michelle, and I've been in love with her forever!"

  "Is she a teacher?"

  "Yes, she teaches kindergarten."

  "Does she know how you feel?"

  "Well, we used to fool around a long time ago, but nothing since college."

  "Then, Penny, it's time to throw caution to the winds and tell her about your true feelings. I really believe you two would be great together. Related to this new romance is a move for you. I get the feeling this will happen by the holidays, like around Christmas, and you'll be moving in with this other woman. Does she have a house that's near a river or a lake? Blue with black shutters?"

  A surprised breath in. "Yes, she does, but that's impossible," she said adamantly. "There's no way I'd be moving in with her."

  "Why isn't it possible? Do you think Michelle might reject you?"

  "No, that's not it. I can't be moving in with her because I'm married," she explained, pushing her slender ring finger adorned with a plain wedding band at me.

  I blinked in surprise. I hadn't picked that up at all.

  "To a man?" I finally asked, looking at the wedding band, rather incredulous.

  "Yeah," she answered in a "what else?" voice.

  "But, Penny," I said, shaking my head, "you're gay."

  "What?!" she exclaimed, pulling back in her chair, completely offended. "No, I'm not! I just told you, I'm married!"

  See what I mean? One minute I'm sitting down to talk with Leave It to Beaver's mother, and the next I'm arguing with a translucent cat sporting a toothy grin. I should just change my name to Alice and be done with it.

  After spending ten more minutes with Penny trying to convince her of her sexual orientation I finally gave up and just let her remain in her closet. My feeling was she'd be out by Christmas anyway, so why argue about semantics now?

  I closed the door behind her and tidied up the office. It had been a bitch of a week.

  What I had thought was a spectacular date with Dutch had obviously been a dud on his end. I hadn't heard from him, which gave him a no-frills membership into my bastard-of-the-month club. For all my psychic prowess, I was as yet unable to divine how the male mind functions. Picking up a book on Mars had made a recent appearance onto my to-do list.

  To add insult to injury, tonight was Theresa's last night in town, and I'd barely had a chance to spend any time with her all week. Pouting, I went into my inner office and called her.

  "Hey," I said when she picked up.

  "Abby! Hi there. We were just talking about you," she said, laughing.

  "Yeah, my ears are ringing. You two still on for dinner tonight?"

  "Absolutely. Brett and I are heading over to the hotel right now to check in. We'll meet you at Pi's around six."

  "Cool. See you there," I said, the light going out of my voice. How was I going to do this? How was I going to let go of my best friend?

  I shuffled out from behind the desk and wandered over to Theresa's reading room. The door was open, and I switched on the light. The room was barren and empty, mirroring just how I felt.

  Tomorrow an acquaintance of ours, a massage therapist named Maggie, would be moving her things in.

  Although I knew Maggie casually and genuinely liked her, I still wasn't sure how I felt about letting anyone but Theresa into my private world. Still, it beat having to pay Theresa's portion of the rent. The other bonus was that Maggie was a night owl who booked most of her clients in the early evening. She would hardly interfere with my daily routine, and I wondered suddenly if that was really how I wanted things to be.

  I sighed heavily and shuffled around some more, the weight of calling back clients who wanted to book readings keeping me from leaving just yet. Stubbornly I looked at my appointment book and stuck my tongue out at it. I just didn't feel like putting on a cheerful voice for anyone. Just then the phone rang, and I was considering letting it go to voice mail when the thought that it might be Theresa calling me back moved me to action.

  "Hi, this is Abby," I said, taking a seat again at the desk.

  "Hi, Abby, this is Allison Pierce. I had a reading with you a couple of weeks ago—do you remember me?"

  I smiled into the phone. I rarely remember my clients, and typically remember even less about their readings. The connection I make to their energy never seems to last beyond the forty-five-minute sessions. "I'm sorry, Allison. I have a lot of clients, and after a while they all sort of blend together. What can I do for you?"

  "Well, I was wondering if I could sit down with you again—I really need to ask you a few more questions. Do you have any appointments available today or tomorrow?"

  I'll regret what I said next for the rest of my life; little did I know that lives were literally at stake and that my answer would have such grave consequences. I know that at the time I was motivated by a sense that the cosmos had rained on my parade
in a huge way, and I wasn't in the mood to be charitable or understanding. "No, Allison," I said a bit testily. "I'm afraid that's not possible. I have a hard-and-fast rule that I will do only two sessions per year with my clients, spaced not less than six months apart, and if I make an exception for you then I'll have to make an exception for everyone. I can book you for an appointment in January, but I'm afraid that's the best I can do."

  "There's no way you'll consider it? I just have a few questions, and it's really important—"

  "Everyone always has just a few questions, Allison," I said, cutting her off, "and then it turns into another full session." I was getting impatient. "Listen, you can answer all of the questions you have by yourself. All you have to do is listen to your own inner voice. You are the most intuitive about yourself. Sit quietly with whatever question remains unanswered, and you'll find the solution. Now, did you want to make that appointment for January right now or call me back in a few months?"

  "I'll call you back another time," she said, sounding deflated.

  "Fine. Have a good day, Allison," I said briskly.

  I hung up the phone with a hint of satisfaction. If I couldn't catch a break why should anyone else? But the satisfaction wore off quickly. The more I thought about it, the more ashamed of myself I became. Why hadn't I been nicer to her? Why hadn't I just asked her what questions she still had and offered an impromptu mini-reading over the phone? I'd done it for other clients. Why was I being such a witch?

  The truth was that I was being small and uncharitable, and I was doing it because I was having a crummy day. I felt like I'd just flipped off a little old lady on the highway who'd only been trying to change lanes.

  "Crap," I said into the silence. Well, it was too late now. I didn't have Allison's phone number, and unless she called back—highly unlikely at this point—I had no way to get in touch with her. I looked around the office and decided to call it a day before I wreaked any more havoc on my clients. I grabbed my purse and locked up the office.

  Lost in moody thoughts, I descended the stairs and stepped out of the building, but suddenly an uncomfortable feeling crept along my spine, and for the hundredth time that week I felt myself looking around anxiously. This had been happening to me since Monday. I felt like someone was watching me, and out of the corner of my eye I kept looking for the bogeyman.

  I looked up and down Washington Avenue, but like all the other times, I couldn't see anyone. I trotted across the street to the parking garage and walked quickly up the ramp in the direction of my car, but the moment I neared my assigned parking space the feeling intensified. Someone was following me. I quickened my pace, and instead of going directly to my car I jogged in the opposite direction, to the stairs. Hurrying through the stairwell door, I ran up one flight, letting the door bang loudly behind me, then darted around a pylon and waited. Seconds ticked by, and as I listened I could hear footsteps climbing the stairs. Peeking around the pylon, I saw a tall, goodlooking black man dressed in Dockers and a polo shirt step through the door and look around intently. The thing that struck me was that he wasn't just looking; he was listening too, probably for the sound of my footsteps. I watched him move forward a bit, peering this way and that. This was the guy who'd been following me all week.

  I'd had this feeling all week that my every move was being scrutinized, and I thought I'd seen a strange car at the end of my block a couple of times, but for the most part I'd just shrugged it off. Now I knew I was being watched. But who was this guy and what did he want with me? What had I done to him?

  At that moment my purse slipped off my shoulder and hit the pylon with a small thwack. The man heard the noise and caught me peeking at him. He seemed startled to see me and regarded me for a brief moment with an odd look before straightening and walking off in the opposite direction, away from me.

  I hesitated for only a moment before deciding to beat him at his own game. I started tagging along behind him, crouching low and hiding behind cars. He wandered down to the far end of the garage, then propped himself against one of the back walls and checked his watch. After five minutes he checked his watch again, then pushed himself off the wall and went back to the stairs, moving through the door and disappearing from view.

  Cautiously, I hurried forward and followed him on tiptoe down the stairs. I snuck a look through the stairwell opening and saw him several yards in front of me. I darted out the door, closing it behind me without a sound, then duck-walked to a row of cars, intermittently peering up to keep track of the man.

  He was walking to a familiar parking slot, and as I watched in near disbelief, he stopped right in front of my car. He regarded it for a moment, checked the hood for warmth with his hand, then came back to the driver's side and cupped his hands around his eyes while he lowered his head to look in my window. After a moment he straightened and glanced around the garage again. When his head turned in my direction, I squatted down low behind a Buick, waiting and listening intently. Finally I heard his footsteps walking away from my car, and after another few minutes I stood up slowly. He was gone.

  The ordeal had shaken me, but I attempted to collect myself. My intuition said the man was looking for me, but why? What had I done? Was he a past client? Was he the husband or boyfriend of a client?

  A lot of my clients cheat on their significant others or vice versa. I've learned not to judge the choices people make, and sometimes the advice that comes through me is to tell the client to get the hell out of their current relationship and run off with the other person.

  I wondered if perhaps this was the scenario with my stalker. Maybe he just wanted to talk to me about a reading I'd given to his wife or girlfriend. But if that was it, why didn't he approach me when he saw that I'd spotted him? The whole thing was making me nuts, so as quickly and discreetly as I could I darted to my car and sped out of the garage, checking the rearview mirror all the way home.

  At six o'clock I met up with Theresa and Brett at our usual Thai food hangout, Pi's Thai Cuisine, over on Ten Mile. To the average passerby Pi's looks like a run-down shack of a restaurant: The interior isn't much better, with only three tiny, scuffed-up tables and chairs whose last homes were quite possibly someone's Dumpster. The food, however, is absolutely divine. For years it's been the area's best-kept secret, and Theresa, Brett and I were weekly regulars.

  When I stepped through the door into Pi's I saw Brett and Theresa already seated, both looking exhausted. They got up and hugged me when I came in, then we all sat down and I made small talk for the minute or two before our waitress came over. She looked at our table and asked, "The usuals?"

  We nodded as one and she went off to put our order in. On my way to the restaurant I had planned on telling Theresa and Brett about my stalker, but when I saw their pinched and tired faces I suddenly changed my mind. It occurred to me that my story would no doubt worry both of them, and I knew they had a very long drive ahead. I couldn't afford to have them lose any sleep over worrying about me, so I kept the conversation light.

  Within an hour it was apparent that Theresa could barely keep her eyes open, and I knew the time had come to let them go. We paid our bill and headed outside, where we stood hugging each other for long, tearful minutes. I stepped back after hugging Theresa fiercely and held her at arm's length, trying to imprint her image onto my memory. She smiled sadly at me and said, "You take care, Abby. And you'd better come visit us soon, or I'll fly out here and drag you to California myself."

  My eyes were watering, and my throat had tightened up. I didn't trust myself to respond, so I just nodded fiercely. We hugged once more, and then she and Brett got into their Jeep, I got into my car, and we pulled out of the little lot in separate directions. I drove home crying softly and wiping my eyes.

  Before going to bed I took a long, hot shower, trying to wash away the sad, heavy feeling thumping in my chest. A half-hour later I was stepping out of the steamy room wearing a T-shirt and cotton shorts—my bedtime attire—and I did feel a little better.
I was too tired to dry my hair, and tomorrow was my day off, which meant that I didn't need to wake up to a good-hair day. So I settled for draping the long wet strands across my pillow and curling up with Eggy, hugging him in a tight embrace and falling asleep on a tear-stained pillow.

  I bolted out of bed the next morning with my heart racing and my senses disoriented. Shaking, I looked around and noticed immediately that Eggy was downstairs barking his head off. Interspersed between his barks was the "BAM! BAM! BAM!" of someone pounding on my front door. I scrambled back to the nightstand for my-glasses. Shoving them on and walking with unsteady feet and a racing heart, I stumbled down the stairs, gripping the railing tightly. Focusing first on quieting the dog, I momentarily took my eyes off the floor and so I tripped over a stack of plywood that Dave had left in the middle of the room. I went down with a thud and got a splinter in my knee. "Yeeeeeow!" I hollered.

  "BAM! BAM! BAM!" My brand-new front door rattled on its hinges.

  "Hold your freaking horses!" I yelled, trying my best to settle Eggy, who was wide-eyed with alarm. Limping, I picked him up and put him in the kitchen, behind the baby gate. I paused for a moment to pull out the splinter, then limped back to the front door and pulled it open with the force of an angry tigress, hollering, "What?!" for the benefit of neighbors who might think I had somehow invited this loud racket at the crack of dawn. When the door opened, I was suddenly looking straight into familiar eyes, the color of midnight blue. Dutch Rivers was standing tall and magnificent on my front porch.

  "Crap!" I blurted as my eyes grew wide.

  "Good morning, Abigail," Dutch said crisply, stepping back slightly, no doubt afraid I might bite.

  Astonished at seeing him in the flesh, I subconsciously raised my hand to smooth my hair—and felt the uneven lumps of wet head meets bed head. Great.

  "How do you know where I live?" I demanded, still angry and more than a little confused. Something was out of place. As I looked closely at Dutch I realized what seemed odd. There was a big shiny gold badge hooked onto his belt, and beside him was the guy I'd seen in the parking garage. "You're a cop?!" I gasped, my mouth hanging open in a big O.