“Paula?” I asked, hearing my voice break on the syllables.
“He didn’t say.” Sarah reached over and took both of my hands in hers. “Why do you think it’s Paula?”
The emails. They had started two years ago. It wasn’t long after we had Azul over to the house, for her stupid psychic vision. So when I got an email from someone calling themselves “SarahsFriend,” I didn’t know who it could be, but I had my suspicions. The first message said: I saw you. That’s all. Just three words.
Then, a week later, another message, from the same account, “SarahsFriend.” Again, just two words, but this time: I know.
I saw you. I know.
I deleted them, fast, pretending it never happened. Weeks went by, and no new emails. Then another one showed up, asking: Where is she?
Then nothing for a while. I’m going to tell.
I realized it could only be one person: Azul. Blackmailing me, or trying to. Shaking me down for cash—she had already taken $250 from my parents for nothing. The way she said “There is someone who isn’t telling you everything. . . .” Did she really have a vision, or was it just a hunch? She looked at me like she knew. Knew that I wasn’t telling. And I never would. Maybe she wasn’t such a bad psychic after all.
It didn’t take me long to track her down. She worked part-time at some new age store one town over. I told my parents I would be late at school, working on the newspaper, and that Tessa’s mom would drive us home. Instead, I hopped a downtown bus after school. It took one more transfer and a long walk in the slush to reach the Healthy Mind Emporium. By the time I got there, it was already growing dark, the winter sun dipping below the roofs of the gray buildings.
The door chimed with brass bells when I pulled it open, and I was hit in the face with a strong stink of incense. Maybe that’s why Azul smelled so funny—she spent all day in this place, her clothes and skin soaking it in.
“I’d like to see Azul,” I told the blond guy behind the counter.
“She’s with a client. Do you have an appointment?” he asked.
“I’ll wait.” I walked around the shop, picking up different tarot decks and candles, looking at the prices as if I was really interested in them before putting them back down. Finally, an older lady came out from behind an Indian print curtain and paid the guy at the register. When the bells at the door chimed her exit, I heard him say, “Miss? You can go back to see Azul now.”
I pushed through the curtain into a dark hallway and saw Azul sitting in a small room at a table. She looked different, and it took me a moment to realize she had a scarf tied over her head, covering her wild hair. She was shuffling a deck of oversized cards as I walked in. “Hi there.” She looked up at me. “Are you here for a tarot card reading or a psychic reading?” She looked into my face as if she had never seen me before.
I swallowed hard. “You know why I’m here,” I finally managed to say.
She stopped shuffling for a moment and studied me with her brows furrowed, then she suddenly laughed. “Oh, I get it. A psychic joke! I should know why you are here. Hmmm, I would guess tarot reading.” She smiled innocently. “Am I right? Have a seat, sweetie.”
I pulled out the chair opposite her and sat lightly, ready to jump up if I needed to escape. But the longer I looked at her, the more I realized she had no idea who I was.
“Have you had your cards read before?” she asked, cutting the deck.
“No.” I shook my head. “I mean, no, I don’t want a tarot reading. That’s not why I’m here.”
Azul put her hands on the table. “Psychic reading?” she questioned. “How old are you, anyhow? If you’re not eighteen, a parent needs to be here with you.”
“You came to my house,” I reminded her. “About my sister.”
Still, Azul’s face was a blank.
“You said you’d had a dream about her, a vision. Then you did this reading, you held her stuffed bear. . . .”
“Oh right,” she said vaguely, as if trying to place me. “Uh-huh, and was that helpful to you?” She picked up the cards again, absentmindedly shuffling. “Is this a follow-up session?”
“My sister has been missing for years. You said she was probably dead,” I pointed out.
Azul raised her brows. “I don’t think I would say that—I might have mentioned that you would not see her on this plane of existence anymore. What is your name again?” she asked.
“It’s Nico Morris. My sister’s name is Sarah. Sarah Morris.”
“Right.” She nodded. Then suddenly, recognition. “Oh, I remember. You all are over by MacArthur Park, right? That missing girl, blond girl. There was that big article about her in the paper.”
The newspaper article. I realized all at once that the emails hadn’t been from Azul. They couldn’t have been. She had gotten her $250 and she was gone. She didn’t care about us. She didn’t even remember Sarah or me.