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"I think it would be better if she explained it to you herself."
She grunted. "She doesn't talk to me, Dad."
Her father paused, and when he spoke again, his words were low and grave. "Then this is the perfect opportunity for you to earn her trust. All you have to do is keep her out of jail."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Constance leaned against the cold wall of the bustling police station, her gaze fixed on Officer Sheila Stone. The young officer was hurrying out of the station, phone pressed to her ear, her brow furrowed in concentration. Constance couldn't help but be captivated by the woman's presence; it was as if a powerful aura surrounded her—an aura of death.
And Constance needed to know more about this aura.
As far back as she could remember, Constance had been fascinated with the supernatural world. Her obsession began at the tender age of six, when she and her twin sister, Clarissa, discovered their unique ability to communicate without words. It was a connection that only grew stronger as they aged, and it fostered a deep bond between the two sisters. They were inseparable, not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually as well.
Her memories of Clarissa came flooding back—memories of endless nights spent researching the paranormal, of countless whispered conversations about life beyond the grave. When Clarissa died, Constance felt a part of herself die with her. The loss of her sister only intensified her obsession with the supernatural, driving her to delve deeper into the mysteries of life and death.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she weaved through the bustling precinct, her gaze fixed on the retreating figure of Officer Sheila Stone. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead combined with the cacophony of ringing phones and hurried conversations only heightened her nervousness. Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to grasp onto something solid, anything to anchor her to reality.
"Excuse me, miss?" a deep voice interrupted her pursuit. Constance's eyes snapped to the officer standing in front of her, blocking her path. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a friendly smile that didn't quite reach his tired eyes. His name tag read: Blake Jones.
"Are you one of those palm readers?" he asked, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.
Constance hesitated for a moment, torn between the urge to brush past him and the need to be polite. "Yes," she finally replied, forcing a tight smile. "I am."
"Ah, well, my wife saw one once," Blake said, his face lighting up with enthusiasm. "It's funny, really. She went to this palm reader on a whim, and the lady told her she'd find a fortune hidden in our house. We laughed it off, but later that week, we discovered a stash of old coins hidden behind a loose brick in the fireplace! Can you believe it?"
As Blake chuckled at the memory, Constance tried not to let her impatience show. Her eyes darted toward the exit, where Sheila had disappeared just moments before. The aura that surrounded Sheila called to her, whispered promises of answers to questions she hadn't even dared to ask herself. She needed to follow her—now.
"Wow, that's...fascinating," Constance said, feigning interest while edging closer to the door. "You never know what you'll find, right?"
"Exactly!" Blake agreed, completely oblivious to her urgency. "It's amazing what those palm lines can reveal."
Constance clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she fought the urge to scream in frustration. She couldn't waste any more time on small talk; Sheila was getting farther away by the second.
"How does it work?" Blake asked. "I've always been curious about that kind of stuff."
Constance took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. "Well, it's all about reading the lines on your palm," she said, gesturing to his hand. "Each line tells a different story, and by interpreting them, I can gain insight into your past, present, and future."
Blake nodded, his eyes growing wide with wonder. "That's incredible," he said. "Can you tell me something about myself?"
Constance hesitated for a moment, struggling to focus on the task at hand. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I really need to go."
"Come on," he said playfully. "Just a quick reading. Won't take long."
Constance sighed, feeling her patience wearing thin. She knew that she had to tread carefully; she couldn't afford to draw too much attention to herself. "Alright," she said finally, forcing a smile. "Just give me your hand."
As she took his hand, she closed her eyes, letting her senses expand. She felt the energy flowing through his palm, felt the pulse of his life force. She opened her eyes and studied the lines etched on his skin. "You're a hard worker," she said, her voice soft and gentle. "A man who puts everything he has into his job."
Blake grinned. "You got that right," he said. "I've been working at this precinct for over a decade now. I love my job."
Constance nodded, her eyes still fixed on his palm. "I see a lot of stress in your life," she continued. "You're carrying a lot of weight on your shoulders. You need to let go of some of that burden."
Blake's smile faded, and his eyes took on a thoughtful expression. "Yeah," he said. "You're right. I've been taking on a lot of extra work lately, trying to prove myself. It's been hard to find a balance."
Constance nodded sympathetically. "It's important to take care of yourself," she said. "Otherwise, you'll burn out."
Blake looked at her with a newfound sense of respect. "You know, you're really good at this," he said. "Maybe you should come by the precinct sometime and give some readings to the guys here. It could be a nice little side gig for you."
She smiled tightly, knowing he had no idea how terrifying she found such a prospect. "That's a great idea. Thank you."
