Mrs. Bartlett knew nothing about Linda’s empathic talents, would’ve declared such things nonsense even after the Ghost Equinox had laid bare to all a hidden mystical world. Life went on as it always did for those with enough cash to shape their days however they liked—that is, until a partner or spouse didn’t follow the agreed-upon plan. Mrs. Bartlett, a wealthy housewife who lived in Georgetown, had been referred to Nueva Investigations by a friend. Linda was still surprised by how many referrals she got from the privileged set, even though she’d worked her ass off to establish her agency’s bona fides, specializing in background checks, security clearances, and of course, surveillance. Catching cheating spouses was never supposed to be a PI’s bread and butter, but Linda had established a reputation for being extremely conscientious around affairs of the heart. For her thoroughness, for thinking outside the box. Most of her clients would never guess she’d once been a beat cop patrolling New York City’s roughest neighborhoods.
Linda had snagged a private booth located at the back of the restaurant. She’d placed her tablet in front of her. She had several spots around the capital she relied on to handle business, as some of her high-profile clients refused to be seen entering the agency. A few were too damn paranoid, like Mrs. Bartlett. Others had the right idea, especially folks in politics. When necessary, Smithie’s it was.
“I’ve had other investigators stake out your husband,” Linda continued with a no-nonsense New York accent. “I’ve staked him out myself.We’ve done our routine maneuvers, switching up vehicles, switching up who’s handling surveillance to reduce risk of recognition. Nothing. When Mr. Bartlett says he’s working late or going on a business trip, far as I can tell, he’sactuallyworking late or traveling.”
Mrs. Bartlett twisted her lips and cradled the pearl ring she wore on her right index finger. Linda wondered if the woman was aware of her own tells when she received unwanted news. How she made a show of her wealth. A tug at the specially embroidered Hermès scarf. A reapplication of Chanel lipstick. A quick scan of her gold-plated iPhone. The precious things that would save her soul.
This was the third time Linda had coordinated reconnaissance on the case, her client getting loud and irate when she’d last been informed they had nothing on her husband. Linda had almost succumbed to the urge to cuss Mrs. Bartlett out, hoist her up by her chiffon coordinates, and throw her bony behind out onto the sidewalk. Almost. Her threshold for rudeness fromanyonehad always been low, much less folks with dough. But putting up with bullshit came with the territory.
“I’m not trying to step out my lane, but why don’t you tell him what you want, that you miss him?” Linda continued. The question was rhetorical. She knew the answer. This was a privileged woman too proud to declare she was hurting, to ask her husband to work less hours and face whatever he was avoiding. Admitting that her spouse preferred his lobbying firm over being home with her, especially after the kids had moved out? Not in the cards for someone like Mrs. Bartlett. Better to save face, spend thousands on her brusque PI and chase illusions.
Mrs. Bartlett continued to rub the pearl of her ring. “I… I suppose I could,” she said.
Linda kept her gaze steady even though she hated looking into the woman’s blue-gray eyes. “I can no longer in good conscience take yourmoney. I think you and Mr. Bartlett have to figure out… whatever it is you need to figure out. You’ve been together for twenty-six years, correct? Lean into the foundation of what you have, even if the conversation is challenging.” The advice, standard for hardheaded clients with failing marriages. She slid over a manila folder. Old-school. “This is our file of psychotherapists and counselors we offer to our clients as a courtesy depending on the circumstances of a case. You know this.” Linda had given Mrs. Bartlett the same documents during their consultation, recognizing the woman as someone who first and foremost should talk to someone. Her assistant, Maxine, referred to these types of clients as the “hurting-inside brigade.”
The older woman rose, lifted her chin, and bore into Linda with an imperious stare. A palpable shift in mood. She was reclaiming her power. “Then we’re finished here,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “Thank you for wasting my money and time. A shame your services are overhyped. I’ll be sure to tell my associates what I think of you and your little agency.”
Linda said nothing, counted to twenty in her head, and repressed the urge to rise up and smack this saditty fool down. She waited several minutes before she left the booth so no one would see the two women walking together. Linda’s head began to reel in the way it did whenever she had a difficult client. She would treat herself to something bitter, maybe a Negroni. The overhead TV was on, sound muted, large captions displaying lyrics from whatever singer was doing their thing on theMCURY Livetalk-show stage.
“Hey, hey, gorgeous, how are ya?” a woman said as she turned around from behind the bar.
“I’m all right, Monica, doing the thing. Good to see you.” Linda’s voice became softer, the New York accent more subdued. Monica’s lipstick was red and luminous, bronze bangles clanging on her wrists. This week, herhair was cornrowed in a type of zigzag symmetry that could give Doechii a run for her money. A too-damned-sexy delight who Linda would’ve loved to ask out.
Linda’s cotton tee showed off the muscular arms and pecs she’d sculpted from years of pumping iron. She’d made sure to put on her favorite golden hoops, and her halo of curls had a light sheen. Linda had sported a shoulder-length silk press a couple of times, appreciating when Maxine said she resembled Kamala—no-nonsense, assertive, able to be a leader and handle the business. But when her hair was in its natural state… free, floating… that’s when she felt the most like herself. That’s who she wanted Monica to see, not some plain DC suit like most of the other customers who came in and out of Smithie’s. Her dance with the bartender, a little fantasy that could never go any further. Just like when Linda went out to bars like A League of Her Own and As You Are to occasionally flirt.
“I just got slammed, but I’ll get you your drink in a minute,” Monica said after taking Linda’s order.
Linda peered at the TV screen, captions on, sound drowned out by the after-work crowd’s communal murmur. Even though some stations and shows were finally getting back to their regularly scheduled programming after 24/7 coverage of the Ghost Equinox, that wasn’t the case withMCURY Live. The host had just started a segment on how Americans might expect life to change now that so many people suddenly believed in apparitions.
A Rebuild NYC QR code hovered in the left corner of the screen as she introduced two guests. The first was a woman wrapped in a maroon shawl and matching head wrap who spoke in a posh British accent. A Hecuba Seraph, according to the chyron, an exorcist and poltergeist expert who lamented how uninformed citizens had started to blame spirits for every bizarre situation.
A bronze-skinned man sat next to her. He sported a bright gold chain and brown locs done up in a bun. His legs were crossed, cream trousers cinched above tawny loafers. “In my practice, there’s room for all sorts of experiences,” he said. “I incorporate mysticism into my work if a client is comfortable, if that’s part of their belief system. I know the Equinox hurt a lot of people, but I also think it’s a miraculous time. So many truths have finally…finallybeen revealed. I’m happy to be here, be of service.”
Hecuba pulled her shawl tight around her body and humphed. Dude looked familiar but Linda couldn’t place his face. The banner that hovered below his shoulders identified him as Rayo Morpheus Courant, a psychotherapist and lecturer who specialized in “eclectic” modalities. Which could mean anything or nothing at all.
She zeroed in on him once again and tried to make out whatever it was hanging from the chain around his neck. Some sort of round medallion? Shape of a sun? The television, too far away. But it made sense he’d be wearing a ward if new age mysticism was his thing. Maybe it was meant to block evil spirits, like Smithie’s crosses. Charms, America’s latest craze.
After the Ghost Equinox, Linda had remained quietly freaked out, in a state of hypervigilance. She wondered how the fallout would affect DC, which was already going through its own version of hell with the new administration. But so far New York’s nightmare hadn’t reached her doorstep. A mercy. She felt too exposed, too much like her own mystical secrets were on the streets with everyone talking about spirits nonstop…believingin spirits. Church groups across the DMV reported record attendance while new age shops said they’d never seen business so robust. And a botanica had just popped up in Dupont where Lambda Rising used to be… abotanica, which was normal in New York but rare in the district. Plus, everyone and their mama were on talk shows and news outlets, sharing their expertise about ghostly realms. A ton of phonies, Linda suspected.
She continued to focus on the captions and study the guests when she heard something. A scream. Muffled, distorted, but a scream nonetheless.
She turned, jumped from her seat. On the sidewalk, a man towered above Mrs. Bartlett, holding her head against the restaurant’s window, her hair splayed against the glass. His hands encircled her neck.
“What the fuck,” Linda muttered as she bolted through the door. Other patrons started to notice what was happening.
Linda could smell something burning from somewhere outside. She grabbed the man by his shoulder. She pumped up her voice, pumped up her body. Her time as a New York cop, back in an instant. “Hey!” she shouted. “HEY! Get offa her!”
The man turned to Linda. In a flash, she took him in. His clothes were filthy, his hands and neck covered in grime. His face, marked by scratches.
His eyes were glowing bright red.
He let go of Mrs. Bartlett and grabbed Linda by her arms. His nails tore into her skin. “Give me what’s mine,” he shouted. “GIVE ME WHAT’S MINE!”
CHAPTER FOUR
LINDA
You need to get offa me!” Linda yelled as she squashed rising panic.
