She’s much more put together today. Her brown, almost black hair hangs over one shoulder. Gone is the offensive sweatshirt. In its place is a black smock over a white blouse with sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
I have so many questions about this woman. How she came to be a supposed medium and why today she seems almost normal. That is, compared to the voice-changing, body-convulsing buffoon from the other night.
“Cori,” he barks, and she flings one hand into the air, gesturing for him to go away. Her focus is on her current customer and whatever the ginger-haired woman is saying.
The woman’s blatant staring gives away the fact that it’s likely about me.
“Unreal,” I hiss under my breath.
He places a hand under my elbow. “Follow me. You can wait in the back untilMadame Corinnedeigns to pay attention.” The sarcastic way he says her name tells of his lack of belief in any psychic abilities she may claim.
Facing the stares of the room full of curious clients, I don’t argue. The last thing I want is an audience for my impending showdown with the woman who broke me.
As we make our way to the back, I take in the space. In the light of day, it’s your typical nail salon. The Grecian decor, completewith white columns throughout, and the tranquil spa music add a perfect ambiance.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the man asks, as I choose the closest seat at the table of horrors.
“I’ll take some of that gin,” I say, nodding toward the bottle Corinne drank from the other night.
He lifts a brow. “I was thinking along the lines of water.” He lifts his hands to mimic a scale. “Maybe a Coke. Something that won’t aid and abet you in the murder of my sister.”
I side-eye him. “Your sister?”
“Mmhmm,” he drawls, almost sounding reluctant. “Twin sister.”
Scanning him from head to toe, I guess I see it. While he’s taller and appears to have a charming disposition, compared to his petite, supercilious twin, I do see the resemblance.
“You good?” he asks.
I count to ten in my head, to calm my nerves. “I’m only here for answers. She did something to me the other night, and I need her to fix it.”
His eyes widen. “You,” he says, with something that sounds an awful lot like awe.
What did Corinne tell him? The idea that she said anything about that night at all raises a host of questions. If she’s talking about it, it must’ve been just as surreal to her as it was to me.
Medium indeed.
“Me what?” I bark at the man.
He points at me. “You’re part of the freak fest from the other night.”
My hands shoot into the air. “Wonderful. Now I have an insane medium-slash-nail-tech’s brother calling me a freak. Want to kick a puppy while you’re at it?”
“Why the hell—”
I lower my arms, hands splayed out, to make him stop. A headache builds between my eyes, and I groan. “Can I get some Advil?”
He eyes me warily, but walks from the room, hopefully in search of the requested meds.
The freak fest.
That’s exactly what I’d call it. Except she’s the freak... not me. Not my friends.
When he returns, his outstretched hand holds two white pills that, upon examination, are exactly what I asked for.
“I’m not going to drug you,” he says, grinning.
“That’s... reassuring.”
