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“Like what?” Jules said, insistent.
“You’ll laugh at me if I tell you. I’d rather wait and show you.” She turned to me and said, “I’ll need your help. You willing to play along?”
“I’m game.” Like Ben said, we had to do something about this.
“Wait a minute, what are we trying to do here?” Jules said. “Find evidence of hauntings or go chasing after a phenomenon that may not even exist? That may all be a figment of her imagination?” He pointed at me.
“Do you have any other idea how that van tipped over?” I said. Ben squeezed my hand, and I took a breath to settle down.
“Electromagnetic phenomenon,” he said, his face perfectly straight. “Seismic activity. Telekinetic event.”
I rolled my eyes. “He talks telekinesis, and I’m the crazy one?”
“Telekinesis has far more documentation than the activities of Babylonian cults,” he said.
I had a feeling Jules was starting to not like me. I addressed Tina. “I’d really appreciate any ideas you have.”
“This is shaping up to be an episode of an entirely different show,” Gary said.
Tina said, “None of us started out with these investigations because of the show. We’re in this because we want to know. Whatever’s happening, it’s obviously dangerous, and if I can help discover what it is—I have to at least try. Let’s meet again tomorrow night. That’ll give me time to get supplies together.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Where did you say this first started? That graffiti at New Moon? Then let’s go there, after closing.”
This sounded ominous. Ominous and intriguing. Ben and I glanced at each other and nodded in agreement. Sighing, Gary shrugged, indicating he’d lost control of proceedings but wasn’t interfering. Jules slouched with his arms crossed and wouldn’t look at anyone. So much for keeping an open mind.
Full of coffee, if not any more settled, we went our separate ways to get some sleep. Tomorrow was going to be another late night.
The next morning, my mother called. I was too dazed, confused, and exhausted from the previous night’s chaos to be irate. Or even worried. I worried about Mom a lot these days, and every phone call from her—especially when it didn’t come at her usual Sunday phone-call time—had the potential for disaster.
I answered brusquely. “It isn’t Sunday, Mom, why are you calling?”
“Well, good morning to you, too, Kitty,” she answered in that put-out voice that instantly made me feel guilty.
“I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I’m a little stressed out right now,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask any questions or try to fix everything, or invite me over for a dinner of macaroni and cheese. She still did things like that.
“That doesn’t seem at all surprising. I listened to your s
how last night.”
I braced, because I knew she was going to ask questions I couldn’t answer. I didn’t want to expose her to what was happening; I’d already told too many people about the attacks. I was afraid that telling them about it exposed them to danger.
She continued, “I’m not sure exactly what happened, but it sounded serious. Are you all right?”
“I can’t believe you’re asking me that when you’re the one who has cancer,” I said, when what I wanted to say was, No, come and take care of me, please.
“That may be true, but at least the cancer is under control.”
Months of chemo will do that, I supposed. And how could she be so calm about it?
“Why were you even listening to the show? You never listen to my show, it’s on past your bedtime!”
“How do you know I never listen to it? And I think you’re just arguing with me to avoid answering my question. Are you all right?”
Could I never win an argument with that woman? Ever? Though if I had to be honest, a little childhood part of me was jumping up and down with joy: Mom listens to my show.
I took too long deciding how best to answer her question, and every moment I delayed would only make her more worried. I didn’t want Mom to worry, not when she was still sick. Not when there wasn’t anything she could do about it. “I’m fine. Nobody got hurt last night. We’re trying to figure out what happened, and I have some pretty good leads.”
