Magic isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Trust me, I would know. At three I learned I had an unusual ‘gift.’ Why people insist on using that word is beyond me. ‘Gift’ makes it sound like a good thing. Most of the time it’s anything but. You see, when I touch something (or, worse, someone) with my bare skin, I learn things—things that are sometimes best kept private. You can imagine what that does to my social life. I can’t go anywhere without the protection of formal length gloves and clothes that cover almost every square inch of me. But it’s the gloves that mark me for what I am—a clairvoyant.
To say my life is complicated would be an understatement.
Don’t get me wrong, it hasn’t been all bad. I’ve made what many people fear into a successful career. I read antiques. I consult with archeologists, curators, appraisers and everyday people who want to know the secrets of old things. Sometimes I even help the police. I have friends. I have enough money. Yes, my life has its challenges, but I’m making it work.
Honestly, though, I think I’ve been in a rut, just going about my day to day business, comfortable with my life if not exactly fulfilled. But now things have changed. The Chiliquitham Police have asked for my help on a murder investigation. What little they’ve told me scares me, which isn’t easy considering some of the readings I’ve done.
I’ve got a bad feeling about this case. I worry it might land me in a psi-ward somewhere.
Or worse…
