Bound by Suggestion Read Free Page B

noise and light, I unplugged the phone and hid in my darkened bedroom.
    Three days into my isolation, Richard crossed the driveway, marched up the stairs to my loft apartment over his garage, and read me the riot act for being inaccessible. I refused to feel guilty. It also occurred to me that I hadn’t heard from my lady, Maggie Brennan, either. I called her at work, got her voice mail, but decided not to leave a message.
    The lady shrink was the next to call. I was developing a set of prints in my darkroom when the phone rang. Okay, so I’m a relic from a bygone age. I love my digital camera, but I also love to do fine art black-and-white prints made with old-fashioned chemical photography.
    “Mr. Resnick? This is Dr. Krista Marsh. We met at Paula Devlin’s.”
    “Yeah.” Not entirely rude, but not enthusiastic, either.
    “I’ve been waiting for your call. I want to know more about your psychic gifts.”
    “Sorry, but I don’t want to talk about it. I met Paula as a favor to my brother. If you’ll excuse me, I’m kinda busy right now—”
    “Wait,” she said. “I don’t want to dissect your mind, if that’s what you think. This is personal. I’m fascinated with what you do and I’d really like to sit down and talk to you about it.”
    “How’d you get my number?”
    “Richard, of course.”
    Of course.
    “I was surprised by your low-key demeanor,” she continued. “No histrionics, no drama. Most self-professed psychics are deliberately vague. Your insight was astonishingly accurate. How do you explain it?”
    “I can’t. It’s just lucky I was on the same wavelength as Paula, her kid, and Mrs. J. It doesn’t usually happen that way.”
    “Would you be willing to talk about this in more detail?”
    Using tongs, I picked up the pictures, dumped them into the fixer and swished them around. “Okay,” I said at last. I still don’t know why. Maybe it was the sincerity in her voice, the fact that she was Richard’s colleague, or the trust Paula Devlin so obviously placed in her.
    “If you could come to my office, I’d be—”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Why should I inconvenience myself just to satisfy your curiosity, Dr. Marsh?”
    “Call me Krista.”
    “Look, Dr. Marsh, I’ll be home Saturday morning. If you drop by between ten and eleven o’clock, I’ll talk to you then.”
    “I’ll bring donuts.”
    “I prefer muffins. Nothing with bran. And I take my coffee with cream—no sugar.”
    “I’ll remember that. See you Saturday.”
    I hung up without saying good-bye.
    That was stupid. I didn’t want to talk to her. Being rude hadn’t discouraged her, which meant she wasn’t easily intimidated.
    Good.
    I went back to the prints floating in the fixing bath. A thread of unease crept through me as I worked. I hoped I hadn’t made a big mistake.
     
    Saturday dawned warm and sunny, a perfect spring morning—the kind that makes you forget all the months of snowdrifts and frigid temperatures that Buffalo is so famous for. I’d awakened early and, feeling good, decided to do something useful outside. It was too early to plant annuals, but I didn’t feel like turning over the garden yet again. Instead, I washed the last of the salt off the three cars: Richard’s, his wife Brenda’s, and my own wreck.
    I saved Richard’s silver Lincoln for last. Maybe I’d even spend an hour or so waxing it. God, I loved that car, something so far out of my price range I knew I’d never own anything comparable. But I got vicarious pleasure taking care of it and occasionally driving it.
    I was hosing down the front end when a champagne Lexus pulled up the drive. Dr. Marsh stepped out of her car, clutching a large bakery bag and balancing two cups of coffee.
    Dressed in form-fitting jeans, a scarlet sweater, and a bulky denim jacket, she didn’t look at all clinical. Large sunglasses hid her expressive brown eyes and, I admit, I wasn’t immune to her attractive