Now You See Her Read Free Page B

myself. It’s a setback but not defeat. There will be other cases. Frank Devaney
     will come calling again…so I hope. For now, honesty is crucial. “Frank, it’s not working. My sixth sense has come to a halt.”
    “You’re sure?”
    Eyes opened, I try to give back the notebook. He doesn’t take it.
    “Maybe you need time.”
    “Psychic messages don’t work on a timer.” I put the notebook next to him on the sofa.
    His eyes look both hard and sorry. “You’re positive?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “Well, no hard feelings on this one, Reggie.”
    I force this out. “Of course not, Frank.”
    Slowly, he pockets the notebook and rises. I, too, rise, feeling like I’m made of wood. We move toward the door. I am rollerblading
     on the edge of self-pity, a crime-case Cinderella in a patch of rotting pumpkins. I say, “Maybe the moral of the story is,
     be careful when you clean out your desk.” He frowns. “That’s when the notebook surfaced, right? When you rooted through your
     desk?”
    “No. It’s when I got a letter from Henry Faiser.”
    “From prison? Telling you that he didn’t kill Peter Wald?”
    His nod is long, slow, reluctant. “He writes every once in a while. To say he’s doing time for somebody else’s murder, yes.”
    We’re at the door. “Where’s the letter?”
    Devaney pulls a small envelope from his inside pocket. It’s addressed in the block letters of children and terrorists. “See
     for yourself.”
    I take the envelope, open it, unfold the single sheet, and read, “…wrong man… bad evidence…if you are a moral detective you
     must care and act…do something.” At the bottom, in huge letters: “HELP ME.”
    A short letter, it’s a disclaimer and a plea. It contains no real information, not one fact. I hold it at the edges between
     fingers and thumbs, reading and rereading top to bottom until I can recite those words verbatim, “…wrong man…moral detective…do
     something.”
    Devaney waits patiently. I’m still reading. Then there’s a shimmer, an optic flash. The moment hastens but stands still. Yes,
     I stare at lines of ballpoint ink, but through the paper I see a scene develop. The letter in my hand has turned as transparent
     as cellophane, and on the other side something swirls. Like a storm. Coils of red heat. The paper takes me there. It’s an
     oven, an inferno.
    I now pretend to read. I am posing with the letter, merely posing. Devaney thinks I pause to grasp the words on the page,
     but he is mistaken. My left side is hot. Below the rib cage is a burning. It’s painful. The hot coils sear and flash. It takes
     everything I’ve got not to cry out, to stand as if normal. The fiery storm scene engulfs me.
    “Reggie, are you okay?”
    “Okay,” I say, voice from an echo chamber. “Hot—”
    He takes the letter from my hands. I lean against the cool door frame. The coils begin to fade as he folds the letter, tucks
     it back in the envelope. No flames crackle in his mind.
    “Reggie, you okay? Are you sick?”
    I shake my head. “Just a feeling in my side, like something hot. Terribly hot.” Then I feel embarrassed. Suppose he thinks
     it’s a hot flash?
    Devaney leans close, looks hard at me. “I have something to tell you. The house, Reggie, the crack house where Henry Faiser
     lived—”
    “Yes?”
    “The day we arrested him, it went up in flames. The chop shop and all three houses on the block burned to the ground. Two
     bodies were found—homeless squatters. We never solved it.”
    “Oh.”
    “You felt that, Reggie. The heat. The letter did it. It means you can help, Reggie. Just like your aunt. I’ll get to work
     on this and call you.”
    Relief on his face. Relief in my soul. Bingo! Psychic is open for business. Hoo-ray. Saved. Deputized.
    Yet my rib…my rib is still hot. Moments pass as Frank Devaney welcomes me to the team. As I sign on gladly as his silent partner.
    Even after Devaney leaves, the rib is still hot. When my whole