Usually it was quiet here, a place where people came to get their palms read, and shop for incense, healing stones, and massage oils in peace. But tonight, there was something going on, and the place was more packed than Violet had ever seen it.
“Oh yeah, sorry about that. Séance,” Krystal said, nodding toward the crush of people milling together among the shelves and tables and displays.
Violet took a closer look at their faces, and noted their shared swollen eyes, and the way they clung to one another, holding hands and offering whispers of support.
Krystal lowered her voice into what should have been a whisper, but was still too loud, drawing more than one set of eyes her way. She pointed at a couple standing together, and Violet realized they were at the center of the congregation. “They’re trying to figure out why their son killed himself.”
“Uh . . . oh, sorry, is this a bad time then?” Violet asked, shifting nervously now as even more of the people turned to look their way. She felt suddenly like she was interrupting something very private. “I can come back . . . you know, later.”
Krystal scoffed at the idea, dismissing it with a wave of one of her fingerless-gloved hands. “Nah. I’m not performing the séance. Mystique is doing it.” She pointed again, indicating a small woman who was seated on a pile of colorful throw pillows surrounding a short, round table.
Violet had done her best to avoid Mystique—the shop’s owner—ever since their first unfortunate meeting. Krystal had introduced Violet to the woman, who was older than both of the girls, closer to her mom’s age, as a “friend,” never mentioning anything about the team or that Violet had an unusual ability of her own. Not that she’d expected Krystal to share that kind of information with her boss . . . those matters were meant to stay private. Secret.
But Mystique had misunderstood Krystal’s use of the term friend, deciding that Violet must be Krystal’s latest girlfriend . . . of whom, apparently, there had been more than a few. She’d started asking Violet all about her background, her family, where she’d grown up, and where she went to school. It wasn’t until she’d started asking about Violet’s former “friends,” and what her intentions toward Krystal were, that Violet realized what she was really getting at, and by then she’d backed Violet all the way up against the counter and was practically breathing down her neck.
Trapped, Violet had searched for Krystal, hoping her friend might bail her out of the sticky situation. But Krystal, Violet realized when she spotted her leaning against a rack of lotions and body sprays designed to open up your chakras, was grinning back at her, amused by Mystique’s interrogation techniques.
It seemed to Violet that a woman like Mystique, who claimed to have psychic abilities, should have realized that Violet was freaking the hell out . . . and that she wasn’t Krystal’s girlfriend. You know, just for the record.
Now, as Violet caught sight of the woman hunched in front of the table, she felt trapped again by her black, weasel-like eyes. She wanted to search for a way to escape that beady gaze, feeling like Mystique was trying to peer inside of her. She was grateful for the mass of people who surrounded the table. Mystique had other matters at hand to contend with that didn’t involve questioning Violet about her sexual history.
“Come on,” Krystal said, reaching for Violet’s hand and dragging her through the plastic beads that separated the cluttered storefront from the even more cluttered storeroom in back. “I needed a break anyway, that kid wouldn’t shut up. All he wants is to be left alone, and for his parents to stop blubbering over him.” She plopped down onto a stack of boxes and reached for a can of Diet Coke that was already opened, a straw with a purple smear of lipstick circling its top sticking out of it.
“Wait, do you mean he’s in there . . . the boy who killed himself? With his family?” Violet asked, waving away the can when Krystal held it out to her. “Does Mystique know? Will she tell them, you know, to . . .” She made an uncertain face, not sure what, exactly, Mystique should tell the grieving parents. “To move on or whatever?”
Krystal nodded, as if that much were obvious. “I told her. She’ll pass the message along to them. It’ll make ’em feel better to know he’s okay.”
Violet cocked her head. “But she can’t . . . or can she . . . ?”
Krystal waited for her to finish her sentence, but when she didn’t, Krystal filled in the blanks for her. “Hear him? No. I’m not sure what Mystique does or doesn’t hear, but she definitely didn’t hear this kid, otherwise she’d’ve needed a break too.” She sighed, taking another long sip from her straw. “So, what’s up?”
“I wanted to ask you something.” Violet reached into her purse and drew out her grandmother’s journal. “Actually, I wanted to show you something.”
She plucked the picture from beneath the cover and held it out to Krystal, watching as Krystal took it from her. “What am I looking for?”
“Just tell me if anyone looks . . . familiar.”
Krystal looked back down, and Violet waited. Krystal’s eyes moved over the image, starting from one side, the side where Violet’s grandmother was, and moving across it. Within seconds, she glanced up, a sly grin on her face, as if she’d just solved a complicated riddle. “That’s Dr. Lee, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but that’s not who I meant. Keep looking.”