Endings by Linda Richards (e ink manga reader txt) 📕

I try to remember if Curtis told me her name, but if he did, I can’t think of it. And even while I’m running through all of these thoughts, I wonder if I’m seriously thinking about looking for a psychic. Then I cut myself some slack: What other leads do I have?

My smartphone is set to anonymize my number, so I don’t have to worry about Curtis tracking me when I contact him.

I identify myself, then clear my throat before getting to the meat of the call.

“You mentioned a psychic,” I say.

“I did?” On the phone he sounds even more newscastery than he did in person. His voice is all deep rumble and clear annunciation. If I didn’t know what he did for a living, I’d guess correctly.

“Yeah. Someone who had tried to go to the police.”

“Oh right. Yes. Sara Jane Samaritano.”

“Whoa. Okay. I was trying to remember if you’d told me the name. Now that you’ve said it, I know you did not.”

“Right? It’s a distinctive handle. Why do you ask?”

“I’d tell you,” I say, laughter in my voice. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that. Good luck with whatever you’re doing. And don’t forget: call me if you want me to interview you. I know you’ve got a story.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” It sounds like something you say, even if this time it’s true.

You don’t need to be psychic to find Sara Jane Samaritano. She has an Instagram feed, a Twitter account, a Facebook page, and a website. On the web site there is a form: you fill it out, plug in your credit card info, then you pay fifty bucks for what she calls a “preliminary interview.” Once your card clears, it says, she’ll call you and get down to business.

I realize it isn’t even a long shot. It’s a crapshoot. A shot in the dark. A desperate attempt. But it’s fifty bucks and I don’t have any better ideas, so I pull out a credit card, make the payment, then wait for the call. Truly, what do I have to lose?

The callback comes more quickly than I would have expected.

“Just call me SJ,” she tells me when I greet her. “And tell me who you’re looking for.”

The voice on the other end of the phone is surprisingly youthful and energetic. Not what I’d anticipated. I’d expected a professional psychic to have a wizened face and craggy old hands. But this young woman sounds like she could be on a skateboard. She has the voice of a kid. At first contact, I’m already regretting spending the fifty bucks.

“I’m looking for William Atwater,” I say. “A reporter told me you contacted the police and they sent you packing.”

“That’s right.” She says it flatly. I feel relieved. I don’t know why. Atwater feels like a secret I’ve been carrying and here is someone to share it with.

“I’m trying to find him, too.”

“Why?” she asks.

“I am going to kill him.” There seems no reason to be coy with this anonymous voice on the phone. Sara Jane Samaritano. But, truly, she could be anyone.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh! You mean to do it, too. I can hear that even over the phone. My. My.” There is a wisdom in the voice, along with the youth. I don’t know how to explain it, but that is my impression.

“Will you tell me what you were going to tell them?” I say.

She hesitates, but not for long. “What I was going to tell them is no longer relevant. Time has passed. The thing that would have mattered doesn’t anymore.”

I feel my heart sink. “So you can’t help me?”

“I didn’t say that. Understand the nature of my art, please. It’s not conclusive. In some ways, I seldom get anything more than impressions. But they’re strong. And I feel certain I am right.”

Her voice tells me that she feels she is telling the truth or what she thinks of as the truth. In for a penny, in for a pound. Or, in this case, a psychic.

“Okay,” I say. And why the hell not? It’s not like I have any other big ideas. “Go ahead.”

“Well, first I will tell you, as I tell everyone, that my particular insight is somewhat imprecise. That is, I see certain visuals, have certain impressions, etcetera, and when all is working well, those visuals will have more meaning for you than they possibly can for me. Do you understand? I will rely on you to interpret what I see. Make sense?”

“I think so. Do you think you’ll see visuals in my case?”

“I already am,” she says. I can hear the smile in her voice. She sounds kind. I’m glad.

“Okay. Lay them on me.”

“All right. I’ll begin by saying these visuals mean even less to me than many of those I am given.”

“Ah,” I say, sensing the preamble of a faker.

“No, it’s not that,” she says, startling me. It is as though she has read my thoughts. I chide myself, but settle in to listen.

“It’s just that these visuals are … well, they’re remote. And imprecise. There are no markers for me. Nothing I recognize. I will describe them to you and hope you see the meaning.”

“All right,” I say, my expectations low.

“First, a gas station. And it’s dark. There will be a choice. You’ll fork to the left.”

“Fork to the left?” It may be imprecise, but it also seems quite detailed. Specific. I hadn’t expected that. I sit up a little straighter, paying close attention. I begin taking notes. This seems like something I might be able to use.

“Two roads. You understand? Go left.”

“All right.”

“Then much, much darkness. Of spirit, but also in the world.” Her voice sounds more distant. Dreamy. If she’s faking, she’s good. “It’s a country road. No streetlights. Nothing, really, to distinguish this place from any other.”

“That makes it difficult.”

“Yes. Sorry. I realize. I warned you.”

“Go on.”

“Right. Okay. So darkness. That seems to be