Page 16 of The Sun and the Moon
“Gordon’s pacing,” Lola says. “You told me pacing is a bad sign.”
“Good to have you home,” Moira says, winking.
But this isn’t home. And she doesn’t have me.
Chapter Eight
Sydney
I park my Audi under cover of a robust maple at the edge of the yard. The house is sprawling, but it’s maintained in a haphazard way you’d expect of a self-proclaimed psychic medium, spiritual guru, and multi-self-published self-help author. My deep dive last night kept me up until the wee hours of the morning, which is why I slept through the alarm I had ambitiously set for seven a.m. It’s now close to two, and after debating my ensemble for well over an hour, I am running behind on this whole stakeout thing.
I flick the visor down to examine my giant tortoise Chanel sunglasses. They may be overkill now that I see the place. It’s not like I can actually disguise myself if I meet up with the matron. She’s sure to have seen a photo of me—Dad loves to whip out his phone at even the whiff of interest in his pilot daughter.Chip off the ol’ block, my Birdie. There’s no way she got out of the first date without a slideshow.
Especially if the vibes were as intense as Dad made them out to be.
If I do meet her, I can feign that I’m here looking for Dad—whoI already know to be at the golf course shooting holes with his group of semiretired pilot buds. And it will give me a chance to get a one-on-one with the woman.
I yank the Chanels off and slam the visor back up, examining the yard. Patchy sections make up a few areas that sit under the cover of a dense, overgrown fir tree that looks like a fire hazard by the placement of some of the limbs over the roof.
The jacket is stupid, too. While it’s a breezy sixty-two degrees today, it’s not cool enough—or rainy enough—for a trench coat. Once I’m free of that, too, I’m left in a slim-fitting black boatneck sweater, dark jeans, and knee-high black boots. This works. I rip my keys from the ignition and grab up my tiny Valentino. Like 60 percent of my clothing budget goes to bags and shades, and I’m wondering if that makes me seem shallow.
I’m ready to climb out of the car, when the front door opens and a redhead dressed like an emo kid from the early aughts rushes out, down the steps to a hatchback parked at the corner. No idea who she is, but as soon as her car peels out, I climb out of mine and shoot up the path to the front door. There’s a sign that readsBy Appointment Only, but I can’t imagine shopping falls into that category. At the very least, she must have an employee or something who watches the front while she’s communing with the spirits or whatever the fuck it is she claims to do to read people’s futures.
The doorknob is heavy, metal, ornately carved. I twist it, and the door slides open with a softding-dong, welcoming me. Alerting the staff, probably.
It reeks of incense, a smell I know well because I once dated a Reiki healer who never, ever stopped burning that shit. She had an exceptionally skilled tongue, which almost made it worth it topower through the smell. But not quite. Behind the scent of incense is one that’s a lot more appealing: cinnamon and buttery, like a freshly baked cookie. The foyer opens up in all directions. Directly in front of me is a sturdy wooden desk with a laptop and a credit card machine sitting on top next to a sign that saysAll Major Credit Cards Acceptedand then another sign right next to it with a QR code to Venmo. She’s covered all her bases.
To the left, through a beautiful thick wooden doorframe, is what appears to be the main hub of her business. It’s stuffed with products including physical copies of her books, and at the far end is a room with a red door, adorned with a sign that readsReading Room, which must be where most of the swindling happens.
I’m moving toward that room when I hear a door open behind me with a swish. I swivel my head. A woman stands in the doorway, dressed in black jeans with ripped knees and an oversized denim jacket. She has the prettiest set of black curls I’ve ever laid eyes on. Her eyes are a simmering golden hazel; her skin is freckled and lightly tinted with a tan on the otherwise fair complexion.
She looks a bit out of place in the kitsch of this metaphysical shop.
Her eyes take me in, her face unreadable, but I do notice her attention focus momentarily on the key chain still dangling from my fingers. The bisexual flag, my little airplane, theCan a gay girl get an amen?charm, a fave line from that Reneé Rapp–Megan Thee Stallion collab moment.
I fight the urge to smirk.
“Can you help me?” I ask her when she doesn’t offer. Her eyes trip up to mine. There’s an indecipherable emotion in them. Alarm mixed with interest. A flash of intensity that makes my skin zip with electricity.
“Are you here to see Moira?” she asks. NotMadameMoira.Interesting.
“Is she here?” I answer her question with a question.
“She’s with a client,” the woman replies. “I don’t work here, so if you need to make an appointment or buy something, you’ll have to wait.”
What is she doing here if she doesn’t work here?
“Believe me, I am not interested in buying anything.” I flick my eyes to the Reading Room door.
“The employee just stepped out—should be back any minute.”
“This place is wild,” I say, because even though I don’t believe in mystical things—science and reason explain existence just fine for me—there is something about the air here. The way the aroma sparks your senses, sending them off-kilter. “It’s not like I imagined it would be.”
“Imagined it?” the woman asks, suspicion now edging its way into her even, clear, and bright voice. “You came here because you imagined it?”
“Notbecause, per se, but I did have an idea of the place before I showed up,” I reply. I feel like we’re discussing two separate topics, and whatever she is saying is setting her nerves on edge. She steps forward, planting those intense eyes on mine. My curiosity, once piqued, is an insatiable beast. I lock eyes with her, which sends a thrill of heat through my stomach before it pools between my legs.
Closer now, I can see the brown and gold mingling in her eyes; I can’t ignore the heat coming off her, either.
