Deja Who (Insighter #1)(55)

“Brienne.”

“It was one thing.”

“It was a ten-speed bicycle from Wal-Mart.”

She threw up her hands. “Without thinking! Can happen to anyone!”

“For God’s sake.”

She dropped her hands back to her lap, a petite blonde who could not pull off a tube top. “So what’s the scoop? What’s my backstory?”

“I have no idea.” At the other woman’s glare, Leah added, “Sorry. Don’t believe what you see on TV; Insighting doesn’t explain everything. Sometimes people do silly things.” And that, too, sparked déjà vu; it reminded her of Archer. Although these last several days, few things did not remind her. How irritating, while also comforting. “If you were my patient, I’d have to put you on reindyne and we’d likely have to do a few sessions. And even then I might not be able to help you.” And regardless, you would be responsible for your actions in this life, whoever you were in another life.


4) Charlie the Scofflaw. Charlie, the oldest in their group, in her early fifties, was a beautifully dressed woman with skin like hot chocolate with lots of milk, a fifty-dollar manicure, a hundred-dollar haircut, and thirty-eight unpaid tickets. She was waiting to be bailed out by her assistant, or for the mayor to hear of her predicament and do some arm-twisting. At Leah’s curious glance, she shook her head.

“Sorry, did you want me to do something?”

“That’s okay.” Charlie tried a smile, but wouldn’t meet Leah’s gaze. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“That works well, since I can’t see you.”

She shrugged and examined her long, elegant nails. “No, I wouldn’t expect you could.”

“At all.”

“Don’t worry.” This time the smile was a bit more real. “It’s not contagious.”

“Actually it’s interesting. Maybe only to me,” she added, “but you’re the second life-blinder I’ve met this month. My boyfr—my stabbing vic— My future lover . . . well, hopefully; he is proving a tough nut to crack, no pun intended. Stop laughing at me, Celia, and yes, I’m aware there are multiple layers to that comment. You don’t—”

“You said the cops think you killed your mom! And you stabbed someone?”

“The one has nothing to do with the other, and it’s rude to interrupt. Anyway, I can’t see him, either. I thought it would be creepy and unsettling, but it’s . . .” She had to think about it, something she had not allowed herself to do as of yet. She had outstanding excuses to put off examining her feelings, her mother’s murder holding pride of place on the list, but she also understood they were only that: excuses.

“It’s nice,” she finally decided. “He doesn’t expect anything from me. No offense,” she added as she saw a few of the women frown, “because you didn’t, either. I more or less forced myself on you.”

“Yeah,” Terry said. “We’re the victims.”

“No one who had to be forcibly prevented from microwaving their boyfriend’s cat unto death gets to claim that status.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to be me.”

“I know exactly what it’s like to be you,” Leah replied, bored. She turned back to Charlie. “May I ask a personal question?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued. “You seem like your life is in order, judging superficially by your clothing and accessories and lovely manicure and diction. You’re successful on your own? It’s not from marrying well?”

“I run a consulting firm.” Charlie’s voice was as stunning as she was, rich and dark like pricey chocolate. It wasn’t unlike verbal velvet.

That gave her pause. “Consulting firm” could be anything from a food truck empire to the mafia, but Leah had no interest in quibbling. “And you never thought that your inability to see what happened in your life before, that never held you back. Right?”

“Of course not. What matters is . . .” She trailed off.

“What you do in this life.” That sounded like a sufficient cliché. But the thing about clichés is, as Nellie had pointed out, they are truth. “It works both ways, doesn’t it? A lack of previous life knowledge can be considered crippling by some—” My entire profession, for example. Me, earlier this month. “—but as freedom for others. There’s not one thing to hold you back, yes?”

“Just me,” Charlie replied, and they shared a smile like it was a sweet secret. “And I don’t think I’m blind. I think I’m rasa.”

That made Leah’s smile drop off. “Oh, I don’t—ah—interesting.”

The woman gave her a level, unblinking look. “You don’t believe it.”

“I’m not your Insighter,” she hedged like a craven, cringing coward.

“And you’re too polite to tell me I’m full of shit.” She glanced around the cell, a pointed but silent reminder that Leah was outnumbered. “Or too cautious.”

“Is there a way to answer you without upsetting you?”

She smiled. “It does happen, you know. You, especially, would know.”

Not really. Not for decades upon decades. As with religious miracles, the further past the Age of Enlightenment society crawled, the less often miracles were acknowledged. The chances of a random rasa being really, truly tabula rasa were the same as the image of the Virgin Mary in a basement water stain being an actual sign from God. It wasn’t a miracle, it was simulacra.