Ink and Bone(31)

She walked past the home, following a discreet sign tucked in the shrubbery that read: JONES COOPER PRIVATE INVESTIGATION. A small structure, which looked to be adjacent to the larger house, had two doors—glossy black with brushed nickel handles. The one on the left read MAGGIE COOPER, FAMILY AND ADOLESCENT THERAPIST.

Finley had been to enough therapy that she suppressed a shudder. Endless hours on couches, Dad stone-faced, Mom crying, therapists who thought they were dealing with a standard-issue troubled child, not even realizing how far out of their depth they really were. That feeling of being totally misunderstood by every adult around her had stayed with her.

She knocked on the other door, and after a few seconds Jones Cooper opened it for her and she stepped inside. There was a small foyer, with desk and chair that looked as if they had never been used—a spot for a secretary or an assistant. She followed Jones through another door, into a room that was nearly blinding in its blandness. White walls, beige carpet, desk, computer, phone, and couch—that was all, a totally utilitarian space.

“Ever think about decorating?” she asked. He motioned toward the couch and she sat.

She thought she saw the shade of a smile, but it was quickly gone, as if it hadn’t been there at all. He pointed to a picture of his wife and son that sat on his desk in a simple wood frame. “I’ve got that.”

“It’s all just kind of, I don’t know, beige.”

“It works,” he said, with a shrug. “I haven’t had any complaints until now.”

She nodded, looking at the carpet, which was not beige but dove gray, out the window, everywhere but at him.

“I guess you’re not here to talk about my decorating skills,” he said. “Or lack thereof.”

What was she doing here?

“I’m not like my grandmother,” said Finley abruptly. She realized that she was wringing her hands and tried to stop, tucking them beneath her.

“Okay,” he said.

He leaned back in the chair behind his desk, put his hands behind his head, fanning his arms out like the wings of a cobra. He had her in that stare. Not unkind, but seeing everything. Note to self: Don’t bother bullshitting Jones Cooper.

“But I want to help you, I think,” she said without meaning to. She hadn’t even meant to come here. “Can I try?”

He tilted his head slightly to the right. Had she expected him to seem happier about it? Like relieved or something?

“Yes,” he said slowly. “But remember we’re dealing with a family here, people experiencing the worst possible case scenario. We can’t afford any false leads—or false hope. This is not a game.”

She hadn’t really thought about that part of things. It—this thing, whatever it was—had always been about her and whoever was hanging around. She’d never had to consider the component of the living looking for answers. It added a layer of pressure she hadn’t considered. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. She thought about just getting up and walking out. Instead, she stayed seated.

“So how do you work with my grandmother?”

Jones leaned forward on his desk and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. She’d Googled him once and read a slew of articles about him, seen photos from when he was young—a jock, hometown heartthrob, lacrosse star turned local cop, until a scandal from his past caused him to retire. He’d kept secrets that came back at him—those consequences he was so worried about. In the old pictures, he’d been handsome, beautiful even. She could still see it in him, though he had deep wrinkles around his eyes, a fuller face.

“It’s been different every time,” he said. “The first time she came to me. A couple of times I went to her. But I do the real legwork, as if I’m working alone. If she comes up with something, we talk. There’s a lot of talking.”

Finley kind of liked that Jones Cooper was a reluctant believer, though she couldn’t say why.

“But you deal with the client, right?” asked Finley.

“Right,” he said. “And I was very clear with Mrs. Gleason that there were no guarantees. I told her that Eloise can’t always help. But, of course, in a case like this, expectations and desperation levels are high.”

“Yeah.”

Finley felt the weight of it all. According to Eloise, Finley was some kind of natural. But she didn’t disappear into visions like -Eloise did, or actually communicate with the dead like Agatha Cross. Although she sort of did both of those things. But there wasn’t a whole lot of cohesion to what she experienced. Like in this case, she had the squeak-clink, the Little Bird, and the change purse in her pocket that gave her nothing.

Still, she had come here to see Jones not entirely of her own free will. She had been on her way to class when she stopped by his home instead.

“You’re growing into your abilities,” Eloise had said. “Be patient. Be mindful.”

These were two items that were not exactly high on Finley’s list of personal strengths. Anyway, what if Agatha and Eloise were wrong? What if her abilities never truly blossomed? What if she had to live this half life, the dead all around her, no way to ever know what they wanted? The thought of it filled her with a shuddering dread.

“So where were you going?” she asked. She felt her phone buzz in her pocket, but she resisted the urge to take it out and look at it. Too millennial in front of Jones; he was sure to disapprove.