If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(48)

With Dad it had rarely been what he said—but more what he didn’t say—that counted. In his quiet way, he’d let me know that that science test was only a drop of water in a giant ocean, and I shouldn’t give it any more significance than I did any other thing that happened.

He’d been wearing his Ravens cap that afternoon. Why I recalled that detail, I couldn’t say.

I popped one eye open to find Nancy’s closed. The chestnut hairs on her arms stood on end. Mo had curled into a ball, nose tipped up, alert and sniffing the air. Nancy’s rings must have mesmerized him. My mother’s eyes were closed tight. Her urgent desire to “reach” my father practically bled from her pores and intensified my discomfort with participating in this farce.

“I’m getting something . . . the word ‘cast’ . . . ,” Nancy said.

“William sold medical supplies!” my mother exclaimed, as if this were proof of anything.

“Yes or no, please.” Nancy nodded, eyes now open. “Maybe William’s trying to tell us something . . . or warn us of an accident.”

Oh no. That would not do. My mother already worried enough without paying for false red flags. “Nancy, can I ask a question?”

She peered at me, her expression wary. “Go ahead.”

I cleared my throat. “What do you charge for these readings?”

“Erin!” my mom exclaimed.

“I’m curious.” I shrugged and returned my attention to Nancy.

“One hundred dollars per session.”

My brows rose. “How long is a session?”

“An hour.”

“And you charge that even if you don’t say anything that can be directly attributed to the dead—something that can’t be discovered with a quick Google search?” That had been a little rude, but I needed to wake my mom up before she burned through hundreds of dollars to learn nothing we didn’t already know.

Dad was dead. None of us liked it, but a dead man couldn’t help us solve our problems even if he could talk or leave us pennies. Plus he’d be plain pissed about the loan. If Nancy could talk to him, I hoped she wouldn’t deliver that message.

“I’m a Lily Dale–accredited medium and only practice evidential mediumship.” Nancy glared—a lame stab at intimidation.

That gobbledygook meant less than nothing to me, so I shrugged.

Nancy brusquely turned to my mom. “Perhaps we should stop. Negative energy is not optimal.”

Well versed in the “blame it on Erin” game, I waved both hands before I further aggravated my mother.

“I’ll go.” I stood before being told to leave. “I’ve lots to do anyway, especially if I want to teach private yoga classes in the basement.” My mom’s head swiveled toward me, but I kept talking before she could say no. “Carry on. Say hi to Dad if you hear from him.”

I took Mom’s silence as tacit approval of my yoga plans. As for her pursuing this thing with Nancy, we’d discuss it later. A onetime roll of the dice seemed harmless enough, but if my mom was turning cuckoo, I’d have to tell Amanda and Kevin.

As I passed behind Nancy, I caught a whiff of her perfume, which made me stop and lean close. “Ooh, you smell good. What are you wearing?”

She looked skeptical, her brows knitted. “Tocca.”

“Thanks!” I bounced away, calling for Mo to follow me to my new—old—room while looking Tocca up on my phone. Not a cheap fragrance, but I could research its notes to concoct something similar for my soaps. Maybe I’d call that line “Oracle.”

I snickered at myself, ’cause, come on, that would be funny.





CHAPTER NINE

AMANDA

“You’re early.” I glanced over Erin’s shoulder in search of my mother, whom I didn’t see.

“Hello to you, too.” Erin handed me my mail, wearing what I’d first thought were neon paisley microshorts until closer inspection revealed a mishmash of brightly colored skulls. “I came early to gossip a little before Mom shows up.”

I suspected this newfound desire was more about escaping our mom after fifty-odd hours of living together than about talking to me. Especially as I’d grown increasingly unhinged with no word from Lyle or Stan. On TV, PI work happens in a snap. In real life, not so much.

There’d been lows—in the quiet of the evening—when I’d considered driving over to Mom’s. Even the awkward tension there might be preferable to sitting alone, staring at photos, and kicking myself for having been so trusting. Each day Lyle remained in Florida with Ebba was changing me. I felt a shift, deep down, like the turn of a screw. A permanent hardening that I couldn’t be sure was better for me or worse.

“Okay, but I’m in the middle of getting dinner ready.” I backed up to wave her in.

Erin kicked off her shoes by the door. “I thought you were making spaghetti.”

“I am.”

“Don’t you just boil water and open a jar?” Her quizzical tone proved she wasn’t joking.

Her disinterest in cooking puzzled me, yet she existed fine on granola cereal, canned soups, sandwiches, and eggs. Lucky for her Max hadn’t been particular about his diet.

“I’m making a homemade ragù.” Meatballs slow cooked in the sauce, along with some pork ribs, hot sausage links, onion, and plenty of garlic. A go-to comfort food.