The Butcher and the Wren(18)

Both cards face Martine. The Moon and the High Priestess. She lightly places her hands over both the cards, looking into Wren’s face.

“These cards face me, or, more importantly, they face away from you, which changes their meaning,” Martine begins and breaks her gaze, bringing her eyes to the cards. “The Moon is telling you to listen to your inner voice. You are receiving messages, but you are blocking them. I would imagine, from what your hands told me, that it is your analytical nature that makes you less open to these answers.”

Wren isn’t sure what to think about this reading so far.

“The High Priestess card,” Martine continues. “This is interesting. It’s another about trusting one’s intuition, but for you this card also is telling me that secrets surround you. Someone in your life now or in the past embroiled you in a secret that you may not fully understand.”

Wren racks her brain trying to connect these ideas of messages and secrets, but she feels nothing but confusion. Martine pushes the two cut stacks together and shuffles them once more. She holds the stack out to Wren and finally meets her eyes.

“Please take a card from this deck.”

Her voice is soft, but there is a force behind her instruction. Wren wordlessly pulls a card from the middle of the deck, handing it back to Martine, who flips it over onto the table. As the card hits the surface, Martine brings her hand up to her mouth, resting her index finger onto her bottom lip.

“The Ten of Swords,” she announces and places her finger onto the card, showing Wren the illustrated man lying on his stomach with ten long swords protruding from his back. The card is haunting and ominous, even without an explanation.

“Betrayal,” Martine whispers before looking back up. “He’s done something horrible.”

The words hit Wren hard. “Who? Who has done something horrible?”

Martine shakes her head. “You know who. Follow your intuition,” she advises, touching the Moon and High Priestess cards again.

Wren’s breath hitches in her throat.

“How?” she asks quietly, leaning forward slightly.

Martine swallows, shaking her head again. “You know how. It’s all there for you. Stop him.”

They hold each other’s gaze. Wren’s head swims with questions, and her heart feels like it may never slow to its resting rhythm. Then, as if on cue, the sharp sound of porcelain shattering from the front of the shop breaks the silence. Wren stands quickly, almost knocking her chair over in the process.

“Thank you, Martine,” she blurts out.

She spins around and quickly walks out the door and into the hallway. When she turns to glance back, Martine is still sitting at the table, her hands on the cards.

“How was it? You look like you saw a ghost. So, I’m guessing, amazing?” Jenna asks, bent over to pick up pieces of a shattered teacup. “We had a party foul out here.”

Wren feels like she is in a fog. She grabs her clutch from the zodiac wheel table.

“It was really great. I just have to get going,” she says hurriedly.

“Oh no, called into work?” Marissa stands as Leo brings Lindsey out from the back.

“Noooo! Someone died on my birthday?” she complains. Wren gives her a quick hug.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she lies. “Happy birthday, hun. This was so fun. I am so glad I came out to celebrate with you.”

She pulls a forced smile onto her face and turns to leave.

“Wren!” Martine’s voice calls. She’s holding a small square envelope in her hand. “Your recording.”

Wren takes in another sharp breath, meeting her halfway to take it.

“Thank you, Martine.”

As she leaves, she looks back briefly to see Martine nod. She grips her clutch and makes her way to her car, trying desperately to shake this feeling from her head.

It’s fake. A lucky guess. She probably has seen me in the press or something.

She shoves the CD into her clutch and slides into the driver’s seat.

I should have just stayed home.

Wren finds herself idling outside a bar not too far down the road and by chance spots Leroux standing outside. She watches him make his way toward the bar’s front door, only stopping briefly to take a drag from his cigarette. He exhales smoke into the cool night air, and Wren watches as the cloud of poison spirals with the light breeze. The smoke dances a bit before it dissipates into the atmosphere, and she feels calm for a moment as she watches it disappear. When she looks back at Leroux, it’s clear that he too needed an escape, if only for a second.

“So sorry, sweetie!” A young woman slams into Leroux’s arm, making him stumble. She’s apologizing through giggles and fighting to stay upright in sky-high heels.

Wren can’t help but laugh at the scene. She throws her car into park and follows Leroux inside. His partner on the force of two years, Detective William Broussard, is already stationed on a bar stool, apparently having put down roots at the bar counter hours before, judging by the tumbler of amber-colored alcohol half gone in front of him.

“Hello, boys,” she announces, scooting over a stool to sit beside them.

“Muller! Surprised to see you in this neck of the woods. And at this hour. Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Leroux responds, smiling cheekily.

“Ha ha. I was just driving by and saw you out front. Figured I’d not let the coincidence go to waste.”