paid the way for my future, for my freedom.”
“Still,” he said. “Ill-gotten goods funded it. Maybe it’s time to give the place up. Unless you’re expecting some kind of year-end bonus that I’m not aware of . . . ?”
I stopped looking around the room and turned to Connor, a hint of anger in my voice. “I’m not giving the place up. It’s just a lot harder trying to live honestly than I thought, okay?”
Connor flipped open a teacher’s planner on the desk and looked through it. “There’s one way you could make your life easier financially, kid.”
“Oh?” I said.
“You could have Jane move in,” Connor suggested. “That halves all your bills instantly.”
The residual emotions of the tattooist pressed their way to the surface and I snapped in anger. “Has Jane talked to you about this, too?” I asked. I stared into his eyes, searching them.
“Nope,” he said, “but would her moving in be such a bad idea?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head to clear it and get rid of the growing sensation. “I don’t want to jinx it. Things are good as they stand.”
“What’s to jinx, kid?”
“I don’t think I do relationships well,” I said, the anger turning to rampant insecurity. “Let’s look at my track record. My last girlfriend was a high-priced art thief.”
Connor laughed. “I take it The Scream is still missing?”
I nodded. “I bet she’s got it hanging on the wall in her lair somewhere. Mina was messed up—abusive, demeaning, everything a wannabe badass thief should want in a girl. When I smartened up, we went our separate ways, which left her vacillating between stalking me, killing me, or handing me over to cultists. I can’t help but wonder. . . what did I really do to bring that out in someone? I mean, yeah, I used to be a dick when I was dating her, but I’d like to think I grew past that.”
Connor scrunched his face and held his hand up, rolling it back and forth in the air. “More or less.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I guess I just don’t trust myself after that and now I keep getting these flare-ups of anger and jealousy from the tattooist.”
“I thought so,” he said. “You don’t snap on me all that often.”
“Sorry,” I said, concentrating on relaxing. I felt almost normal again.
“Kid, you’ve got a good woman now. Don’t drive yourself crazy overthinking it. If you’re happy, you’re happy, but don’t let your past control you on this. Sure, be mindful of it, but don’t live in it.”
“It’s just hard to change my thinking. I need to rewire my brain or something.”
“At the very least, you should limber it up,” Connor said, crossing back to the professor’s desk. He grabbed a Lucite block from the corner of it and handed it to me. “Try this for a little psychometric gymnastics.”
The clear, heavy piece was an award of some kind. Etched into it was a film reel that ran around the entire base of the piece. “I’d like to thank the Academy,” I said. “Looks like the professor had a little bit of vanity in displaying his accolades.”
“Just check it out,” Connor said. “I’m going to Knock and see if there’s any way to draw the late professor’s spirit out if it’s lingering.”
“Careful,” I said, shuddering. “Last time I saw you Knocking, you were half out of your mind and raising most of the graveyard at Trinity Church.”
“Don’t remind me,” he said. “I still feel the Spirit of Concussions Past when I think of that night.”
Connor went around the desk and sat down in the professor’s chair, taking a moment to focus himself before getting down to business. I sat myself down in one of the chairs opposite him, cradling the Lucite award in my arms like a newborn. Without another thought, I pressed my powers into it.
As my psychometric vision kicked in, the image of Connor sitting at the desk morphed into one of Professor Redfield. At the moment he was old but quite alive and doing the
“Still,” he said. “Ill-gotten goods funded it. Maybe it’s time to give the place up. Unless you’re expecting some kind of year-end bonus that I’m not aware of . . . ?”
I stopped looking around the room and turned to Connor, a hint of anger in my voice. “I’m not giving the place up. It’s just a lot harder trying to live honestly than I thought, okay?”
Connor flipped open a teacher’s planner on the desk and looked through it. “There’s one way you could make your life easier financially, kid.”
“Oh?” I said.
“You could have Jane move in,” Connor suggested. “That halves all your bills instantly.”
The residual emotions of the tattooist pressed their way to the surface and I snapped in anger. “Has Jane talked to you about this, too?” I asked. I stared into his eyes, searching them.
“Nope,” he said, “but would her moving in be such a bad idea?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head to clear it and get rid of the growing sensation. “I don’t want to jinx it. Things are good as they stand.”
“What’s to jinx, kid?”
“I don’t think I do relationships well,” I said, the anger turning to rampant insecurity. “Let’s look at my track record. My last girlfriend was a high-priced art thief.”
Connor laughed. “I take it The Scream is still missing?”
I nodded. “I bet she’s got it hanging on the wall in her lair somewhere. Mina was messed up—abusive, demeaning, everything a wannabe badass thief should want in a girl. When I smartened up, we went our separate ways, which left her vacillating between stalking me, killing me, or handing me over to cultists. I can’t help but wonder. . . what did I really do to bring that out in someone? I mean, yeah, I used to be a dick when I was dating her, but I’d like to think I grew past that.”
Connor scrunched his face and held his hand up, rolling it back and forth in the air. “More or less.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I guess I just don’t trust myself after that and now I keep getting these flare-ups of anger and jealousy from the tattooist.”
“I thought so,” he said. “You don’t snap on me all that often.”
“Sorry,” I said, concentrating on relaxing. I felt almost normal again.
“Kid, you’ve got a good woman now. Don’t drive yourself crazy overthinking it. If you’re happy, you’re happy, but don’t let your past control you on this. Sure, be mindful of it, but don’t live in it.”
“It’s just hard to change my thinking. I need to rewire my brain or something.”
“At the very least, you should limber it up,” Connor said, crossing back to the professor’s desk. He grabbed a Lucite block from the corner of it and handed it to me. “Try this for a little psychometric gymnastics.”
The clear, heavy piece was an award of some kind. Etched into it was a film reel that ran around the entire base of the piece. “I’d like to thank the Academy,” I said. “Looks like the professor had a little bit of vanity in displaying his accolades.”
“Just check it out,” Connor said. “I’m going to Knock and see if there’s any way to draw the late professor’s spirit out if it’s lingering.”
“Careful,” I said, shuddering. “Last time I saw you Knocking, you were half out of your mind and raising most of the graveyard at Trinity Church.”
“Don’t remind me,” he said. “I still feel the Spirit of Concussions Past when I think of that night.”
Connor went around the desk and sat down in the professor’s chair, taking a moment to focus himself before getting down to business. I sat myself down in one of the chairs opposite him, cradling the Lucite award in my arms like a newborn. Without another thought, I pressed my powers into it.
As my psychometric vision kicked in, the image of Connor sitting at the desk morphed into one of Professor Redfield. At the moment he was old but quite alive and doing the
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