Chapter One
Aware
They were all haunted, the faces in the audience—every last
one of them.
Minerva watched them as the TV studio filled with the sound
of applause and chatter, welcoming her back from commercials. Nearly every
chair in the three hundred-seat studio was full. Sex Psychic was at an
all-time ratings high and the Los Angeles audience knew it. The air was
electric tonight, static raising hairs on the back of her neck. She knew this
feeling—the show would be a total success or a complete disaster. It could go
either way. Focus, Minerva. With an analytic eye, she organized the
audience into candidates.
Three women sat in the front row, two in their late twenties
and one middle-aged. They applauded with enthusiasm but their eyes glistened in
the stage lights, tears illuminated until they shone like marbles. Recent
unexpected loss, Minerva concluded—a mother and her daughters wanting some
final word from Dad. Haunted by grief. She’d like to help them but it wouldn’t
be interesting TV.
A middle-aged man at the back caught her attention, lights
flickering against his black-rimmed glasses. His face wore the expressionless
mask of the skeptic, but his hands twitched between claps, grasping at the air,
brushing sweat against his pants. His nails were filed almost to a point.
Minerva shuddered—it wasn’t a good look for him. His slacks were perfectly
creased, too creased, likely purchased and worn for the first time today. He
was dressed to impress, but nervous. Minerva guessed he’d ask a romantic
question in an uninterested voice—he considered himself too intelligent to
believe but he was too hopeful not to. Haunted by loneliness. She might get
something good from him. A fetish he kept hidden? Something to do with those
creepy-as-fuck nails?
Minerva noted the group of women in their forties seated at
the front, their faces flushed, tipsy on wine, giggling and whispering to each
other as they applauded. Likely a girls’ night to celebrate a birthday—perhaps
they were members of a book club. They’d had to get there early for front row
seats. One didn’t laugh as quickly as the others. The blonde’s gaze slipped to
the woman on her left and she blushed as she looked away. Unrequited love.
These women could be a possibility. Love and sex were ratings generators like
nothing else, and the TV execs had known it when she and Rachel had pitched the
show as “John Edward meets Sue Johanson”.
Minerva Silence, TV psychic extraordinaire and giant fraud,
could read them all.
There was nothing supernatural about it. The ghosts she saw
were figments of her imagination, specters painted in words using the pigment
of the seeker’s inadvertent revelations and Minerva’s own creativity. The
whispers from beyond were the voices of her three assistants who eavesdropped
from their seats in the audience, projecting from their hidden microphones into
a tiny speaker in her shimmering jade earrings.
Her eyes drifted back to the lonely man with sharp features
and glasses at the back. Something was different about him. He wasn’t just the
usual geek unlucky in love. The dark pools of his eyes flicked toward her and
met hers. Hairs rose on her arms. It wasn’t often that a man went for her eyes
first, at least not while she was wearing this dress, her full breasts
straining beneath silver sequins. Maybe he didn’t find her attractive? A
possibility.
Minerva felt a cold breeze rustle around her legs. It was
the air conditioning, that was all.
The book club women in the front row had matching cardigans
hanging on the backs of their chairs. They weren’t cold.
She had to keep moving. As the applause settled, Minerva
took her mark, stepping forward in heels that pinched her toes. She ran her
hands down her womanly curves, smoothing the sequins and setting them
sparkling, giving her an otherworldly glow. Minerva tilted her head toward the
camera, knowing by instinct and experience just when the light caught
Aware
They were all haunted, the faces in the audience—every last
one of them.
Minerva watched them as the TV studio filled with the sound
of applause and chatter, welcoming her back from commercials. Nearly every
chair in the three hundred-seat studio was full. Sex Psychic was at an
all-time ratings high and the Los Angeles audience knew it. The air was
electric tonight, static raising hairs on the back of her neck. She knew this
feeling—the show would be a total success or a complete disaster. It could go
either way. Focus, Minerva. With an analytic eye, she organized the
audience into candidates.
Three women sat in the front row, two in their late twenties
and one middle-aged. They applauded with enthusiasm but their eyes glistened in
the stage lights, tears illuminated until they shone like marbles. Recent
unexpected loss, Minerva concluded—a mother and her daughters wanting some
final word from Dad. Haunted by grief. She’d like to help them but it wouldn’t
be interesting TV.
A middle-aged man at the back caught her attention, lights
flickering against his black-rimmed glasses. His face wore the expressionless
mask of the skeptic, but his hands twitched between claps, grasping at the air,
brushing sweat against his pants. His nails were filed almost to a point.
Minerva shuddered—it wasn’t a good look for him. His slacks were perfectly
creased, too creased, likely purchased and worn for the first time today. He
was dressed to impress, but nervous. Minerva guessed he’d ask a romantic
question in an uninterested voice—he considered himself too intelligent to
believe but he was too hopeful not to. Haunted by loneliness. She might get
something good from him. A fetish he kept hidden? Something to do with those
creepy-as-fuck nails?
Minerva noted the group of women in their forties seated at
the front, their faces flushed, tipsy on wine, giggling and whispering to each
other as they applauded. Likely a girls’ night to celebrate a birthday—perhaps
they were members of a book club. They’d had to get there early for front row
seats. One didn’t laugh as quickly as the others. The blonde’s gaze slipped to
the woman on her left and she blushed as she looked away. Unrequited love.
These women could be a possibility. Love and sex were ratings generators like
nothing else, and the TV execs had known it when she and Rachel had pitched the
show as “John Edward meets Sue Johanson”.
Minerva Silence, TV psychic extraordinaire and giant fraud,
could read them all.
There was nothing supernatural about it. The ghosts she saw
were figments of her imagination, specters painted in words using the pigment
of the seeker’s inadvertent revelations and Minerva’s own creativity. The
whispers from beyond were the voices of her three assistants who eavesdropped
from their seats in the audience, projecting from their hidden microphones into
a tiny speaker in her shimmering jade earrings.
Her eyes drifted back to the lonely man with sharp features
and glasses at the back. Something was different about him. He wasn’t just the
usual geek unlucky in love. The dark pools of his eyes flicked toward her and
met hers. Hairs rose on her arms. It wasn’t often that a man went for her eyes
first, at least not while she was wearing this dress, her full breasts
straining beneath silver sequins. Maybe he didn’t find her attractive? A
possibility.
Minerva felt a cold breeze rustle around her legs. It was
the air conditioning, that was all.
The book club women in the front row had matching cardigans
hanging on the backs of their chairs. They weren’t cold.
She had to keep moving. As the applause settled, Minerva
took her mark, stepping forward in heels that pinched her toes. She ran her
hands down her womanly curves, smoothing the sequins and setting them
sparkling, giving her an otherworldly glow. Minerva tilted her head toward the
camera, knowing by instinct and experience just when the light caught
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