Southern Charm by Stuart Jaffe Page A

and life would become easier. If.
    By the time he wiped cannoli crumbs from his mouth, the fears had resurfaced. Sandra knew, of course — she took one look at his troubled face and he saw her understanding. He shook his head, and she stayed quiet.
    They went home, watched some nonsense on television, and when it was time that they normally would get dressed for bed, Max donned his coat. This time, however, Sandra did not stay quiet. "I'm coming with you," she said, and Max knew better than to argue. Besides, if he was honest with himself, he wanted her along.
    Twenty minutes later, they sat in their car across the street from the witch's office. "It was about a year ago that we were sitting here like this," Max said.
    "Yeah," Sandra said. "This time feels worse."
    Max watched the digital clock in his car stereo add another minute. "Yeah," he whispered. With only two minutes until midnight, Max stepped out of the car. The 'door ajar' bell chimed repeatedly, its sharp tone standing out in the quiet night air.
    "How long should I wait?" Sandra asked.
    "Until I either come out or you hear me screaming."
    "That's not funny."
    "Wasn't meant to be," he said and walked toward the office.
    It never got easier — crossing that small parking lot in the dead of night. He had done this several times, and each instance twisted his nerves into a ball of wriggling worms. He hated the witch's office — hated that he never knew what he would find when he opened the door.
    The cool night air prickled his skin, and when he reached the overhang, he wondered if he might be better off turning around and leaving. Yes, the witch promised important information, but she had done terrible things before — cursing him would be the least of her sins. Still, the desperation in her eyes that morning led Max to believe that this was no trap. The question that plagued him, though, was What exactly is this?
    The door was unlocked. Max touched the knob, his fingers trembling over the rusting metal, and pushed the door in.
    The darkness in the waiting room neared pitch black. If not for the lone candle at the far end of the hall, Max would have seen nothing. But she wanted him to see a little bit. That much was clear. She had left a blatant marker, and as Max headed down the hall, as his gut tightened around the remnants of dinner, he considered that the drunken soul he had seen that morning might have been acting.
    When he reached the candle, he smelled incense burning from the closed office door. "Come in," Dr. Connor called.
    Last chance, he thought, looking back down the hall.
    But the office door opened, and Dr. Connor stood before him wearing a black gown and looking more in control of herself. Four clusters of candles lit the room, one cluster at the mid-point of each wall. They cast competing shadows behind her as she stepped back and gestured to one of the two chairs facing each other in the center.
    "You seem much better than this morning," Max said as he leaned against the entryway. The warmth of the candles pressing against him matched the pain in his stomach pushing to get out.
    "I was not at my best," she said with a fluttering chuckle. "But I want to thank you. You've given me a little ray of hope, and that has made me feel much, much better."
    "I did?"
    "Only fitting since you were the one who destroyed me."
    The ice in her voice struck out at Max, reminding him that no matter what, this woman should only be seen as dangerous. "What do you want?" he asked.
    "Information, of course. Isn't that what you trade in?"
    "I don't have anything for you."
    "You definitely do. And in exchange, as promised, I will tell you what Terrance Hull is doing and why it is vital to you and your interests."
    Despite his pounding heart, Max acted as if none of this mattered. "Fine. You go first."
    Dr. Connor licked her lips and said, "Please, sit down." With a sweeping motion, she went to her desk and reached underneath. A string quartet piped in from ceiling