I shrugged. “More of the same. Things she thought I wanted to hear or things she could guess. A mix of fantasy and truth.”

“For psychics like that, it’s a con job. Anyone willing to learn to read the signs can do it.”

“Not exactly a good promotion of your services, Ms. Razvan.”

“It’s Walsh. Rose Walsh. Rosalyn Razvan is my professional name. In this business, people want a gypsy, not a fourth-generation Irish immigrant. You can call me Rose. As for admitting to chicanery, I was referring to psychics like the one you visited. I have the sight. I can see the futures.”

“Futures? Plural?”

“Of course. That’s the problem with most theories of prognostication. They presume a single future. You will marry a handsome, rich man and have two children. Is life so predetermined from birth to death, like a car on a fixed track, no room for detours, no allowance for free will? There are futures, Olivia. Possible outcomes based on choices. My gift is not the ability to predict you will marry a handsome, rich man, but to say, if you marry this particular handsome, rich man you will live a comfortable but constrained life. If you do not, your life will be fuller, but you will look back with regret. The choice, then, is yours.”

“More life coach than fortune-teller.”

“Yes, and I will pretend I didn’t notice the sarcasm in your tone.” She took a deck of well-worn tarot cards and fanned them before me.

“Choose.”

I slid one out, still upside down.

“Now turn it over.”

I did. It was a gorgeously rendered Victorian-era card showing a circus clown balancing on a ball, surrounded by dogs with tiny hats.

“The fool,” I murmured. “I’m afraid to ask what that means.”

“That’s not how this works. I don’t interpret the card. You do. When you first saw it, your reaction was dismay.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You’re afraid of being played for a fool. Take another.”

I shook my head.

“Too revealing?” she said. “You’re uncomfortable sharing emotional reactions.”

“No, I just—”

“You are.” She scooped up the cards. “Now take another.”

I did.

• • •

A half hour later, Rose said, “I believe our time is almost up.” She pulled a cell phone from her pocket and checked it. “Yes, my next appointment will be here soon.”

“So where’s my reading? Oh, wait. I have to pay for that, right?”

“I already did the reading. I read you. Now you need to ask me a question.”

“I don’t have any.”

She met my gaze. “Really? I doubt that, under the circumstances.”

“If you expect me to ask whether Pamela and Todd Larsen are really serial killers, I’m not going to.”

“Good, because I have no idea. Even if I did, my answer would mean nothing to you. First, you don’t believe I have the sight anyway. Second, you would presume, whatever I say, that I have an ulterior motive. In this you need to find your own answer. I can simply help you with the smaller questions. When you have one, come back.” She stood. “My first answer will be at no cost. After that the price will escalate as I prove my worth. In the meantime, let me offer some free advice. You need protection.”

I thought of Gabriel in the park, rubbing the griffin’s head. “Against plague?” I hooked my thumb at the Cottingley photo. “Or fairies?”

That had her cracking a smile. “You never know when a plague may strike, Olivia. They say it’ll be any day now. And plagues come in many forms. As do fairies. I could offer you an amulet or crystal or other protective talisman. But you’d only stick it in a drawer. For now, I’ll focus on the more prosaic dangers and strongly suggest you buy a gun.”

“A gun?”

“Yes, a gun. Now—”

The doorbell buzzed.

“Well, it seems my next appointment is early. Would you mind letting him in when you go?”

She left the room before I could answer. I headed for the front door. Aside from that earlier bullying about Gabriel, the visit hadn’t been nearly as bad as I’d feared. Now, I could only hope she’d let him know I’d visited and that would provide just the excuse he needed to take another run at me.

I opened the front door . . . and there stood the man himself.

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Ms. Razvan will be with you in a moment, sir,” I said. “Please take a seat in the parlor.”

I made a move to slip past him. Useless, of course. If Gabriel Walsh wanted to block a doorway, he just needed to stand there.

I looked over my shoulder.

“Yes,” he said. “My aunt let me know you were coming. I’d like to speak to you.”

“Fine. I charge in fifteen-minute increments. Hundred bucks each.”

“That would be my profession. For yours . . .” He dug loose change from his pocket.

“Is that suppose to be a tip? Don’t expect more than five minutes of my time, and I’ll forget half your order and spill coffee on your sleeve.”

A twitch of a smile. He pulled out a twenty. When I took it, he looked surprised.

I shoved the bill into my pocket. “You have fifteen minutes. Walk and talk. I need the exercise.”

As I’d expected, he was still hell-bent on selling me his services. While most lawyers hire private investigators, Gabriel’s methods were irregular—in other words, not always legal or ethical—so he undertook the fieldwork himself.

Next came the list of credentials. His success rate was excellent, which may be a little disconcerting, considering he specialized in cases others wouldn’t touch. As my research had already revealed, he was best known as the lawyer for Satan’s Saints, a Chicago biker gang with a record so clean it was the envy of Illinois’s homegrown Outlaws.

If the hard sell didn’t convince me he really wanted the job, he sealed it by offering to negotiate a reduced rate. He claimed it was only fair, as success would benefit him as well.

“Yes,” I said as we walked toward the empty school yard. “But I don’t need to solve this. I won’t spend a day in jail or owe a dollar in fines if I don’t hire a lawyer. It’s pure curiosity and self-interest, and I won’t blow my trust fund on that. For starters, I want a sliding scale.”