Sinclair folded his arms. “That’s what this is really all about for you, isn’t it? Go home, Emmy.”

Reaching up, she patted his cheek with her free hand. “Think about it.”

Eighteen

That afternoon, I called in sick to work—hell, after the morning I’d had, I figured I was entitled—and Sinclair and I had The Talk. By this time, I’d already pieced together most of the details, but it was good to get the whole story.

In a nutshell, his mother was a brilliant, ferociously ambitious lawyer, now judge, and obeah woman descended from a long line of obeah men and women, and had used her gifts throughout her life to obtain whatever she wanted, including Sinclair and Emmeline’s father, who was a good-looking, hardworking, God-fearing man who had wanted nothing to do with obeah or those who worked it. When the twins were three years old, by sheer happenstance their father discovered the love charm that had bewitched him.

And no, I did not interrupt Sinclair’s story to inform him that while infatuation could be compelled, genuine desire couldn’t.

Anyway, it was at that point that his father fled the island of Jamaica, taking his son with him.

“Why did he leave Emmy behind?” I asked him. We were on the dilapidated, butt-sprung plaid couch in Sinclair’s living room, where he was lying with his head in my lap, eyes closed.

“He tried to take her,” he murmured. “She didn’t want to go. She screamed bloody fucking murder. So in the end he left her with the neighbor.”

I stroked his temples. “Do you remember it?”

“I remember Emmy screaming,” he said.

In the years that followed, the divorce and the terms of custody were settled. From the time he was a young boy, Sinclair spent one month out of every summer on the island, being trained in the tradition of obeah until he was old enough to choose otherwise.

“Why did you walk away from it?” I asked him. “I’m not arguing the decision by any means—I’m just curious.”

He opened his eyes. “I saw what it did to my father, Daise. All my life, he’s never been quite . . . whole. And my mother . . . you know, for all her power, I don’t think she’s a happy woman.”

“What about your sister?” I asked. “What was that business about the two of you being twice as powerful together?”

Sinclair was silent a moment. “It’s true, but it’s not that simple. You know what she said about obeah being a path of balance?” I nodded. “Well, I’m drawn to the light. Emmy’s drawn to the dark. Together, we’re capable of finding balance in far greater extremes.”

“Sounds kind of ominous,” I said.