“People who prey on folks who are depressed or mourning a loss. I’m familiar with the term.”

The dog yawns. His canines are very long and sharp. I shift back in the chair. “The piece focuses on three West Coast psychic-mediums—Doug Merrell, Victor Grote, and you.”

Slowly she spins her mug. “Famous company. Flattering.”

“Glad you think so. Doug and Victor, they’ve been around for decades, so it wasn’t hard to research them. Lots of background information, interviews—some family, friends, fans, as well as victims. Victor even sat down with me.”

Sylvie lifts one arched brow. “Did you tell him your name was Theo?”

I chuckle. “No. Lucky for me, Victor believes no press is bad press.”

“And Doug?”

“He wasn’t as forthcoming. But I already had enough to expose him.”

“And how do you plan to do that? What psychic-mediums do isn’t an exact science that can be debunked.”

“For the past eleven months I’ve planted audience members at Victor’s, Doug’s, as well as your shows. Put their fictional sob stories on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter. All three of you have gobbled those worms off my hook, called on my fakes, and divined their stories.” I wait for a reaction but there isn’t a ripple. She may not have enough of a conscience to be embarrassed.

“That’s it?” Sylvie finally asks.

“Hardly,” I retort. “Doug had several disgruntled employees willing to share stories and photographs, and Victor’s last boyfriend provided damning emails.”

“And my employees and past boyfriends? Were they equally eager?”

“Your employees are very loyal and I couldn’t find any boyfriends. But you’ve taken the bait I threw out in three of your previous six shows. And today, you bit twice. First with the older guy whose mom died in a hospital, even though he promised to take care of her at home. And second, you chose me and repeated the fiction I posted about Katy.”

Sylvie tips her head, like she’s listening for advice. It’s unsettling. “Why me?” she asks. “I’m no big deal compared to the other two.”

“Don’t be so modest. Your star is on the rise. Lots of press this year. Celebrity readings. Rumor has it there’s a TV show in the works. Plus, I wanted to include a woman and relative newcomer.” Sylvie casually scratches behind her dog’s ear. I’m impressed by her calm in the face of annihilation.

“You talked to Victor and tried to chat with Doug. Why didn’t you call me?”

“Your number is unlisted, as is your address.”

“I have an agent.”

“Mr. Haughter wouldn’t take my calls.”

“He’s a busy man. Call again.”

“I tried a dozen times. And your family in Oregon hung up once they learned I’m a journalist.” Her lips compress for a split second. Does their reaction surprise her?

“Why not introduce yourself as a grieving widower? My folks are good people, they might fall for that.”

She’s adept at turning the tables. I’d never tell Daryl, but during performances I liked her, too, despite everything. Her attitude now changes that.