“Ready?” Lucas asks.

He’s dressed in one of his charcoal suits, narrow tie, the picture of a successful Hollywood agent. Yesterday he brought two new manila folders to my hotel room. They were filled with more research on tonight’s audience. I read every page and post, chose a few to highlight during my show, and one for the final read—a woman named Reba who survived a car accident that killed her son and has blamed herself for ten years. I have plenty of bridges and have ensured that this will be a great show. It may be my last, depending on what Thomas decides to write about me.

“You look terrific,” Lucas says. We walk down the hallway to the elevator, Moose at my side. The doors open and he steps in . . . but I don’t.

“Sylvie?”

Little by little the bird makes her nest . . .

“I can’t,” I say. “Please cancel the show.”

Lucas steps off the elevator. “Sylvie, come on. You’ve got this.”

“It’s not that.” I look down at my jumpsuit, wave at my face. “It’s this. I’m not her anymore.” Lucas tries to hug me but I back away.

“I know who you are,” he says. “You’re a psychic-medium with a huge career ahead—shows, a TV series, who knows, maybe even an HBO special.”

I shake my head. “You don’t understand. I do know who I am now, but I have no idea what I want.”

Lucas frowns. “You have contracts, a TV show in the works. You can’t turn your back on that.”

In this moment I see us both clearly. Lucas told me who he was that first night in his car—a man who believed in me, but not my abilities as a psychic; a man who could make me a star. And I’ve shown him since then that I’m a woman willing to do what’s needed to survive. He’s done everything he promised and more. I’m the one that’s now reneging.

“I’m sorry. Truly. Lucas, I really do appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

Lucas gets into the elevator. “And if your career goes up in flames?” he asks.

“Then I’ll have to find my way out of the ashes.” The elevator doors close, and for the first time in six years, I’m on my own.

FIFTY-ONE

One month later

Thomas

I wasn’t sure I wanted to go; that I should go. But Sylvie sent me a ticket, front row center. So I’m here tonight. Filled with uncertainty, I entered the rococo-style lobby of the Luminaire Theater in downtown LA, with its marble statues of Greek gods and goddesses and opulent crystal chandeliers. As I walk down the aisle to my front row, center seat, I spot Lucas. He’s in a dark suit, his perfectly pressed white shirt open at the collar, a stark contrast to my jeans and flannel. To my surprise, he comes over.

“Glad you could make it,” Lucas says with a tight smile.

“You sent me the ticket?”