“Coincidence. Like you said, you throw out dates all the time.”

Sylvie leans in. This close I can see three light freckles beneath her left eye. She asks, “What about what I wrote on my arm—Kel, just because they were yours doesn’t mean it was your fault—or that old song I hummed?”

I ignore the chill creeping down my neck. “There are mentalists in Vegas who make millions doing the impossible night after night. Again, you’ll have to prove it if you want me to jump on your bandwagon.”

We eat our ice cream sundaes in silence then return to the compartment. Thankfully, Moose hasn’t eaten Chris while we were gone. They’re curled up on the couch a few feet apart like old friends. Sylvie feeds Moose. I pour Chris’s expensive, organic kibble into a bowl. She won’t even dignify it with a sniff. Sylvie holds up the container of mashed potatoes. “She won’t eat it.” She ignores me, opens the container, and puts it on the floor. Chris pads over, sniffs, then digs in, eats half the potatoes before taking a break. Even though I know this was a lucky guess, the stupid hairs on my arms rise.

TWELVE

Sylvie

I yawn then stretch my arms overhead. “Time for bed.”

After brushing my teeth in the bathroom, I change into white flannel pajamas and unbutton the top two buttons in the hope that Thomas will notice. I’m not sure I can actually seduce him, or even if I could go through with it if he takes the bait. But I need options. My reflection in the mirror looks calm, except for the eyes. They search for a way out of this mess.

I am aware that everything I say and do during a show can be explained away. Even Kelly and Rose. My fears find the cracks and rush in. The note I wrote on my arm was pretty ambiguous. What about the song? I can’t explain that one. But are the songs and messages nothing more than incredible coincidences combined with a subject’s intense desire? Is Thomas right that I’m rationalizing fraud? My reflection in the mirror blurs, like I’m losing definition, beginning to disappear. My heart doubles its beat. No. I’m the real deal and I help people. And if I use research when I can’t make a connection? It doesn’t matter as long as my audience believes and gets closure. I’m one of the good guys.

When I step out of the bathroom, Thomas is hunched over his backpack. He absentmindedly pushes a lock of hair from his eyes. For a split second I see the person, not the adversary. He’s cute, a little awkward, which I’m usually drawn to. We have to sidestep so he can get into the bathroom. I make sure our hips touch. He instantly draws back like I’m poison.

Moose snuggles beside me on the couch as we listen to rustles punctuated by thumps and curses. Thomas is way too big to get changed in the tiny bathroom. I’m glad it’s uncomfortable. He comes out in a T-shirt and plaid boxers. He has lean, muscular legs—a runner, or cyclist. There’s a small tattoo on the inside of his right arm. TDH. I would’ve put money against him being the type for ink.