“One day a woman sat down across from me—pretty with dark blond hair. The man resting his hands on her shoulders had a baby on his chest in one of those trendy slings.

“I’m Bethany, the woman said. You did a reading for me months ago, told me my baby couldn’t breathe.

“I apologized profusely for scaring her. She introduced her husband, Matthew, and I tensed, ready for him to tell me off, probably put me out of business.

“Bethany said, I came home from your reading and insisted we go to the emergency room for an ultrasound. I was rushed into surgery. Grace’s umbilical cord was wrapped twice around her neck. If I hadn’t had an emergency C-section . . . She started to cry.

“Matthew finished, We wouldn’t have Grace if you hadn’t warned us. Thank you.

“He gave me his business card, suggested I get in touch so he could connect me with people who might help.

“Help with what? I asked.

“If you want to be a psychic for a living, do more than just this, then you need a talent agent. My friend Lucas Haughter is a big agent down in LA. I think he’d be interested.”

I confess to the audience, “There was no plan. I just made that phone call. Lucas flew me down to LA and I did a reading for him. He signed me the same day and the rest, as they say, is history.”

People have moved to the edge of their seats, ready for me to divulge secrets, solve mysteries, connect them to someone they lost, or turn back time so they can have a second chance. Finished with my origin story, I’m now ready to help as many of them as I can. They believe . . . and some of my story is even true.

THREE

Thomas

I’ve been to Sylvie’s shows before, but never this close to the stage. My orchestra seat, third row, center, cost $500 through TixMix, and the other seat I bought for a friend was $250. I blew what was left of my budget on a cheap flight to Oregon for the next show, just in case. Right now, it’s impossible to take my eyes off Sylvie. She’s tall, about five-foot-eight, and lithe. Deep red lipstick stains full lips. Long lashes fringe light gray eyes. A single spotlight bathes her skin, reflects back in a golden dazzle. She’s made for this.

Around me, believers, shiny faces tilted like thirsty flowers, lean forward. Their collective energy could light a city. I’m one of a multitude whose prayers silently float into the rafters of this theater. As Sylvie talks to us, her giant black dog, reminiscent of Cerberus, a fleece bone clenched in his maw, stares into the audience, daring us to misbehave so he can have a snack.

The psychics I’ve seen all begin with an origin story, just like Sylvie did, then usually launch into a rapid-fire barrage of letters, numbers, messages, and images that force the audience to scramble, search for connections. This is where Sylvie differs. When she talks to her audiences, she chooses her words carefully. And when she’s stumped, she admits it, apologizes, and moves on. Also, she’s much more creative—humming or singing, contacting the dead by accessing a red door, and going into a trancelike state where she writes on her skin. Sounds scattershot, but Sylvie is extremely believable. That’s why we’re all here.