“Ah . . . nope.”

“Sorry. Sometimes I get wires crossed. Just know that your mother isn’t angry. She says you were a really good son.”

The sound of stringed instruments accompanies Sylvie as she traverses the stage, pauses, tips her head back. The music fades. “First row balcony. Do the initials H and F mean anything?”

A middle-aged woman in a striped wrap-dress that struggles to contain her ample cleavage stands. She’s passed a microphone. “You’re talking about my grandfather, Harold Fairwell?”

“He’s showing me strong hands. They’re stained black.”

“That’s him! Always had oil on his hands. He restored old cars.”

“There’s one he wanted you to have . . . it was a dark color?”

“Blue. Yes! An old MG Midget. But I sold it. He loved that car so much and I still feel guilty about it.”

“It wasn’t about the car. It was about giving you something to make a difference in your life.”

“It did! I used the money to help pay for business school. Got a great job.”

For over an hour Sylvie works the stage. She shares messages from estranged siblings, a father lost at sea, a twin who died in a car crash that left his brother paralyzed, a son killed in a ski accident, and a great-aunt who wants her god-nieces to quit their battle over a sculpture, sell it, and split the proceeds. Then she calls on a woman with bobbed red hair seated mid-orchestra. “A brother-figure is stepping forward. He’s pointing to his heart . . .”

“That’s so flipping wild,” the woman says. “My friend, the one who gave me her ticket ’cause she got food poisoning, had a brother who died from a heart attack.”

“Please tell your friend her brother is a force, even in the after. He wants her to know that he’s thankful she’s taking care of his daughter.” Sylvie hesitates, begins to hum, then pulls a marker from her pocket and scribbles along the inside of her forearm. When whatever spell she’s under breaks, she blinks a few times then reads the words scrawled on her skin like she’s never seen them before. “ ‘Kel, just because they were yours doesn’t mean it was your fault.’ ”

The redhead gasps. “But you told me it would happen!”

Sylvie tips her head, perplexed. “I did?”

“Last fall I came to your show at the Wild Horse Casino in Washington? You asked if the date ‘November thirteenth’ meant something to me. It didn’t, then. You said it would. You were so sure. Have to admit, I left certain you were a sham.”

“I’m sure you weren’t the only one,” Sylvie notes with a wry smile.

The woman shakes her head. “The naysayers are dead wrong. Three weeks later, on November thirteenth, my sister took her life.”

The audience buzzes. Sylvie crouches beside Moose, slender arm wrapped around those massive canine shoulders like she needs support. “Is your name Kel?”

“Kelly.”

“I’m so very sorry for your loss, Kelly.”