“Why do you want to know?”

Why do I? “To understand you better.”

“You’ve already decided who I am.”

I ask, “What if I haven’t?”

“Tell me what happened the night your father died.”

“I already did. It was wet out, dark, his car hit a guardrail, went off a bridge.”

Sylvie rolls to face me. My eyes have adjusted and in the dim light I can see the contours of her face, the curve of her lips.

“Why was she right about the rain?”

“What?”

“The male spirit that came forward during your reading said she was right about the rain.”

“Do you remember everything you’ve ever said?”

“Most of it. Was it your dad talking about your mom? Maybe she didn’t want him to drive that night?”

My chest squeezes. “Stop it.”

She presses, “Tell me and I’ll tell you what really happened in my parents’ bathroom.”

She won’t share if I don’t . . . “It was Saturday night. We were watching our favorite movie—”

Sylvie murmurs, “You take the red pill, you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.”

My muscles clench. She wrote that on her skin when we met in her dressing room. Those were Deacan’s favorite lines in the movie. Sylvie watches me. I can smell the mint of her toothpaste; see the outline of her hips beneath the covers; feel the electricity between us. I’m suspended in this moment. The forces of gravity, relativity, elasticity, cause and effect, that there’s no such thing as a psychic-medium—fill a glass. Am I willing to throw it onto concrete, shatter everything I believe to close the distance between us? There will always be a rational explanation for what Sylvie says, writes, hums, and knows. I’m a journalist, my career is based on logic, facts, and unequivocal truth. Over the past forty-eight hours I’ve wavered, but in the end, I can’t let go of that glass for the chance to hold her.

“Thomas? What do those words mean?”

Despite my decision, I tell her. “It’s what Morpheus said to Neo in the movie The Matrix when he gave Neo the opportunity to know what was really happening in their world. I wanted to pause the movie, do an ice cream run. Mom said it was raining too hard. Dad went out anyway, he died that night.”

“Why didn’t you go with your dad?”

Because Deacan and I played rock-paper-scissors to see who got to go with Dad. Deacan won. They both died. I roll onto my back, stare at the ceiling. “I just didn’t. Now tell me what happened in your parents’ bathroom.”

THIRTY-ONE

Sylvie

I can tell Thomas’s resolve is beyond shaky. This is my chance to drive him over the edge, make him a believer. I could say a young spirit has come forward and exact revenge by telling him that Deacan is ashamed of him and that his father is, too . . . and more. Thomas’s article will destroy everything I’ve built. It will erase me. I have the right to protect myself. But if I do that, it’d make me guilty of every crime he’s heaped on my shoulders. I no longer want to be Montresor to his Fortunato. If he chooses to tell me about Deacan, I’ll listen. If not, it’s his secret to keep. But then why should I tell him mine?