"May I?"

"May you, what?"

"Read your palms, of course."

Sheila laughed. "You want to read my palms."

"Unless you're afraid—"

She shook her head. "Why would I be afraid?" But the thought of putting her hands anywhere near those baby-smooth palms repulsed her.

"I believe we've already gone over that," Geraldine said, not retracting her hands.

Sheila tugged up her sleeves and placed her hands, palms up, in Geraldine's.

The old woman's flesh was the exact same temperature as the room. If she couldn't feel the skin beneath hers, she would have thought Geraldine wasn't there.

"Turn them over, please. I need to touch them, palm to palm."

Despite not wanting to touch the old woman's hands with the more tactile parts of her own, Sheila did as she was told.

Geraldine's eyelids fluttered closed. "You have a complicated relationship with your parents."

That was easy. Most people had a complicated relationship with their parents. Cold Reading for Dummies. Parlor tricks. Impress your friends.

"Your parents themselves didn't get along. They fought terribly. Viciously. For about as long as you can remember. Possibly ever since you were born. Not with violence, mind. Only words. But often, words can sting more than fists, can't they? The wounds last longer."

It was true. She could hear them arguing through the floor vent. Arguing about her. Her face must have given her away. Geraldine was reading her expressions. She had to be more careful, make a concerted effort not to react.

"You were the apple of your father's eye. Daddy's little girl. But mother didn't want you, oh no. Not after the ordeal of your sister. And she made sure to remind you every chance she got."

Sheila withdrew her hands, standing abruptly. "Okay, game over." Her heart was thrumming. She felt sick to her stomach and slightly woozy, her face flushed.

"Oh, please," Geraldine said. "Things were just starting to get interesting."

"I really need to use your washroom."

The old woman sighed. The plastic grumbled as she sat back in the chair and pointed dismissively. "Last door on the left."

Sheila skirted around the table, heading for the hall.

"You didn't ask about the booty," Geraldine said, stopping Sheila in her tracks. "Don't you want to know who it's for?"

"Not really, no."

"Oh, but I think you do. And I think you know who it belongs to."

Sheila turned on her heels, annoyed and eager to get out of the woman's sight and collect herself. "Why would I know that?"

"Because it belongs to you, Sheila." Geraldine smiled, showing her small teeth. "I should think you'd want to thank me."

Senile, Sheila thought. She's lost her mind.

Then how did she know those things about my me? About my sister. About Mom?

She turned and hurried down the hall, passing a door, open a crack, on her way to the bathroom. The queasiness was almost unbearable, made worse by the smell wafting out of the doorway, like damp earth and rotting vegetation.