Chapter 8

Maverick had a busy interior life. He was extremely guarded, and control and caution calmed him. He was driven by a type of raw, authentic honesty Lucky didn’t come across often. Desires mired by awareness. Darkness restrained by accountability. Neither taking the lead in favor of bargained coexistence. The empathy she’d sensed in him well before they met felt livelier, as if it routinely and frequently renewed itself. A constant work in progress.

“I was right about you,” Lucky whispered, feeling instant relief.

Now that she’d read him, the surface feelings that had transferred from him and into her faded away. A startling surprise, seeing as how she hadn’t even noticed some of them in the first place. She’d thought her flustered and embarrassed missteps all belonged to her, but no. That morning it was him too.

Maverick was attracted to her and successfully hiding it.

“Right about what?” He smiled. “What did you see?”

“Well.” Lucky hadn’t tried to translate her readings in years. There were words, yes, but they also came to her as concepts with images attached to provide context. If she weren’t careful, what made sense in her head would break down into candor-flavored word salad coming out of her mouth.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes to concentrate, hoped for the best, and began, “Through your work, you aim to help people find their truths, just like you were able to. You search for the truth not because you’re scared you’ll die, but because you know you will. Being supportive is important to you—you want to do as much as you can for everyone while you still have time—but you’ll only allow certain people to return the favor.”

When she opened her eyes, Maverick stared at her with clear skepticism. “Their…truths?”

Heart in her throat, she tried to backtrack immediately. “I mean, that’s just what I think. Half the time what I read doesn’t make sense outside of my head, so my translations are off from time to time. I’m sorry.”

His brow furrowed. “Why are you apologizing?”

“Because it didn’t make sense?”

“Did I say that?”

“Your face did.”

He noticeably glanced at the camera. “Honestly, you sounded like a psychic. A low-grade medium, at best. Nothing you said felt like it was specifically about me. Am I allowed to ask questions?”

Low-grade mediumstabbed at her pride like a rusty serrated knife—and made her feel like she had something to prove. She nodded.

“Why did you close your eyes? It’s interesting that you have to look at me to perform the reading but not to relay it.”

“Oh, that part isn’t required.” She fidgeted and added quietly, “I was nervous.”

He gave her the softest, most reassuring smile, but it was so quick that if she blinked, she would’ve missed it. Without breaking eye contact, he shifted in his chair and leaned toward her. “Try it again.”

“Translating?” She searched his face, unsure what she was looking for.

He nodded. “But don’t close your eyes this time. Look at me.”

She could feel herself breathing too fast. Her cheeks were overheating, which meant her armpits were next, and what in the hell made her wear a sweatshirt in the summer? Her gaze dropped to her knees.

“Don’t look away. If you’re talking about me, you should focus on me. Again,” he persuaded.

Her heart rate accelerated as he delicately lifted her chin, winning her attention.

“Tell me again.”

She knew his eyes. Before that, she knew his voice. And now she thought she knew what to say. Familiar, calm purpose settled into her bones. She leaned in too, but only enough to meet him where he was.

“Your caution will be your undoing. You have a deep-seated fear of disappointing people that will only fester into resentment if you don’t do something about it. Running away and isolating yourself will only make things worse because that’s how you cope, but you don’t like who you become when you’re all alone, and if you don’t like yourself, you will lose hold of the shields you built.”

“That won’t happen.” His gaze flicked to her mouth and abruptly back up again—his restraint on display, banishing his thoughts.

The tension in his denial beckoned her nearer. She balled her hands into fists to keep herself from touching him. “The monsters will get out.”

“What monsters?”

“The monsters in your dreams. I saw them.”

Maverick’s sharp inhale caught her off guard. He jerked backward as if he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. “How did you know about that?”

She sat up straight, setting her shoulders back and lifting her chin. “Apologize for calling me a low-grade medium.”

“I’m sorry,” he said instantly, but the sincerity in his voice couldn’t be plainer. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Apology accepted.” She grinned, feeling splendid. “Are you okay to finish the interview? We could take a break?”

“No. No, let’s finish. I’ll count us down.” He shook his head, slightly clearing his throat and righting himself in the chair. “Three, two, one.” With a deep breath, Maverick effortlessly slid back into interviewer mode, as magnetic as ever. “As of this recording, Lucky, you’ve spent one night in Hennessee House.”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

She hesitated, for show. “I don’t think there was another human here with me, no. Something is definitely amiss in Hennessee House.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“I think it’d be easy for someone to think their mind is playing tricks on them, but I have an exceptional memory and I trust myself.” She recalled the night before—the orchard, the bath, the flower—in an animated style, speaking quickly but clearly and emphasizing with her hands. She’d practiced her delivery in the mirror.

He asked, “Were you afraid?”

“No. Almost nothing scares me.”

“Everyone is afraid of something,” he pressed. “Nothing disappoints you. You don’t get flustered. Now you’re telling me you’re fearless.”

“Unlike most people, I am exactly who I say I am.” Lucky shrugged. “Also, I said ‘almost nothing scares me,’ which to me, doesn’t equal fearless. I have limits.”

“But those limits don’t include haunted houses?”

She thought about her answer carefully, wanting to make sure she expressed her stance clearly for the show. “People get scared when they have a supernatural encounter because what they’re actually facing is their own limited view and mortality. They’re being forced to confront being wrong and sometimes, one of the worst things that can happen to them: they’ll die. I think that’s why people scream or go into shock during those moments—they don’t have the words to express all that existential dread. I’ve already faced those things. Dozens of times with my own eyes and through others.”

“Your gift.”

“Exactly.”

His gaze remained fully fixed on her, anchoring her to the spot, and linking them together again. Nothing else existed outside of where they sat.

“Dad!” Rebel didn’t wait for permission, stomping straight into frame as if the camera weren’t there. She dramatically threw herself at him and he effortlessly caught her. “I’m bored and falling asleep.”

He laughed and kissed her forehead, taking the interruption in complete stride. “We just finished. Stand up, please.”

“There’s plenty of beds upstairs if she wants to lie down,” Lucky offered.

Rebel yawned. “I’m not allowed to sleep in the house. That’s how it gets you.”

“Oh?” Lucky’s gaze slid smoothly to Maverick.

“It’s only an educated guess. We don’t know for sure.”

“Yes, we do,” Rebel said, oblivious to her dad’s discomfort. “Xander said so and you said we had to listen to him about the house.”

Lucky said, “Personally, I’d love to hear more.”

“Rebel—”

“When you go to sleep, Hennessee House digs around in your brain, takes out all the bad stuff, and shows it to you. It’s supposed to be really scary,” Rebel said, fully ignoring Maverick. “That’s why I have two unbreakable rules. No sleeping in the house and I can’t be here after sundown.”

Lucky raised an eyebrow. “Interesting how nobody warned me about that.”

“Stephen sent me home. I’m not working. I can say whatever I want.”

Maverick, bless his heart, was seconds away from laughing but expertly smoothed his features into a poker face instead. “Not quite, honey.”

After packing up, they found the team outside in the front yard. Rebel pointed to the large tree and asked her dad, “Can I go swing?”

“Go for it.”

That was the fascinating thing about kids. One second, they needed a nap. The next, they had enough energy to skip across the lawn at full speed. The tree had a wide trunk, which said nothing of the overhead branches or the age of the rope.

Lucky asked, “Is that thing safe?”

“It’s new. Xander installed it for her last week.”

“Ah. Xander.”

He snickered. “He’s a good guy.”

“I’ll see about that,” she promised. “Do you usually bring Rebel to work with you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “This was the compromise to an eleventh-hour meltdown. We had summer plans but Rebel…changed her mind. It was too late to sign her up for literally anything else so here we are. I honestly didn’t expect her to take it so seriously—she’s excited to be here and make her show. I’m gonna have to figure something out.”

“Worried about disappointing her, eh?” She gave him an expectant look before grinning.

He laughed quietly, reluctantly even, while looking away to avoid her gaze. “I already apologized, remember?”

“I do.”

“Hey!” Stephen called, finally noticing, and waving them over.

“I’m sure you’ll come up with an idea,” Lucky said, slipping on her glasses as they descended the porch steps.

“You’re not going to read them?”

“Not right now. It might wipe me out if I’m not careful. It’s actually one of my limits,” she admitted.