Chapter Twenty-Two

October 18

New York City

T hunder rumbled in the distance, and the mid-morning sky was dark.

Standing on a ladder in worn 501s, a gray T-shirt, and blue suede Adidas, Miles tightened the nuts on the new section of pipe. Twice, he had nearly driven the tool into his hand, so distracted by his encounter with Clara. The cavalcade of thoughts galloped through his head relentlessly. She was a virgin. She wanted to get laid. She was trolling dating apps for a man to do the job. It was only a matter of time before Clara gave the nod to some jackass investment banker or pencil-dick art collector. Miles nearly ripped the pipe from the bracket, imagining some coked-up corporate lawyer undressing her.

Over my dead body.

“Sugar, what’s going on up there? You look like you’re about to murder that pipe with a screwdriver.” Foxy Amour stood with her hands on her hips at the base of the ladder, wearing a fuschia turban and a tropical-patterned mumu.

The first floor of the building was Foxy’s domain. Miles’s twin brother had offered her the dilapidated space a few years ago when Foxy was a struggling sex worker and needed a safe place to crash. Since then, Foxy had tapped into her entrepreneurial spirit, changed careers, and converted the ground level of the building into what Foxy described as a Psychic Spa.

Unlike the nickel-and-dime fortune-telling establishments peppered throughout Manhattan, this place was a welcoming hybrid of a coffee shop, seance venue, and Victorian parlor. Foxy employed seven people, all former sex workers, as psychics, baristas, and servers. That was just in the front room—the back of the building housed an under-the-radar gambling hall.

“All set,” Miles replied, regaining his composure.

“Make sure it’s tight, baby. That leak ruined two silk roll pillows.”

“Maybe I’ll keep it loose then,” he deadpanned.

Miles hated clutter. He had spent most of his teen years being invisible, and possessions made that difficult. So, he had few belongings, and they were never out of place. In Foxy’s domain, there wasn’t an inch of space undecorated by trinkets, tassels, and beads.

Ignoring him, she added, “And clean the rust off that old pipe.”

“You know you can always get up here and fix it yourself. I’m not a fucking plumber.”

“First off, I can’t climb a ladder in six-inch heels. Second, you are a plumber. And an electrician. And an appliance repairman.”

“And a landlord in the mood for an eviction.”

“Hardy har. Now get down here and have a cup of tea.”

Miles stepped down the rungs. “No, thank you, Madame Foxy. I hate tea, and the last time you tried to predict my future, you had me working as a cop and dating a man. I had Village People songs running through my head for a week.”

Foxy chuckled. “No, cher, the tea leaves foretold you would fight for justice and become very close to one man.”

Miles rubbed at the familiar tightness in his chest, thinking of his twin. “Neither of which happened.”

“The future is ever unfolding.”

“Is that the fake psychic motto? Do you place your hand on a crystal ball and say that at the meetings?”

“Sugar, I spent four years in Baton Rouge hiding from bullies in the back of a shop run by a Hoodoo priestess. You don’t get a better occult education than that.”

Outside, the first drops of rain pelted the storefront window.

Foxy led him over to the coffee counter and prepared her tea. “When I told the priestess I liked to dress in costumes, you know what she said? She pointed at my trousers and button-up shirt and said, ‘This is the costume.’”

“Which, I’m guessing, came as no surprise to you,” Miles said.

“I think it was the validation that was surprising. To hear my truth spoken from another mouth. That was a good feeling.” Foxy’s smile was warm, painted lips against ebony skin.

She poured Miles a black coffee and pointed with the mug to the round wooden table covered with a purple cloth and a lace overlay. “Come. I’m in a tarot mood.”

“Foxy, no. I can’t take the mumbo jumbo today. I’ve got a lot on my mind.” Despite his protest, he followed.

A warm breeze swept through from an unknown source, and Miles swore he smelled the familiar scent of bread baking.

Foxy set her tea on the table, waved a silk scarf theatrically over her head, and withdrew the battered cards from a hidden drawer. Taking the chair facing the street, she tapped the deck firmly on the table.

“Tarot is not about spirits or goblins, cher. It’s not about the outside world coming in; it’s about the inside world coming out.”

Miles sat opposite her. He picked up the top card and flipped it over. “How have they never made a horror movie where the Tarot characters come to life and eat your brain.”

Foxy smacked his hand and shuffled. “I’ll give you that. It would be a terrifying movie.”

Miles reclaimed the deck and fanned the cards. “How does anyone get a tarot reading and not leave petrified?” He slipped a card out. “Look at this.”

“The Hanged Man,” Foxy said. “It doesn’t mean—” She didn’t finish her sentence before Miles set another card beside it.

“And this maniac, what the hell?”

“The Magician,” Foxy watched intently as Miles examined the splayed cards.

“And here.” He picked out a third card, an ominous stone structure, and placed it in the row. “Those first two psychopaths can bring their victims here.”

“Ah, The Tower. Stop there.”

Miles pushed the fanned deck aside and waited. Behind him, he could hear the rain pounding the pavement.

Foxy straightened each card in the line. “The Tower is your past. It represents upheaval.”

“Shocking.” Miles crossed his arms over his chest, knowing his twin brother had told Foxy about their parents’ death and the twins’ subsequent separation.

“The people that fostered you, they were unkind.”

“Unkindness would have required effort,” he said.

“Neglect is a form of cruelty.”

“It’s in the past.” Miles shifted in the tiny chair.

“The tower casts a long shadow, cher.”

Miles rested his elbows on the table. “Not my tower. Someone blew it up.”

“Care to share?”

Miles didn’t talk about his childhood, and he had no intention of doing so now, but somehow, the words spilled out. “The couple that took me—they told me they adopted me, but that was a lie—they were running from the mob. The man stole a bunch of money, ratted out the guy he robbed, and ran. Part of their plan was adopting a kid; they thought they could escape because the mobsters wouldn’t be looking for a family.”

Foxy mirrored his pose. “But someone did find you.”

Miles sat back again. “About two years later. Blew the house and the couple to kingdom come. It was reported as a gas leak.”

“Where were you?”

“The public library. As usual. I was home as little as possible. I was sort of like a stray cat. The Woman would leave a plate of food on the counter; I’d come in, eat, and leave again. I slept there, but that was basically it.”

Foxy pushed the Tower Card back and forth with her fingertips, thinking. “That’s strange, don’t you think?”

“Foxy, there’s a ton of strange in my luggage. Which part?”

“If these mobsters caught up with you, I’d assume they’d watch the house for a minute. Learn the routine of the occupants.”

As usual, Foxy saw more than she should. Miles didn’t want to pull on those threads. There was more to the story of that house explosion, and Miles wanted it buried with the occupants.

He tapped the center card. “Who’s this mutant?”

Foxy had to know Miles was redirecting her, but she complied. Foxy had plenty of her own secrets and knew better than most when she danced too close to the flame.

“The Magician. In this position, the card represents your Present.”

“Sounds about right.”

“The cards rarely mean what you think. It’s not a literal thing. The Magician symbolizes desire.”

An image of Clara flashed in his mind. He was quick to shoo it away.

“I was in love once,” she said.

Miles didn’t reply. Love was an emotion he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for nearly two decades. And romantic love would never factor into his life.

Despite his disinterest, Foxy continued, “She lived up the street.”

“She?”

Foxy laughed. “I’ve always loved the girls, cher, even when I was little Darnell. My poor parents, so thrilled to think I was a straight boy only to discover—and banish—this glorious gay woman.”

Miles had no words. Yes, his childhood had been rough, but he had no doubt Foxy’s had been infinitely worse. He rested his hand over hers above The Magician.

She waved him off. “As you said, it’s in the past.”

“And as you said, The Tower casts a long shadow.”

“We are both magicians then, sugar. Turning pain into profit.”

He waggled a finger. “You said it wasn’t literal.”

Foxy bowed her head in agreement. “Creation, illusion, desire.”

Ignoring the accuracy, Miles pushed the third card an inch in her direction. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“The Hanged Man. He stands for sacrifice.”

Another given. “Do people seriously pay for this?”

Foxy tsked, “This is The Future, my precious Miles. Something not yet known will demand a sacrifice.”

“The pinpoint vagueness of tarot never ceases to amaze.”

“The cards are open-ended because the answers come from within.”

Miles scooped up all the cards and pushed to his feet, ending this ridiculous reading. “As always, the hocus pocus has been delightful, but I have somewhere I need to be.” He tossed the tarot deck onto the table, sending the cards scattering.

Behind Foxy, the beaded curtains separating the fortune-telling space from the back room parted. One of Foxy’s employees hurried through, holding an inside-out umbrella and drying her face with a hand towel.

“Sorry, I’m late. The subway just stopped! We sat on the tracks for twenty minutes. I got off a stop early and got drenched.”

Foxy straightened the tarot deck and replaced it in the drawer. “The bakery boxes are on the table in the corner. Get the pastries in the case and check the coffee supplies.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl replied, hurrying around the space.

“And don’t call me ma’am,” Foxy shouted after the girl as she disappeared into the back.

Miles knocked on the tabletop. “Text me if that pipe leaks again. I’ll perform some more magic.”

Foxy waved him off. “If it leaks again, you’ve run out of tricks.”

He pulled open the gate, stepped into the industrial elevator, and tipped an imaginary top hat as he pressed the button for his loft.

F oxy smiled at Georgia as she hurried back to the espresso machine with a stack of to-go cups and cardboard sleeves. Foxy had hired the sixteen-year-old a month ago after finding her sleeping in Madison Square Park. She had run away from her home in rural Macon, hence her new name. Her entire left arm was scarred from what Foxy guessed was a chemical burn. Foxy didn’t ask questions; the girls spoke in their own time.

“You missed one.” Georgia pointed to the floor.

Foxy picked up the fallen tarot card and turned it over. The card revealed a robed skeleton holding a scythe and a scepter.

Georgia appeared at her shoulder. “Creepy.”

“They’re just pictures, cher. The scary stuff is in here.” Foxy tapped her temple.

Above them, she heard the heavy sound of the elevator lurching to a stop. A moment later, Georgia jumped back with a shriek. The reclusive black cat Foxy thought had moved to South Carolina with Tox leapt from the overhead ductwork and landed on the table. With an arched back and bared teeth, he spat at both of them and darted off.

Foxy recoiled, with the hand holding the tarot card at her chest. When the cat was gone, she looked down at the shrouded figure.

Death.

Georgia peered over her shoulder. “What’s it mean?”

“It means change is coming.”