"Why is it called Skull Island?"
"There was a shipwreck there a hundred or so years ago. One person died, I think. Not to mention we've unearthed a Native American burial ground. The island, I think, must have been the scene of a horrendous battle. My family has found dozens of graves."
"Sounds...creepy."
"I guess so," said Tara. "But my grandfather's home is on the other side of the island."
"Not on an Indian burial ground, I hope."
"No," she said, smiling oddly. She seemed to smile at me oddly, and often. A big smile that seemed to painfully stretch her lips. "But we do have the family mausoleum nearby."
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"The family mausoleum. The island has been in my family for nearly a century, and, well, we're all buried in the mausoleum."
"I see," I said, although I wasn't certain I did. Private islands and family mausoleums reeked of a lot of money. If I wasn't so scrupulous, my daily rates might have just increased.
Damn morals.
Tara slipped back to her seat across from my desk. As she did so, I studied her aura. It had bright yellows and greens, mixed with a pulsating thread of darkness that could have been anything. I suspected that it indicated grief.
I said, "You loved your grandfather."
She nodded and looked away. She tried to speak but instead tears suddenly burst from her eyes. I snapped out a tissue from the box on my desk, and handed it to her. She dabbed her eyes and looked away. Finally, when she'd gotten control of herself, she said, "Yes. He was so much more than a grandfather, you know? My best friend. Always there for me."
As she spoke, the dark threads of vapor that wound through her aura bulged slightly, expanding, engorging. Her grief, I suspected, ran deep.
"Do you live in Southern California?"